Wednesday's Three Word Wednesday
The words over at Three Word Wednesday are cryptic, flash and malign.
The Messenger
I’m walking on the beach, the setting sun a Fiestaware plate of brilliant orange.
When I stumble on a bottle caught in a rocky breaker, protected by rotting seagrass. The bottle is dark green, indicating a former life as a vessel of fine wine, a Bordeaux maybe. It’s new use is that of messenger.
The corked bottle has a note in it.
I squat over the sand, dust debris from the pitted glass, shake the bottle. The parchment inside bounces silently.
I dig out the cork.
And uncurl the crinkled paper and flatten it by rubbing it gently across my thigh.
The note is cryptic in its message, written in a man’s heavy penmanship. Three sets of numbers, two of which I guess are longitude and latitude lines. The third a string of 15 digits in no discernable pattern.
A very personal note to a former lover, an apology, a pledge of undying love.
It ends with:
“God bless the finder of this communiqué.”
A fit of mischief fills my heart. I scan the empty surf, drum my fingers across the glass, break into a grin. What this note needs is an addendum, a twisted modification - the editor's touch.
I take a pencil out of my pocket, sharpen the lead with a penknife, scribble the back with the most horrid of details. Malign the writer’s family, question his manhood, imply his deep love of barnyard animals.
I roll the paper up, re-cork the bottle, return it into the surf with a loopy overhand toss.
And sit in the sand, watching the bottle bob in the water, watch as it casts a sunset shadow across a sea transitioning from turquoise to azure.
The tide’s in, and the bottle languishes. It gains no purchase in a sea current and slowly comes back to the beach.
I watch the surf try to crush the glass with pounding percussion.
A pang of guilt fills my heart. I sigh, retrieve the bottle. Uncork the note.
And with my mobile, punch in the 15 digits.
A woman answers, her voice accented, pleasant, but with a hint of melancholy.
The Messenger
I’m walking on the beach, the setting sun a Fiestaware plate of brilliant orange.
When I stumble on a bottle caught in a rocky breaker, protected by rotting seagrass. The bottle is dark green, indicating a former life as a vessel of fine wine, a Bordeaux maybe. It’s new use is that of messenger.
The corked bottle has a note in it.
I squat over the sand, dust debris from the pitted glass, shake the bottle. The parchment inside bounces silently.
I dig out the cork.
And uncurl the crinkled paper and flatten it by rubbing it gently across my thigh.
The note is cryptic in its message, written in a man’s heavy penmanship. Three sets of numbers, two of which I guess are longitude and latitude lines. The third a string of 15 digits in no discernable pattern.
A very personal note to a former lover, an apology, a pledge of undying love.
It ends with:
“God bless the finder of this communiqué.”
A fit of mischief fills my heart. I scan the empty surf, drum my fingers across the glass, break into a grin. What this note needs is an addendum, a twisted modification - the editor's touch.
I take a pencil out of my pocket, sharpen the lead with a penknife, scribble the back with the most horrid of details. Malign the writer’s family, question his manhood, imply his deep love of barnyard animals.
I roll the paper up, re-cork the bottle, return it into the surf with a loopy overhand toss.
And sit in the sand, watching the bottle bob in the water, watch as it casts a sunset shadow across a sea transitioning from turquoise to azure.
The tide’s in, and the bottle languishes. It gains no purchase in a sea current and slowly comes back to the beach.
I watch the surf try to crush the glass with pounding percussion.
A pang of guilt fills my heart. I sigh, retrieve the bottle. Uncork the note.
And with my mobile, punch in the 15 digits.
A woman answers, her voice accented, pleasant, but with a hint of melancholy.
Comments
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b
I loved the imagery also, rubbing it on his thigh to uncurl it, bouncing silently, man's heavy penmanship, languish, percussion, such wonderful words!
I'd make a small change in this, "I roll the paper up, re-cork the bottle, toss it into the surf with a loopy overhand toss." too many tosses? maybe return it to the surf with a loopy overhand toss? Small I know, but you're SO good with the words, I notice when you use one more than once and feel gyped!!!
Loved the ending, LOVED it! thank you! -Meg
Then he dialed the phone number, and I saw you went a whole different direction.
Question: This is not his own bottle, returned to him after a long separation, is it? I don't think that's what you have in mind.
I had to change the number of digits, too. Jeez. What a train wreck. It takes 15 numbers to dial outside the U.S.
Pretty cool!
I agree with one of the comments, a collected work of super short stories would sell well.