Saddlebag

 

Saddlebag

There was no blood, only silence.

My wife wasn’t a fan of camping, less excited about going on the back of my motorbike. She begrudged me naming the machine Meryl, considered it cheating. She agreed to the road trip if I didn’t speed, a fair compromise to get her in a tent.

We trundled for six hours, shook our helmet hair free and jumped up and down to bring life to our numb legs. We found a perfectly secluded spot on the moors, in the shadows of a derelict farmhouse. It was beautiful, the smell of mud and sheep shit. Nothing for miles, not even a phone signal.

“Look at that.” She said, pointing at a granite rock formation.

“It’s got a face.” I said, tracing my finger around the outline of a nose in the air.

With her arms flapping and lips spitting to avoid the pesky gnats. I had the camera ready. She edged back. One minute she was there, pouting. Then nothing.

I couldn’t hear her complaining. She slipped on lime green lichen, fell only 4 feet. It was enough; she was dead.

Rolling unspoiled beauty, I couldn’t call for help. I carried her back to Meryl, resting along the way, catching my breath. I shoved on the helmet and for whatever reason dragged her leathers on. I braced her floppy body against our two-man tent, used the vinyl washing line to secure her, tying her wrists around my waist and looped the rest around her ankles to the pegs. 

As stubborn as she was in life, her body refused to stay upright. I laid her across the seat like a leather saddlebag and went to use a payphone for no longer than a minute.

The engine roared. Meryl was stolen.

Saddlebag and all.

 Until Next time...

Do Good Things!