The Magic Bottle
Once upon a time,
a young boy went for a walk in the woods. As he walked along, going deeper and deeper into the forest, where things were dark and confusing, he saw a light up ahead and hiked straight for it. He found a large flat boulder with a beautiful shiny bottle on it. This was no ordinary bottle, though, for it radiated light in all directions in a rainbow of colors.
At first, he just stood and stared at the unusual and beautiful bottle, and then he noticed a small note at the base. It said, “Drink me.” Warily, he pulled the cork off and sniffed the contents. A delicious scent wafted out, and so overwhelming was it, that he could not help but take a tiny sip. If the scent was delicious, though, the flavor was even better. He took a long, deep drink. Then, as if second-guessing himself, he furtively looked around. Seeing nothing, he placed the pretty bottle back on the rock and turned around and headed home.
That evening he became very sick,
vomiting with terrible pains in his stomach and a searing headache. He didn’t dare tell anyone in his family about the bottle for fear of being called a fool. He promised himself he would never do such a thing again.
But the following morning when he felt much better, he couldn’t stop thinking about the magic bottle and the delicious flavor of its contents. Maybe, he thought to himself, it wasn’t the liquid that made him sick. Maybe he had gotten sick from something else and it would have happened anyway. He longed for another taste. Just one more sip, he told himself.
So after a breakfast he didn’t want to eat, he headed back out to the woods as quickly as he could, and soon he came upon the brilliant bottle again. Oh, how it shined in stunning rainbow lights everywhere! It was beautiful! As he approached he heard a voice that whispered sweetly, “Drink me.” And so he did, and the flavor was just as delicious as it was the day before with even more deliciousness added. He drank it down. Then he looked around worriedly and quickly headed back home.
Once again, he became very sick,
and once again, he didn’t dare tell anyone about the magic bottle. They wouldn’t understand anyway. So he gritted his teeth until he got through the worst of it, telling himself all along that maybe it wasn’t the liquid in the bottle that was causing the sickness. Maybe he had caught an illness elsewhere.
The following morning, he refused to eat breakfast at all but headed straight out to the woods again as fast as he could walk. There he found the sparkling bottle and became entranced once again. Something in the back of his mind said not to do this, but he told himself he would try it just one more time. One more time couldn’t hurt.
This time as he approached, he heard a loud command, “Drink me!” And so he did, and the flavor was deep, delicious, complex, and amazing with other elements of heat and acidity and astringency added. It was indescribably intoxicating, and so he drank it down. He looked around cautiously and worriedly, and then he ran home.
Yet again, he found himself very, very sick.
His parents began to question him, but he assured them he was fine. He didn’t dare tell them about the bottle because he was afraid they would stop him from going to see it again. And besides, they might want some for themselves and then there wouldn’t be enough for him. So he gritted his teeth and got through his illness.
And so things continued like this for a while. Each day he would run out into the woods to find the magic bottle, and each day it would command him to drink. He noticed that the colors didn’t shine much anymore, and then one day they stopped shining altogether. The flavor had also changed, although it was still somehow intoxicating and desirable and ultimately addicting. So each day he drank it down.
He became sicker and sicker
as time went on. Huge dark circles formed beneath his eyes. The vomiting had stopped, but the headaches continued and got worse. His heart always seemed to beat shallowly and rapidly, and he had a hard time catching his breath. He found himself angry and petulant, and he removed himself more and more from participating in things he liked and from associating with his family. All he could think of was the magic bottle of tantalizing fluid.
Each day he headed out to see the bottle, although he didn’t run anymore because he had lost a lot of strength. Each day something within him told him not to do this because he was a good boy, but that inner voice was growing weaker. The flavor of the bottle had changed considerably. It wasn’t nearly as delicious as it was in the beginning. In fact, it was quite ordinary and even odd. Yet he could not stop himself from drinking it down.
One day, out of concern for his son’s life,
his father decided to follow him secretly. Quietly, he tagged along behind him, worried he might make a sound that would give him away. He needn’t have worried, though, because his son’s senses had become quite dulled. He watched from a hiding place as his son approached a large flat boulder that held an old glass bottle with murky brown contents. When his son removed the cork, an acrid and horrible scent immediately reached his nose, and he felt disgusted and nauseous. To his amazement, however, his son drank the contents down in one gulp, looked around worriedly, and ran away back in the direction of home.
The father was dumbfounded. Why would his son drink such a disgusting-smelling thing? Why?? He approached the rock. The odor emanating from the bottle was horrible, so he quickly corked it, making sure not to let a stray drop touch him. As he was about to leave, he noticed a folded newspaper on the other side of the boulder, and at the base was a small note that said, “Read me.” He picked up the newspaper and began to read.
He was stunned by its contents.
Amazing tales were within! Horrible tales, too. Deep, dark, enmeshing stories were on every page, each story intertwining with others, urging him to read just one more story. He read quite a few and felt his stomach clench into knots. As he considered the information, he found himself mesmerized by the possibilities. Eventually, though, he put it back on the rock and turned around and headed home.
When he first followed his son, he had every intention of confronting him when he got back home, but he did not do so. Instead he pondered the many things he had read, a good many of which made him sick to his stomach. He thought of the many characters involved in the stories, the heroes and the villains, the crimes and the punishments, the perversions and the cruelty. His mind began to feel quite feverish as he found himself longing for justice for the people in the stories. He was a good man, after all, and only wanted to see fairness. He went to bed early, not feeling well at all.
The next day he followed his son again.
He didn’t attempt to be nearly as furtive as he realized it was unnecessary. After watching his son drink the disgusting liquid down and run away, he approached the boulder and found the newspaper again. This time as he approached, he heard a loud command, “Read me!” And so he did, and if he thought the stories the day before were incredulous, today they were even more so. They were filled with spies, intrigue, shadowy characters, prostitutes, wars, hunger, and more. Each story was intricately connected to the stories around it, and he found himself reading much longer than he had intended. Eventually, he set the paper down and ran home.
Again, he found himself feeling very unwell. His stomach was in knots. His mind was feverish. And he had become so worried. What if all the things that had happened in the stories were to happen in his own life? Maybe they were already happening in his own life but he just hadn’t realized it before. He became frightened and angry and withdrawn and paranoid.
And so things continued like this.
Each day the boy would drink the swill and the man would read the mind-bending words. Each would become sick in his own way. The large dark circles under their eyes and the loss of sleep for both were telltale signs of their dirty secret. They pulled away from their family, each withdrawn into a dark little prison of worry and fear, of insatiable gluttony and need, each knowing they should not consume one more drop, one more word. And each running out the following day to do just that.
Of course, time passed as time is known to do. The last I heard of the boy and his father, they were still running back into the woods, hoping each day to be caught in the sensuous embrace by their poison of choice as had happened in the early days, but finding themselves instead hopelessly consuming the droppings of maggots. “Just one more drink and I’m done. Just one more story and I’m through . . . I love you . . .”
So if you find yourself wandering
in the dark woods, unprotected and unaware, and you see something tantalizingly free that tempts you to consume it, to drink it, to read it, to absorb it, to ultimately become it . . . run as fast as you can in the other direction. Because the magic bottles are everywhere, and the entrancing newspapers are on every doorstep. And many kind young boys and loving fathers have fallen into the pit of the swirling rainbow lights and seductive, hypnotic words. “Drink me! Read me! Long for me! Become me!”
And many good people have not been heard from again. The siren’s call is always ready and waiting. The wizened sailor will block his ears and shift his sails and glide swiftly away. He will drink the rum of his own making and eat the hard tack from his own galley. He will read his own poetry of knights and damsels and kings and laws and justice. He will resist the temptations placed before him because he knows the putrescence of their origin and the soullessness of their destination. Because he has faith in himself and his ability to sail his own ship.
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Fascinating.
Wow....sorry but that is all I have....wow damnit