I’ve always wanted to find one, but never have…
Photo: G.L. MacMillan
“Where did you get those, Grandpa?” He started to count them.
“Washed up on the beach.” Grandpa sighed deeply, his craggy face sagging with memories.
“Why keep them?” He’d reached thirty-two.
“These were the ones with messages.”
Paul’s widening eyes reflected in the curvature of the glass. “Messages, from whom?”
“Lost people.” He picked up a green bottle. “This one arrived thirty years ago. Tiny scrap of paper, almost didn’t see it.”
“What did it say?”
Grandpa shrugged. “The usual. Rescue me.”
How many didn’t make it to the shore? “Do you think they were rescued?”
Grandpa didn’t answer.
Thank you to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday’s Flash Fictioneers. Please visit other bloggers.
The Quiet Writer 
The way the second last line is set up seemed a little confusing, but after reading it a couple of time, I got it. Maybe because it’s the grandfather’s thought, followed by the boy’s dialog?
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I’ve never found one either, and I’ve always wanted to too.
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I could see the grandpa clearly. Good evocation. “Craggy face sagging with memories”
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I don’t get it.
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Well crafted story.
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I had some confusion at the end there too. I think it’s not clear where the line “how many didn’t make it to the shore” comes from. Grandad’s thoughts? (In which case italics might have helped clarify. Nice story, nevertheless.
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He should send a bottle message back: “if you want rescuing, you’d better tell me where you are”.
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So many lost people, that’s very sad.
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