On the Isle of Unst by F. John Sharp
Should you care to look, you may one day find me on the isle of Unst, near Haroldswick and Uyeasound, and a fair walk from Muckle Flagga. I may be sitting on a stool on the shore, waiting for Aurora lights, my woolen sweater and cap as defense against bitter winds tossed shore-ward off the North Sea; or possibly sitting alone at a corner table in a pub, drinking Scottish ale and shooting keep-away glances at locals who wish to befriend me, locals who would eventually pry from me the nature of my business, when in fact I would have no business but the full time avocation of self loathing, which I have already perfected. You have never approved of a beard; I would grow one in protest, though half the fun would have been to chafe your precious skin with scruffy kisses until you told me to stop the foreplay and get to it. I doubt you would travel all that way without asking why, and I would have no answer because the truth is, I really only wanted you to chase me. After all, why did I leave all those clues?
F. John Sharp lives and works in Northeastern Ohio. He is the fiction editor for Right Hand Pointing, and his poetry and prose can be found at fjohnsharp.com.