Message in a Bottle

Off to the left, Nick Sawyer could see remnants of the long abandoned railway, its rusted metal trusses glittering in the mid-morning sun. Over the years those old bridges had been turned into walking trails or fishing piers, some missing a span or two and all in varying stages of neglect and disrepair. As he passed he could see the weathered fishermen casting their lines, shiny lures sparkling in the air before splashing down and disappearing beneath the crystal blue water.

Nick eased off the gas as he approached the Seven Mile Bridge, pressing the button to power down the windows. The blast of hot air was a welcome change from the frigid air conditioning, as was the strong, briny scent of the sea. The breeze swept through his dark hair, and he felt a grin spread across his face.

Almost there.

Nick pictured his cramped apartment. Of feverishly trying to write, while maintaining three part-time jobs. Two months ago, he wouldn’t have been able to even imagine driving down this famous stretch of road. Now, he touched a finger to his lips and blew a kiss out the window, holding his hand up to the sky. His grandmother may have lived a long, happy life, but her death had left a sassy, old-woman-shaped hole in his heart. Nick wished it hadn’t taken her death to get him to where he was now, but he couldn’t help but be grateful to her for providing him with the opportunity.

Get out there and write!

Her last words to him, in a letter where she’d explained she was leaving him twenty-thousand dollars to make his dream of writing come true. She expected his book to be dedicated to her, of course, but the rest of it was up to him.

So, here I am, Grandma Belle. Headed to Key West, the Mecca of writers everywhere. I’ll do my best to make you proud.

The only problem was, Nick didn’t know how to start. Everything he’d written back at his apartment had suddenly seemed amateurish, his plots trite. There was nothing exciting about his writing, nothing that stood out. Sure, he had skill, even voice, but it wasn’t enough - he needed a story. Something new, something full of passion. Something that would set him apart from all the other hopefuls out there.

What better place to find inspiration, he’d figured, than Key West. If it worked for Hemingway then surely it could work for Nick Sawyer. Not to mention, it was a long way from the icy Canadian winter he’d left behind. Nick pulled up to the tiny cottage he’d arranged online, which he was happy to see looked exactly as advertised. It was set back from the road, a small two-storey with bright blue shutters and sunny yellow paint.

The air inside the house was surprisingly cool, the hard wooden floor covered with a faded pink rug. The first thing Nick did was pull out his laptop, setting it up on the desk in the corner. Next he took a walk around, choosing one of the spacious bedrooms to drop his stuff, then admiring the old but charming kitchen. A covered verandah wrapped around the entirety of the house, the front porch boasting two Adirondack chairs and a plastic table. Out back a small lawn was bordered by thick tropical foliage, blocking the other homes from view.

Intending to get started Nick sat down at his computer, but he couldn’t seem to focus his attention. The fan above him hummed, sending a cool draft rippling over his neck. The sounds of tourists walking by outside was a sharp contrast from the cacophony of city traffic he was used to, and when he heard a woman’s laughter he couldn’t help but glance out the window. I’ll give myself an afternoon off, he decided. He could spend the rest day exploring the town, then start fresh tomorrow. He’d come here for inspiration after all, and he was unlikely to get that sitting inside the house.

Nick followed the crowd to Duval Street, choosing to eat at Sloppy Joe’s. He knew the restaurant had moved from its original location - where Hemingway had once spent his evenings - but there was still a certain magic to knowing one of his favourite authors had sat in this very place, likely trying to come up with his own ideas. He sipped at an ice-cold beer, knowing if he was going to make it as a writer, it was bound to be here.

The next morning Nick allowed himself one cup of coffee, then settled himself in front of his computer. Staring at the screen, he could almost feel the familiar itch of anxiety creeping in as his mind went blank. Leaning back in the chair, Nick closed his eyes, mentally considering and then rejecting ideas, each one seeming more unoriginal than the next. When he finally dared to look at the time he grimaced, realizing three hours had passed. The cursor flashed idly on the empty page, a taunting reminder that almost an entire morning had passed and he hadn’t managed to write a single word.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Nick saw a sudden flash of movement. He snapped his neck around just in time to see a fat grey mouse staring back at him.

“Hey!” Nick jumped up from the desk, the wooden chair toppling over behind him. “Get back here!” The mouse disappeared behind the couch, letting out a series of alarmed squeaks. Irritated, but also slightly relieved by the distraction, Nick attempted to shove the old wooden sofa to the side. He didn’t want to hurt the poor thing, but he didn’t want it as a roommate either.

“Come on,” he cajoled, keeping his voice low and gentle. “Let’s go find you a nice, cozy nest. Preferably somewhere outside.”

There was no sign of the mouse and Nick pushed the couch a little further to the right, grunting a little. The frame weighed a ton, and based on the amount of dust underneath he figured no one had bothered moving it for quite some time. Cautious of sharp little teeth Nick leaned down a little further, but he couldn’t see or hear any sign of movement.

His eyes landed on something wedged against the back of the couch, stuck between the wall and the frame. Gritting his teeth, Nick used his shoulder to move the couch a little further, pushing until the object came loose. It was a little black notebook, the leather cover shrouded with dust and disuse. He shoved it into his pocket, putting his face to the ground to peer underneath the sofa. No mouse.

Giving up, Nick pushed his way back out on his hands and knees, then got to his feet, brushing off what felt like twenty years of dirt and grime. Remembering the notebook he pulled it out of his pocket, sitting back down at the desk. It was filled with pages of messy scrawl, written in black ink. Some of the edges had clearly been nibbled at; maybe by the chubby little mouse, or perhaps by other various insects residing at Conch Cottage, but the leather cover had kept most of the pages relatively intact.

Nick felt his heart beat faster as he flipped it open, realizing what he was holding. It was obvious who had written it, the author giving himself away with both the tell-tale simplicity of the dialogue, and the short, to the point prose.

Hemingway.

Nick knew if he was right, and this notebook had indeed belonged to Ernest Hemingway, it would be worth a small fortune. As he skimmed the pages, he found himself engrossed in the story. When he had read the book from front to back Nick set it down, his stomach twisting.

Here it was. The idea he’d been waiting for. Unique. Bold. Brilliant.

But it isn’t yours, a small voice pointed out.

Nick rubbed his face with his hands, looking at the blank computer screen. No, it wasn’t his, but he could make something out of it. He didn’t have to copy what was written, he could simply take the idea run with it, make it his own. His fingers itched to start typing, but an image of his grandmother caused him to freeze, hands hovering over the keyboard.

“You can do this, Nicky. You’ve got the talent, and you’ve got the drive. Your story is all there, inside you, you just have to find the right words to tell it. One day everything will fall into place.”

Sighing, he closed the notebook, carefully wrapping it up and placing it in his bag. A few hours later he walked out of the museum, leaving the book behind. The excitement of finding a lost treasure was tainted with the disappointment of having to give it up, but Nick knew he’d made the right decision. He would never be able to take pride in something he’d stolen; if he was going to successfully write a book, he wanted it to be his own.

Still, Nick couldn’t quite muster the enthusiasm to go back to staring blankly at the walls, so he turned towards the beach, making his way down towards the powdery white sand. Palm fronds swayed gently in the breeze and he saw a sailboat in the distance, its sails billowing as it cut through the waves. The water lapped gently at the shore as he aimlessly followed it, no real destination in mind. Nick picked his way through washed up shells and coral, avoiding the frightened crabs who hastily scurried back into their holes as he approached.

The trash littering the sand seemed hideously out of place, and he bent to pick up a discarded bottle. As he carried it towards a marked recycling bin, Nick felt the sudden spark of an idea. It began to grow as he walked back towards the cottage, and by the time he arrived he was almost vibrating with anticipation.

His book would begin in Key West, with a young girl. He pictured the girl from yesterday; the one laughing outside his window, her blonde hair streaming behind her as she biked past. The girl would find a glass bottle, containing a message written by a young boy in Cuba. The two would write to each other for years before eventually meeting, and the book would be the story of how their lives became intertwined.

Nick worked long into the night, only stopping when the rumbling of his stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He fell into a pattern, writing in the mornings, then taking a break in the afternoon for lunch and a swim. Sometimes he walked on the beach, his mind wandering in different directions until he decided the next path to take. The words seemed to pour effortlessly out of him, until finally, three weeks later, his index finger tapped down hard on one final key, and his fingers came to an abrupt stop.

Years later, Nick thought back to that time in the Keys. How the wind had whispered through the trees, telling secrets. How the sun had blazed along the horizon before disappearing in flames of red and gold. He thought of the notebook, still on display in the historical centre, his name underneath. Then, he thought of his grandmother. Opening the book in his hand, he traced a finger over the first page.

A Message in a Bottle

By: Nick Sawyer

Dedicated to Belle Sawyer, who always believed: in magic, in love, and in me. Thanks to you, I found all three.