- Up on Arthur’s Seat, little teeth chatter in little coffins, hidden in the crags. They cry and gasp and knock on their lids, but no-one hears them anymore. They miss their brothers and sisters.
- The pillars in George Square start growing. No-one quite
knows how, or why, but they stretch a thousand feet into the sky now. The statues
are out of sight, barely black specks against the grey. Atop those starry
distant plinths, something is moving.
- You are almost lulled to sleep by the gentle rocking of the
train until you begin to notice the signs on the stations never quite match
what the over-head announcer says is the next stop. It gets worse the further
you go until both are nothing but gibberish. “Here, what’s the right way to
pronounce Milngavie?” you ask your companion. They open their mouth. They
unhinge their jaw. The Void speaks.
- A boulder stands on the slopes of Glencoe. It has stood there unmoving since the glaciers carved it out of the ground. If it had eyes, it would weep.
If it had a mouth, it would scream. Oh god! God, the things it has seen!
- They say if the Duke of Wellington is wearing his cone, all
is well in Glasgow - but his proud head is bare tonight and none dare to go
near it. Copenhagen snorts and stamps restlessly. All is not well. It might never be again.
- The Old Man of Storr slumbers, but for how much longer?
- You stare boredly out the window of the lounge in your Fort
William youth hostel. It’s raining again. “Does it ever stop?” you wonder
aloud, tapping the glass. The proprietor’s son overhears, “I don’t know,” he
says, “I’m only twelve.”
- The Wicker Man screams as it burns. “Green wood,” they say,
laughing, smiling as they dance, “Just the sap boiling.” They dance faster,
harder, smiling and smiling and smiling,
but what sort of sap begs god for mercy?
- You pull over on the Rest-and-be-Thankful. An ancient wind
howls down the glen, hungry and vengeful, biting at your back. You must keep
moving. You can never rest. There is little to be thankful for.
- It’s midnight in Irvine, and a man steps out of a broken telephone box. His Burberry cap is pulled low and his trackies are tucked into his socks. “Gonnae tap us 10p furra bus, pal?” as asks. You place a coin in his skeletal hand. “That’s no enough,” he says. You give him your wallet. “That’s no enough.” You give him your phone. “That’s no enough.” Your palms are sweaty and a chill runs down your spine. The moon moves from behind a cloud; there is no face beneath the peak of his cap, only teeth. You think you know now what might be enough.