2018-11-08 19:06 fiction flash-fiction Benjamin Brood

Everything That Will Happen

The bottle was thrown overboard with apparent disregard. It may never be seen. It may never wash up. It could be swallowed by some leviathan. It could be smashed on the rocks. What was the message in the bottle? she asked. Everything that will happen, he said. What? Everything? she asked. Enough anyway, he said. That's a lot to fit on one piece of paper, she said. They could still see the top of the bottle intermittently as short, angry waves dodged back and forth, the bottle spinning in distress. But who will rescue us, the rescuers? she asked. Perhaps the bottle will float out into space, he said. Perhaps they will be sympathetic, he added. In three days the ship would arrive and they had no idea what they would find, the outpost was remote. For a while it looked like the bottle followed them. The wind chewed into their exposed faces as they watched it. The horizon was nothing but a gray line, unvariegated clouds filling the firmament. Then the bottle became more distant, turning its attentions to the curve of the Earth, to somewhere that might lay beyond this damp gray sky. Well there it goes, she said. There was nothing left to look at except the seascape, bubbling with a kind of natural eternity that both knew could easily become sorrow if you thought about it too hard. Coffee? he asked. Coffee, she said.