A young boy runs along the sandy Detroit beach collecting seashells as the ocean waves crash on the shoreline. The boy notices a bottle floating among the waves. He wades out to it (as curious boys do) to retrieve it. He brings it ashore and pulls the cork from it. To his astonishment and delight, inside the bottle was a beautifully handwritten letter with immaculate penmanship. He notices the letter was dated some time ago… how long had this letter been floating at sea he wondered. He read on…

Dear Gillian,

I hope this letter finds you well. Moreso, I hope this letter finds you at all. If you indeed are holding this letter in your hands, reading my words, I regret this letter bears bad news, the least of which being my ship has completely blown off course in a storm. This leads me to my next obvious piece of bad news, I will be unable to make good on my regular shipment of lobster for the ravioli stand, at least not in a timely manner. That being said, if you are reading this, you have my word that I am determined to make good on my delivery. 

As to myself, I am fortunate in that I prepare for occurrences such as this one, as does any fisherman worth his salt. I have plenty of rations below deck, hundreds upon hundreds of hand rolled cigarettes, with an abundance of extra everything in the case of any unfortunate events such as this storm.  Not to mention, I am a fisherman at sea, literally surrounded by fish and water! The Earth provides!

Pertaining to the lobsters themselves, since they are to be delivered to you alive anyway, all I need to do is keep them in water, which should be no problem being that much of my ship has been flooded by the rain and crashing waves that smash against its hull. And since I have no means of boiling water anyway, you don’t need to worry about me dipping my grubby fisherman paws into your stock!  So a can of beans will suit me just fine for my meal tonight, as I intend to start rationing my provisions now. A dinner fit for a king, right? Ha!

You may even be wondering why I’m writing to you at all, as given my peril, you are unable to respond even if you do get this letter. I guess when you spend most of your days and nights alone at sea, you don’t meet a lot of people. You probably don’t even know my name, but I know yours. It’s Gillian. I look forward to my deliveries to your shop each time. it’s good to talk to another human being once in awhile rather than these damn lobster all day. In fact, you’re the only person I know!  So I might as well write you letters to pass my time, what the heck else do I have to do out here!

I must go now, another storm is coming, much larger than the last. Time to hunker down. You make sure you do the same when the storm comes for you Gillian, because believe me, it’s brewing. 
 

Sincerely,

LostAtSea

P.S. If the person who found this is not its intended recipient, please get this to Don Gillian. She can be found at The Goddess Ravioli in New York City. Thank you.

Transistor happened to be in his own boat. He was visiting his friends in New York and decided to go out on the sea for a few hours and enjoy some peace and quiet. Ruffian demanded to come along. He was butt naked running circles around the small vessel. It was relaxing in some small way, he thought.

A small bottle washes by as Transistor grabs it and reads through it. Without hesitation he goes directly to the rudimentary radio system and calls an S.O.S. Before long a voice comes over the radio:

"NY Harbor to SV6969: We got your distress call, please state the nature of your emergency."

Transistor blinks with a look of surprise on his face.

"NY Harbor, this is SV6969. I apologize. My SOS was not an emergency. It just stands for Same Old Shit. SV6969."

A bottle containing a letter washes ashore as a man searches the beach for rare coins. Curious, he pulls the letter from the bottle and reads, marveling at the impeccable handwriting

Dear Gillian,

I hope this letter makes its way to you. I would have no idea if you received my last, but it contained bad news regarding your lobster delivery.  I’m afraid the news in this letter isn’t much better. 

I remain completely off course with no way of getting my bearings. My compass has been completely smashed, accidentally but by my own hands. I had foolishly mistaken it as a clock and grew frustrated by it not giving me the time, so I punched it until its glass dome was shattered. I tried determining my direction by watching the sun rise and set, but unfortunately the book that tells me which direction the sun rises and sets, The Fisherman Handbook, was damaged in the storm. Ever get a book wet? The pages stick together. I tossed it overboard in anger. In retrospect I wish I had just let it dry.

The lobster are all still alive and well, and have been keeping me company. There isn’t much to do to pass the time other than tend to my lobster friends and write you letters. The days are long and dull. I wish I had brought cocaine. Alas, here I am floating lost in the ocean, without a flake of coke to sniff nor a butt to sniff it from. Looks like I’ll be settling for a peach and another can of beans for my dinner tonight. 

I hope the ravioli stand is doing well despite the late lobster shipment. I am still determined to make good on my promise. My ship is badly damaged and I don’t know where I am, yet my sheer tyranny of will shall lead me back to you, preferably in time for your dinner rush. It’s not like people order the lobster raviolis for lunch anyway, at least not anyone normal. 

My spirits remain high, Gillian. With enough prayer, I will find my way home. Will you pray for me?

Sincerely,

LostAtSea

A seagull flies along the beaches of Philadelphia and takes a shit on Transistor’s head. Rolled and tied around the seagull’s leg is a letter. The seagull lands on the beach where a local fisherman standing along the shore unties the mysterious letter and reads it. He remarks to himself how beautiful the handwriting is

Dear Gillian,

If you are reading this, you or someone else must have found my messenger pigeon. I fear I bring more bad news. My ship remains hopelessly off course and I have burned through a significant portion of my rations. You see, I suffer from gluttony, a sin I know you can relate to, as I’ve seen you scarf down an entire bowl of ravioli without so much as chewing, and somehow still be able to deliver eloquent epiphanies. An impressive feat and an over-indulgence of decadence, but one best left for women of leisure like yourself. Not scraggly old lobster fishermen lost at sea like my good self. I’m down to my last can of beans. I will hold out as long as I can before consuming it. 

I worry I may never see land again. I worry that I may never lay eyes on the beautiful locks of hair that rest upon your shoulders and protrude from your armpits. Most of all I worry for you, Gillian. Much like myself floating in shark-infested waters, the sharks are circling around you as well. You may even feel it yourself, perhaps. Just be wary, not paranoid. If something smells fishy, it may be something more sinister than just a fish. At least that’s what us ol fishermen say. 

With any hope I will see you soon. The lobsters are doing fine and all say hello. One of them is even waving at me. I am waving back to it right now.

Sincerely,

(Name illegible)

A bottle washes along the shore. An elderly lady on a morning stroll takes the bottle from the waves, pulling from it a letter. “What mediocre handwriting” she notices before reading on…

Dear Gillian,

How long has it been since I’ve been lost at sea now I wonder? Weeks? Months perhaps. Time has ceased to exist for me.  The only way for me to differentiate the blurry lapses of day and darkness is by counting the storms, which have been fierce. I need to smoke badly.  I had pre-rolled hundreds of cigarettes, double what I usually bring with me on a lobster expedition, specifically in the event of disasters such as this one. Unfortunately, I left my lighter at home on my nightstand. 

I lie staring at the sun, remembering you smoking inside The Goddess Ravioli on the days I would paddle my boat to its dock to unload my crates of freshly-caught lobster. The squawking of the gulls remind me of your hacking cough, visions of a cigarette dangling between your nicotine-stained fingertips, your fingernails like potato chips. These memories float in my mind much like the bottle holding this letter floats across the ocean vast and blue. 

We were hit by another storm last night. A bad one. “STEER INTO THE SWELL”, I shouted to no one, perhaps to the lobsters. The lobsters are all doing fine by the way and send their love. Leonard has been entertaining me with his antics, making funny snapping motions with his claws and splashing around in one of the many puddles on the deck. I clap and I laugh. 

I am too hungry to write anymore, and the cruel sun is beating down on me. What’s left of the skin on my arms and forehead is peeling off and scabbing. I am blinded by the constant brightness in whatever direction I turn, it comes at me from both the sky and oft the reflection of the barren sea so intensely that I fear may lose my vision sooner than my sanity. I must eat something. I am still fighting the urge not to eat my last can of beans. Hope you are well though and that the ravioli business is still treating you good. 

Sincerely,

(Name illegible)

P.S. I lied. I ate my last can of beans yesterday.  I hope you can forgive my dishonesty. 

A few poorly written letters had been washing up on the shores and wafting into the streets. Ketamine heard of this and at first thought surely this a child's school project gone awry but it became clear that some darn fool had the fortune to acquire a boat but zero skill in steering it. It also became clear, this poor degenerate soul was also infatuated with a certain Don. A mourning widow too boot, undoubtedly unconcerned with simpleton scribbled letters. 

This latest unrequited letter had hints of the dire situation he faced. The sun was sure to fry the full of beans fisherman into blistering chum soon. Perhaps sharks, circling the hapless skipper's vessel, would give him the attention he so desperately craved. 

"Such a shame that women are still stalked and harrassed in this day and age. Especially widows. It is sad that some have no moral compass. Or any compass for that matter". 

A bottle containing a letter washes along the sandy beach. A man picks it up, opens it, and reads it

Dear Gillian,

Please pardon my handwriting, I lack the strength to hold my pen steady. I had attempted to eating my cigarettes, hoping that if I clenched the tobacco between my teeth hard enough, perhaps I could squeeze some sort of juice from the leaves to provide me with some nourishment.  But my lips are so badly cracked and chapped that my mouth is now no more than a gaping hole in the center of my beard, as dry as the beach this bottle was found on.

I’ve resorted to peeling the scabs from my sun poisoned skin and eating them. The last one I peeled from my arm left the wound red and infected. The salt water stings when it makes contact with my gashes. I hope a new scab takes the old one’s place soon, as I am growing hungry again. I am pretending they are one of your burnt ravioli to distract me from the dismal reality of my situation. 

Despite my many distress calls, I have only seen one passing ship, Godfather Transistor’s S.S. Ninny, an inexpensive version of a yacht. I shouted for help to he and his manservant, but my pleas went unheard, either my voice too raspy and weak to be heard or drowned out by the roar of the sea. The two men continued on with their on deck horseplay until we floated from each other’s view. I have not seen another vessel since. 
 

I am trying not to blame you and your ravioli stand for my predicament but my resolve is waning, much like my sense of hope. It doesn’t help that Leonard is being a real cunt, always complaining about this and that, snapping his claws at me obstinately and glaring at me with his awful black beady lobster eyes. We have been arguing but I still hold him in high regard. I think the stress is getting to both of us. I will probably apologize to him but he is currently not speaking to me. See what I mean? 

I am growing weak. The lobster are snapping at my blistered flesh, as they are now free from their crates and roam my ship as they please. I fear they may be conspiring against me.  I hear them whispering about me when they think I am sleeping. A mutiny is afoot. I must be cautious. I hope you’re being cautious as well. 

Sincerely,

I don’t remember my own name

Two mobsters stand along the beach burying the body of a deadbeat who didn’t make good on his lost bets. As they dump him in the hole, what should happen to wash up with the tide but a bottle containing a letter. They opened it and read it

Dear Gillian,

I decided to begin this letter a little differently with a quote from literature

Water, water, everywhere,

and all the boards did shrink

Water, water , everywhere,

nor any drop to drink

This is from Emerson’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner”, and it summarizes my current situation perfectly. Except in my story, it is a lobster rather than an albatross weighing me deeper into the throes of madness. 

The irony that I am surrounded by water whilst dying of thirst in the baking sun. I will not disgust you by telling you my only remaining option, but it’s the last remaining barrier between dying of thirst on this wretched ship, and depravity. 

I tried spear fishing with a broomstick, but the end of the spear is rounded and dull, and I lack the strength to thrust, so I only really succeeded in pushing the fish down deeper into the water with it, which was the exact opposite of what I was trying to achieve. 

My paranoia has reached an all time peak and I finally confronted the lobsters yesterday, certain that they were about to execute their mutiny. They’ve  grown dismissive of me as of late. I had lost their respect. A grabbed Marcus (the apparent ringleader of the coup and suspected conspirator) with both hands and cracked his skull in half. I then squeezed my hands together tightly until Marcus juice sprayed out between from the fingers of my clenched fist and soaked his lobster brethren with his innards. They looked on in horror as I tossed his broken body before them. Marcus writhed around on his back for a few moments, his claws opening and closing dumbly, involuntarily, until he finally stopped moving at all. This hopefully got the rest of the gang back in line. Sometimes the little people need to be reminded who is boss. 

So I apologize that the shipment willl be a lobster short now, I’ll make sure I deduct it from my Goddess Ravioli invoice when I get the delivery to you. And dammit, I will get the delivery to you. Perhaps The Goddess Ravioli is the albatross around my neck.

I hope you take something from this letter. I didn’t want to kill Marcus, as he was one of the lobsters I got along with best. But when you notice people becoming dismissive of you when you tell them something, or if something is not addressed and you bring it up and they still don’t address it’s, a sign of problems to come and needs to be handled. Maybe you notice it yourself in your own interactions, people becoming a little less bothered with each tiresome complaint. You are a feared and powerful woman. People fear you, but when that fear turns to resentment, make sure you can see it coming. 

Sincerely,

I no longer remember. Please send water I am so very thirsty 

A bottle containing a page from the Saddle Newsflash newspaper washes along the shore. A man walking along the beach picks it up and notices a handwritten letter on the back of the page. The handwriting is atrocious. He reads on.

Dear Gillian,

I continue to float aimlessly wondering what will do me in first. Will I be devoured by the sea or will I burn alive in the infernal sun?  Will this letter reach you before or after that happens? Have you even received any of my letters? 

I have run out of paper. Fortunately, some rubbish floated past the ship and I was able to fish this discarded newspaper out of the water. It was an old paper, but I was just happy for something to read. There was an article about you in there, reporting on your heavy musk. I didn’t like it. I let my lobster friend Leonard read the article too and he also thought it was total hogwash. He demonstrated his disdain for the article by chopping it to pieces with his claws. I folded the shreds of paper into little balls and ate them. 

A fortnight ago, a copy of your newspaper floated by too, it was the Weekly Gazette #7. Now THAT was a great newspaper. I checked the date, it was also an old paper, so hopefully the rest of the subsequent issues make their way past my ship too.  I can’t wait to catch up on volumes 8 through 13!

Or has it been longer than that? I don’t even know anymore

As to how I am doing, I have become smitten with one of the other lobster onboard, and I think she may be keen on me as well. I see her looking at me sometimes and when I look back and smile, she playfully turns away. We mostly stay on opposite ends of the ship though. Maybe I’ll work up the nerve to speak with her one day. But in the end, I am a coward. 

If this is to be my last letter to you, I ask that you remember the valiant effort I made in trying to get this lobster delivery to you for the ravioli stand. It’s a special place, The Goddess Ravioli. To me, it’s a place worth dying for. 

Signed with an illegible scribble 

A bottle washes ashore with a letter in it.  The handwriting is scribbled and difficult to read

GILLIAN

Curse the bastard Goddess Ravioli the place shall be the death of us all!

How long I have sailed? Sail sail sail lost lost lost. Lobster Lobster

The skin on my back has fully scabbed, leaving me with a crustlike exterior shell, much like a lobster. The skin I have left, red from the unforgiving sun.  My back and shoulders haunched forward from severe dehydration and soul-deadening hunger pangs. My hands resemble claws as I have chewed most of my fingers off. 

I am becoming lobster. 

The other lobster call out to me. Become one of them. Join us they say. I think I will

I now crawl amongst the lobster. Their claws snap viciously at what remains of my flesh. My nerve endings, exposed. My salt-weathered face, permanently contorted as if I just heard a Transistor attempt at humor.  I drink from the sea now. The salt water driving me closer and closer to insanity with each unswallowable gulp. 

This is your fault, Gillian. May The Goddess Ravioli burn to the ground, the wretched place. We refuse to be stuffed into your vile ravioli concoctions to be served as some greedy mobster’s dinner (or even in very rare instances, lunch). Go create a new nonsense menu item like Baloney Ravioli or whatever mismatched food item your primitive brain decides to pair with ravioli. We are lobster. We are nobody’s lunch. 

This is my final descent into madness 

Damn you,

(No signature)

THE FINAL LETTER TO GILLIAN

A letter in a bottle washes along the shore addressed to Gillian

Dear Gillian,

Hey great news. I went below deck and took a look in my travel bag. I found a map of the ocean, so I am now back on course. Also inside my bag were snacks, canteens of water, medicine, and ointments, so I am feeling much better now. Plus I realized if I just stay below deck, I’ll be completely shielded from the oppressive sun. I wish I had thought of all this to begin with. 

Anyways I just looked through my telescope and I can now see land. I think I even see The Goddess Ravioli in the distance. If you look out to sea hard enough, maybe you can even see me waving to you. 

The lobster are all packed back inside the crate and I should be there shortly with my delivery. Should any other letters in a bottle addressed to you wash along your local shore, just ignore all that shit. 

See you soon

Sincerely,

The Lobster Fisherman

THE END

(Visit The Goddess Ravioli located in the New York Business District to see the exciting conclusion of this lobster delivery)