Enjoy this first installment in a random series of relatively plotless flash pieces featuring the Scottish Highlands that I decided to start literally 5 seconds ago.
You will disappear in the heather, in the mud of the moors. Not a soul will find you but the red deer and the hares, and after a sniff they will ignore you, and your body will turn to nothing in the dirt, in the grass at the feet of the great munros: a memory no one remembers. A thing they forget once breathed.
I will put you there, in that heather and mud, that dirt and grass. You’re lightweight, always have been; the ride up the nameless road will be easy. You’ll barely weigh down the bed of my beat-up truck. You know the one. Red, rusty. Ding in the driver’s side door. We made clumsy love inside it once, back when we were fifteen and fumbling. Funny you should die there, or be dead there for a moment. Is that irony? Confluence? I can never tell the difference.
Suppose that doesn’t matter now. Precious few things matter, and you cannot be counted among them. The pheasants and fawns will prove my point when they pass you by. There will be no fencepost posters, no search party, and not because no one thought to look so deep in the highlands but because no one noticed you’re missing. There is nothing to miss.
You will disappear in the heather. In the mud of the moors.
I will put you there, and then I’ll go home for Sunday roast. I will put you there, and then I’ll have a whiskey. I will put you there, and then I’ll go to sleep.
The highlands are a maw, a void, an eater of people.
I will put you there.