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Bottling The Boras: A Short Story by Joelle McTigue
The Konoba More was carved from drifting smoke and half-whispered confessions. Murky lamplight glossed its oil-stained tables, catching glimpses of weathered faces shaped by salt and wind. Voices ebbed and flowed like distant waves, each cradling a story of lost voyages and harbors that never welcomed them home.
I slipped inside from the chill of the Adriatic night, a Moleskine notebook pressed against my ribs. The tavern’s hush carried a thunderous charge as though an argument or a revelation might tear through the quiet at any moment.
In the far corner, wrapped in cigarette smoke, Francine sprawled with a glare equal parts invitation and threat. A single cigarette perched on her lip. Its ember flared and died in an endless cycle.
Across from her, Wayne, sun-battered cheeks lined like an old nautical chart, savored a chipped glass of rakija. Each sip teased out another memory. Neither beckoned me over, yet neither drove me away. Here, that was invitation enough.
“Evening,” I said, my voice faint under the weight of centuries that seemed to lurk in these walls. “May I sit?”
Francine’s brow lifted in sardonic amusement. “If you think you can handle it.”
I lowered myself onto the bench, heart pounding. The Konoba More was rumored to be a crucible for drifters, storytellers, and the broken-hearted. My voice felt borrowed, as if I’d mortgaged it against a debt I wasn’t sure I could repay.
“I, I’m Jaxson,” I managed, tapping the notebook. “I write. Poems. Trying to catch the Adriatic’s heartbeat in words.”
Wayne’s chuckle was rough as driftwood on fire. “Catch the sea, eh? Like bottling the boras in a thimble. Better people than you have tried, lad.”
I squared my shoulders. “Maybe not all of it. But a splash of its fury, a whisper of its secrets.”
He smirked, lines deepening around his eyes. “Secrets? The Adriatic keeps hers buried deeper than any shipwreck.” He glanced at Francine, and a silent conversation darted between them.
Francine flicked ash into a dented saucer. “Go on then,” she said, tone bored but watchful. “You brought that notebook. It must have something in it.”
My pulse hammered. I flipped open to a page of midnight scribbles:
Sunset claws at chipped stone walls,
Salty hush where memory calls.
Waves unspool in endless grace,
Adriatic dreams etched on my face.
Francine exhaled a ribbon of smoke. “Pretty,” she allowed, though her voice dripped skepticism. “But the Adriatic isn’t some souvenir. You’ll need teeth behind your rhymes.”
I swallowed. “I’m not here for postcards. I want real stories, things that taste of brine and keep you awake at night.”
Wayne’s grin caught the lamplight. “Not bad, kid. But don’t get your hopes up. The sea’s a jealous lover, breaks more hearts than she mends. You want real, huh? Let’s see if you can stomach a yarn about fire and silent words. Storytime, eh Francine?”
He cut her a look. She met his gaze in their silent duel. A smirk danced on her lips as she rolled her eyes and replied, “Fine then, old salt. Spin a yarn that has already barnacled itself to the walls of this tavern.”
Wayne chuckled, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. It was like rocks tumbling down a karst mountain. He leaned in.
“Ten years back, an old shipyard went up in flames down the coast. Timber, tar, men trapped as though under a pot lid. Most said no one could survive. But one lad did more than survive. He hauled two out of that inferno. Quiet as a shadow he was, never spoke since his father drowned at sea.”
Francine knocked back a swig of rakija and asked, “And this hero’s name, Wayne?”
Wayne’s gaze sparked. “They called him Silent Ivo. But that night, they say he found his voice. Shouted at the flames, forced them to die under the weight of his words.”
The image seized me, pen already skittering across my notebook. “If he never speaks,” I asked, “why did he speak that night?”
Wayne shrugged. “Maybe he had no choice. Sometimes the sea or the flames demand words you didn’t know you had.”
A hush blanketed the Konoba More. In the distance, an accordion’s sorrowful wail drifted in from the Riva, the harbor walkway where tourists and locals mingled under neon signs and ancient stone arches.
My pen scratched on, capturing the possibility that a single voice could command a tempest or a blaze.
“Where is he now?” I ventured.
Francine exhaled a slow smoke ring, eyes flicking over me like I was too naive to know better. “They say he’s everywhere and nowhere. Some claim he mends boats before dawn. Others swear he’s a ghost, anchored between the living and drowned.”
Wayne set his empty glass aside, knuckles drumming on battered wood. “The lad never wanted fame. Once you’ve spoken fire into submission, maybe you have no words left for anything else.”
My chest tightened. This wasn’t a seaside fairytale but a living myth scalded into the city’s soul. Hidden pockets of old magic in these winding alleys were enough to swallow me whole. Yet I felt the tug, the hush of Ivo’s defiance calling me.
“I… I’d like to find him,” I said, my voice small against the smoke-clogged air. “Learn what silence teaches that words can’t.”
Francine’s laughter came out as a single, sharp bark. “Oh, sweetheart, you better be ready for heartbreak. The sea’s a sly mistress. She’ll lure you in, then drag you under.”
Wayne shook his head more kindly than I expected. “You chase a silent man. You may only find your own echoes. But if you’re foolish enough to try, best of luck to you.”
Suddenly, a gust rattled the windows, and I caught the tang of brine on the cold wind. The Adriatic breathed out there, waves surging against the stone harbor. Ivo might be mending boats in that labyrinth of tide-worn streets, silent as the ghosts who linger in war-scarred buildings and half-whispered legends.
I closed my notebook, reverently tucking it beneath my arm. “Thank you,” I managed, voice thick with gratitude and awe. “Not just for the story, but… for letting me listen.”
Francine stubbed out her cigarette, the ember flaring and dying in a single breath. “Don’t grow starry-eyed. It’s the surest way to drown.”
Wayne cleared his throat. “Konoba More always has room for another dreamer, lad. Go scribble your poems while you still can.”
My legs wobbled as I rose, but my heart beat like a storm-lashed sail. I stepped into the wind, the night bristling with unspoken promises. Wayne’s voice echoed in my head. Maybe he had no choice. I pictured a fierce fire that demanded words from a man who’d lost them. I pictured the crackling timbers and the roar of ancient flames.
A final gust swept along the harbor. I inhaled the salt-laden air, letting it fortify me. Storms are worth chasing if you believe the cleansing downpour might uncover a truth no calm tide can reveal. Somewhere, maybe in the hush before dawn, I’d find Silent Ivo.
✏️ Short Story by: Joelle McTigue
🎥 Background Videos by: Bruno Cervera, Atahan Demir, Julien Goettelmann, Samed Gojak, Dawid Leszczyński, Super Lunar, Ruvim Miksanskiy, and RDNE Stock Project.
