Short story -Time in a Bottle

Face up on the sand beneath the sun and all its blaze. The sound of the ocean so calming one could be put in a trans. The breeze softens the sun's heat. As I lay there, I thought about how perfect my surroundings were and how this all came into existence. A subtle but repetitive toon started playing like a tiny insect playing the chimes. When I looked up, I saw a bottle being carried upon the shore by waves so very blue. Cerouse, I walked over. The bottle, ever moving by the ocean's gentle waves. Had a well-worn cork so worn that I wondered how no water had seeped in. Yet it hung on as if it knew how precious information it contained. A piece of paper could be outlined beneath the clear, slightly green-tinted bottle. My mind raced with possibilities. A message in a bottle—was it a call for help? A treasure map? A lost piece of history? A love letter? 

My excitement couldn't wait any longer. I pulled at what was left of the cork. Inside, the piece of paper was worn, and one could tell its quality was not from the century or even Millennium. As I unraveled the paper, I found a simple poem that read:

The treasure you seek is not what you will reap 

Yet you must embark, for though I will never depart, your time to find me is limited. 

So make haste for the garden gate, is where your journey begins

To find that which is set apart is priceless art. 

Disappointed or intrigued—I couldn’t decide—I debated throwing the bottle away.  What did any of it mean? How am I supposed to know where some garden gate is? I drop the page and bottle to return to my basking in the sun. I noticed that the paper transformed not in its physical state but in its appearance, for it no longer read to be a poem but an arrow not pointing to anything in particular, just an arrow. As the page drifted back into the sea along with the bottle, I quickly grabbed it. I thought it wouldn't hurt to take it with me. As I walked back to my place in the sun, I noticed that the arrow seemed to move, always pointing in one direction no matter which way I turned it. So I followed it.The arrow led me from the beach to a narrow path that disappeared into the woods. Since I was on an island, I figured I couldn’t go too far—and I could always return. But as I walked, a strange feeling came over me. It wasn’t fear, but a quiet knowing: I wasn’t coming back or at least not entirely. Before I could think of turning around, I was faced with a living wall of green tropical vines stretching up and wide as far as I could see. I couldn't make out if there was a wall behind all the greenery and as I stuck my arm in to find out. The vines tickled my skin—then pulled me gently, almost lovingly in.  Realizing I was fully immersed with only green darkness surrounding me, I frantically looked for the piece of paper that got me there. But when I looked down again, it was the original poem realizing that it was the water that activated the change.So I walked straight ahead, unsure of what lay beyond but being forced forward by a sort of magnetic pull that seemed as natural as brushing one's teeth before going to bed. The plants rub my skin as I continue forward in this darkness. And for the first time, I felt scared, alone. Now, that sunny beach with rolling waves seemed like a dream, and I hadn't actually been there. And again, just as I thought about turning around, my foot hit the door. Wooden with beautifully chiseled flowers that seemed to come out of the wood. When I pulled on the handle, it pulled like a drawer that was sideways, leaving a hollow passage on the side for me to walk into. As soon as I did, the door began to slide close, trapping me inside. I then began moving sideways into darkness as if I were on an underground train, staring at the cement walls. 

Then I saw was a woman playing with a child in a grassy meadow.

The scene looked so serene I tried to step out of the elevator door, but something bound me to it as if my waist was tied with an invisible leash. Just like that, I was being moved again. Looking back up, I saw a young girl no older than 12 playing a game alone. The expression on her face wasn't that of boredom or sadness but a sort of empty feeling. Wanting to comfort her, I tried stepping out again, but the leash that bound me once again held me back. Now there was a woman, well, a young woman, maybe 18, sitting on a bench with a fine-looking man who seemed to pay her no mind, yet she sat there looking longingly into his wavy hair. Knowing I would just be pulled back again, I stood there feeling sorry for this girl who seemed so in love with the innocence she thought she didn't possess. Then this woman, maybe 40, looking aged by the years of stress, had three children running around her as she washed the dishes in a quaint country cottage. She seemed engaged and a little bewildered, yet that same emptiness that showed on that 12-year-old girl was still shown on the woman's face. Moving again, I pondered why a woman surrounded by youth would feel empty, for children are supposed to bring life. Then I saw an older woman sitting in a rocking chair, staring intently into a fire in that same cottage. I half expected the elevator drawer to move again, but it didn't; it stayed there for an uncomfortable amount of time. Standing there my hand reminded me of the paper it held when I looked down, the arrow pointed toward the woman. I got out walking into the scene I suposed I wasn't intended to interact with. Like a Christmas village, you stare at but can never experience. The old woman, wrinkled yet still possessing a familiar face, turned around.

Not knowing what to say, I stood there, 

“Come sit, my dear,” she said, her voice warm—but her eyes still distant.

 "Did you find that treasure?" 

What treasure? I reposed, forgetting the reason I was here in the first place. 

"What did you think about this life you have witnessed?"

 I thought it moved offly fast, and I couldn't help but wonder why you looked so empty.

She nodded.  "Because I never went looking after the treasure." 

I looked at the page again, trembling slightly in my hand. “What is it?” I asked.

 I asked, knowing she wouldn't tell me. I waited for a response, but nothing, for it seemed as though she was frozen, stuck forever looking at the fire. Then, as I walked to get back into the moving door, her voice followed behind.

"My time to find that priceless art has now depart  

yet for you there is time to find and unbind that priceless art which is your heart. 

So look within for that is where the true tourney begins.

The words, the book, the arrow, the spirit. 

They will be your guide for they are always with you no matter where you abide"

Esther Esther, hearing a familiar voice, I woke up. And I found myself again laying on that golden beach with the sun beating down and the waves rolling up the sand. And my friend is approaching.  Was it all a dream? Did I imagine that whole thing? I looked down at my hand. The paper was still there. Slightly damp. Slightly glowing.

No poem.

No arrow.

Just… blank.

As if it was now ready for a story to be told on its slightly worn but quality face. The old woman's words rang in my head, "look within for that is where the true tourney begins." For though, back in that familiar scenery, there was something different. It was then that I realized I was the girl, the woman, and the old lady, and a desire to fill that emptiness I saw in them overcame me, for it was now that I realized where to find that priceless art, which is God's heart. The words my light and the spirit would be my guide.