Message in a Bottle [LGBTQ+] [ONC 2024]

Chapter Two

Sitting in front of the small, slanted window of his bedroom, Eli read the letter several times over. He read the scrawled writing in the fading sunlight, trying to decipher the swirling letters. A thousand different questions ran through his mind. Why would someone leave the bottle in such an obscure place if they were looking for friendship? Was it someone simply laughing at him because they knew he would be the one to find it?

Eli couldn't remember anyone called Samuel Owens who lived nearby. There was no one at school by that name, at least not that he knew of, and none of the surrounding farms were owned by an Owens. It had to have been a made up name, a joke.

He was used to being the laughing stock of the village. Eli was hardly the farming sort with his thin frame, knobbly knees, and tendency to daydream. His desire to sleep by the pond or relax by the stream had been mocked by others at school, with their parents often joining in the games. Over the years, he had come to ignore it, but reading the letter through again he realised just how Samuel Owens — if he were real — may have felt.

Oftentimes he wished for a friend to go fishing with, someone who didn't laugh at him.

"Eli, supper!" his mother called up the stairs.

Eli folded the letter, tucked it under his pillow, and scurried down the stairs to the small kitchen. Constance sat at the small circular table, sipping on the glass of milk that left a small moustache on her top lip. Across from her sat his father, a stern man who frowned more than he smiled with balding hair and a large, muscular frame. His mother stood by the stove, her blonde hair pinned up, a white apron tied around her waist, and not a single hair out of place despite the heat.

He dropped down in his usual seat, eyeing the beef stew that his mother placed on the table in front of him. The scene of the beef and vegetables filled the room.

"What were you doing up there?" his father asked. "I thought you would be catching up on your chores seeing how you missed most of them."

"I did them when I got back."

"You know the rules, Eli. No fishing until your chores are done and you were s'posed to help me with the wheat."

"I know, I'm sorry, sir." Eli glanced down at the stew his mother had placed in front him, his appetite waning a little. "It won't happen again."

"It better not, boy."

"Shall we say Grace?" his mother said, speaking before anyone could get another word in. Despite her controlled appearance, she wouldn't let the reprimand get too far.

Eli welcomed the distraction. He tried to focus on the words his mother spoke, on the thanks she gave for the meal, but all he could think about was the letter. Even if it were a joke, there was a small degree of truth to the idea that the written word was often stronger than the spoken word. Although his writing skills were less than impressive, and certainly not to the standard of Samuel Owens, he found he enjoyed writing what frustrated him.

With the blessing given, Eli tucked into the food with gusto. He said nothing as he ate to avoid his father's less-than-welcoming wrath and allowed the beef, gravy and vegetables to fill his mouth. His father watched him with a small furrow in his brow. Constance shovelled the food into her mouth, almost dropping it down her front, and she fidgeted in her seat.

"Did you read the letter?" she asked, breaking their father's rule. Neither of them were supposed to speak during supper unless spoken to.

"What letter?"

"We found a letter in a bottle, Papa! It was in the stream."

Their father turned to look at Eli, the furrow in his eyebrows deepening that little bit more. "What did it say?"

"Nothing important," Eli lied. "Most of it was impossible to read; it was water damaged."

"Some people call it Sweetheart Stream," his mother said. Her face slipped into an almost dream-like state, as though she were remembering something from years that had long since passed. "Perhaps it is an old letter that was never uncovered."

"Perhaps. If it cannot be read, burn the letter and we'll clean the bottle to use ourselves. No use in it going to waste if it ain't broken."

Eli nodded, but he had no intention of throwing the letter away nor handing the bottle over. Even though he had reservations, the letter and the bottle intrigued him, as did the stream's more than infamous nickname. He wondered if Samuel Owens knew the true name of the stream or if he put the bottle there as a convenient hiding place. The cynic in him told him the letter was a joke on him.

Why else would they put it in Sweetheart Stream if it weren't to tease him?

It was certainly something Peter Upton would come up with and Eli was more than certain his two side-kicks, Luke Riddle and Michael Smith, would have gone along with it. Yet, Peter lived on the other side of the village, beyond the stream. He may have come up with the idea, but he wouldn't have walked that far to put it within Eli's reach, not when he could have slipped it to him at school.

After supper, Eli disappeared to his small box room and read the letter once again. The reservations he had were taken over by an intense curiosity and desire to find out just who wrote it and if they were genuine. He found there was a sort of longing in the words, a determination to follow through with the hand of friendship.

He had been laughed at his entire life, been the butt of the jokes throughout the village and at school. Perhaps the letter really was old, perhaps the person who wrote it had since died. Eli thought there was no harm in at least writing the words on the page. They may not be as polished, but he knew it would at least help him.

Eli grabbed a sheet of paper and pen. Sitting at the small writing desk in the corner of the room he began to write.

~~~

First Published - February 29th, 2024