Short Story “Broken Bottles”

Hey Hi My Lovelies! My name is Tanya MacPherson and I post on this blog every Friday at 7 PM. Today we are delving back into the world of short stories and boy have we got an interesting one for you today. This story has a central character who is suffering from depression and denationalization and therefore this tale may be distressing to some readers. There is such a stigma surrounding mental illnesses and I strongly believe that this may be a result of ignorance and the fact that schools do not educate or inform students about mental health. Mental health is just as important as physical health and therefore I encourage you to reblog this post and to share it on social media to make sure enough people see it to make a difference.

I also encourage you to like and hit subscribe for stories, fiction and non fiction, and poetry! Anyway here you have it, broken bottles.


My  heart hurts and my legs have given up. I have found myself sat on the pavement, my legs outstretched in the road tempting passing cars to a dangerous game of chicken. I place my palms on the gravel either side of me. For most the thought of the damp gravel pressing against their palms and the dirt between their fingers would have been an option they choose to avoid but for me, I do not care. Truth be told, I like the gravel on my hands as it gives me something to concentrate on. A focus for the emotions bubbling up under my skin pressing to get out. For a moment, it offers me release but soon the moment has gone. I find myself back in reality and notice that there are people staring at me. Mothers are crossing the road to get their children away from me. I do not blame them because if their child were to see me they might have questions. They may ask what is wrong with me and their parents do not want to answer. They want to leave their children living a beautiful lie and I am the crippling truth. I can feel myself drifting away once more and as hard as I try I can’t keep a hold of my thoughts.

Tony was sat on the pavement, his eyes staring off into the distance. He was lost to himself. He was staring into the bushes across the road, the bushes which lay at the back of Tesco. It was not uncommon for delinquents to gather in masses out the back of the store. They would sit and drink and blare their music obnoxiously and not give a damn about anyone else. At the foot of the bushes lay a bottle unlike all the others. This bottle was glass, fragile and cracked. Its lid was screwed on wonkily and the bottle was half empty. It was laid upon its side unable to control the world spinning around it. It was used to being kicked and trodden on and abandoned.

Had someone cared enough to pick it up to fill it and to adjust its wonky lid it could almost pass for ordinary. It could look as if it was the same as every other bottle on the shelf. It could make itself blend in. It could wear its label the same as every other bottle and it could advertise itself well. It could call itself bubbly and fresh. It could tell the world that there was nothing wrong with it and most people would buy into the lie it was telling.

But give it time and the truth would begin to show. The cracks it tried to deny would deepen and grow and the label would soon grow old and fade. If someone were to open the bottle and peak inside they would know that it was not bubbly, the drink had grown flat a long time ago as the outside world battled its way inside. If someone were to just take an interest in the bottle, if people would stop walking by it, if people would pick it up off the ground they would see it was broken. Then people would be faced with a choice. They could throw it into a bin, like most people would. They could ignore the bottle and wait for the cracks to become so deep that the bottle would shatter or they could pick it up. They could take the time to make this bottle beautiful once more because all it needs is a purpose a reason to keep going.

I stood up from my spot on the ground and began to make my way across to where the bottle lay. As Tony walked across the road he seemed as if he was in a trance. He seemed as if he was unaware of the cars which raced passed him. Each car beeping its horn more aggressively than the last as each driver feared for his safety. I found myself on the other side of the road lifting the bottle into my bag. I do not know why I have done this. I cannot stop myself from taking the bottle. To the lady walking across the road Tony looked suspicious as he lurked in the bushes bottom up and searching through the grass but he did not notice her standing there debating whether she should or should not ask him if he was alright.

I had rushed home and up to my room thoughts of the bottle seemed to keep me grounded and for the first time I felt as if I had a purpose. I picked up a paint brush and dipped it in hot glue. I brushed over the cracks in the glass and sealed its exterior. I painted it a fresh colour and then I wrote a note. I wrote a note onto some paper and I placed the lid back onto the bottle before sending it out to sea. For days I waited, hoped and wished that someone would get my message and find a way of sending me one in return. He was obsessed. But I was happy. It gave me a purpose. An unhealthy purpose. Which encouraged me to seek help in the same way the bottle had done by rolling out of the bushes in front of me. The smallest things in life make the greatest difference and that I shall never forget.


So I hope you enjoyed that and you feel a little more aware of what some people may be going trough without so much as a word. You can check out other stories on TanyaTale by clicking here. 

Click the like button and subscribe and i’ll hopefully see you next week with another post from TanyaTale

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