Since he was a child, Damon spent his summers at the cottage wading along the surf, collecting bottles washed up on shore. He wrote elaborate chronicles of their journey, instilled in them a history to dignify their existence as cast-offs.
“I kept every story,” Myriam said, weeping.
“They became increasingly sullen over the years,” whispered Harold.
The opening lines from their son’s final story, published posthumously after his death by suicide:
A boy, cast away at sea like an empty bottle, drifted for years in search of land. He became a man among the lonely depths; the darkness having claimed his life before his weathered body was found.
This has been an installment of the Friday Fictioneers Challenge. If you would like to give the challenge a try, start at Rochelle’s Purple Blog and join the fun.
Here’s the concept: A weekly picture is posted, and the writer is challenged to produce one-hundred (more or less) words of some sort of fiction with a complete plot (beginning, middle and end).