{"id":60902,"date":"2025-01-31T23:01:18","date_gmt":"2025-01-31T23:01:18","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/peraltafinancing.com\/entertainment\/art\/bottling-the-boras-a-short-story-by-joelle-mctigue\/"},"modified":"2025-01-31T23:01:18","modified_gmt":"2025-01-31T23:01:18","slug":"bottling-the-boras-a-short-story-by-joelle-mctigue","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/fivemor.com\/?p=60902","title":{"rendered":"Bottling The Boras: A Short Story by Joelle McTigue"},"content":{"rendered":"<p> <br \/>\n<\/p>\n<div>\n<figure class=\"wp-block-embed is-type-video is-provider-youtube wp-block-embed-youtube wp-embed-aspect-16-9 wp-has-aspect-ratio\">\n<div class=\"wp-block-embed__wrapper\"><noscript><iframe loading=\"lazy\" title=\"Bottling The Boras | A Short Story by Joelle McTigue \ud83c\udf0a\u2728\" width=\"840\" height=\"473\" src=\"https:\/\/www.youtube.com\/embed\/VrEyYFDO9DA?feature=oembed\" frameborder=\"0\" allow=\"accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share\" referrerpolicy=\"strict-origin-when-cross-origin\" allowfullscreen><\/iframe><\/noscript><\/div>\n<\/figure>\n<p><iframe title=\"Bottling The Boras: A Short Story by Joelle McTigue\" allowtransparency=\"true\" height=\"150\" width=\"100%\" style=\"border: none; min-width: min(100%, 430px);height:150px;\" scrolling=\"no\" data-name=\"pb-iframe-player\" src=\"https:\/\/joellemctigue.com\/blog\/bottling-the-boras\/about:blank\" loading=\"lazy\" data-rocket-lazyload=\"fitvidscompatible\" data-lazy-src=\"https:\/\/www.podbean.com\/player-v2\/?i=pcexa-17c5fc0-pb&amp;from=pb6admin&amp;share=1&amp;download=1&amp;rtl=0&amp;fonts=Arial&amp;skin=1&amp;font-color=auto&amp;logo_link=episode_page&amp;btn-skin=ff6d00\"><\/iframe><noscript><iframe title=\"Bottling The Boras: A Short Story by Joelle McTigue\" allowtransparency=\"true\" height=\"150\" width=\"100%\" style=\"border: none; min-width: min(100%, 430px);height:150px;\" scrolling=\"no\" data-name=\"pb-iframe-player\" src=\"https:\/\/www.podbean.com\/player-v2\/?i=pcexa-17c5fc0-pb&amp;from=pb6admin&amp;share=1&amp;download=1&amp;rtl=0&amp;fonts=Arial&amp;skin=1&amp;font-color=auto&amp;logo_link=episode_page&amp;btn-skin=ff6d00\" loading=\"lazy\"><\/iframe><\/noscript><\/p>\n<p><strong>Podcast Episode Links<\/strong>: <a href=\"https:\/\/www.boomplay.com\/podcasts\/122834\">Boomplay<\/a> | <a href=\"https:\/\/www.boomplay.com\/podcasts\/122834\">Deezer<\/a> | <a href=\"https:\/\/www.iheart.com\/podcast\/1323-joelle-mctigues-podcast-260985320\/\">iheart Radio<\/a> | <a href=\"https:\/\/www.listennotes.com\/podcasts\/joelle-mctigues-podcast-joelle-mctigue-Ji7NuKen9YU\/\">Listen Notes<\/a> | <a href=\"https:\/\/www.pandora.com\/podcast\/joelle-mctigues-podcast\/PC:1001097434\">Pandora<\/a> | <a href=\"https:\/\/pca.st\/jwpsd4i7\">Pocket Casts<\/a> | <a href=\"https:\/\/joellemctigue.podbean.com\/\">Podbean<\/a> | <a href=\"https:\/\/podcastaddict.com\/podcast\/joelle-mctigues-podcast\/5637183\">Podcast Addict<\/a> | <a href=\"https:\/\/www.podchaser.com\/podcasts\/joelle-mctigues-podcast-5969160\/episodes\/recent\">Podchaser<\/a> | <a href=\"https:\/\/open.spotify.com\/show\/5VEXAjUTrQab6N8wRNDeTl\">Spotify<\/a> | <a href=\"https:\/\/www.stitcher.com\/show\/1097434\">Stitcher<\/a> | <a href=\"https:\/\/www.youtube.com\/@joellemctigue\/podcasts\">YouTube<\/a><\/p>\n<h2 class=\"wp-block-heading\">Bottling The Boras: A Short Story by Joelle McTigue<\/h2>\n<p>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.<\/p>\n<p>I slipped inside from the chill of the Adriatic night, a Moleskine notebook pressed against my ribs. The tavern\u2019s hush carried a thunderous charge as though an argument or a revelation might tear through the quiet at any moment.<\/p>\n<p>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.<\/p>\n<p>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.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cEvening,\u201d I said, my voice faint under the weight of centuries that seemed to lurk in these walls. \u201cMay I sit?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Francine\u2019s brow lifted in sardonic amusement. \u201cIf you think you can handle it.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>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\u2019d mortgaged it against a debt I wasn\u2019t sure I could repay.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI, I\u2019m Jaxson,\u201d I managed, tapping the notebook. \u201cI write. Poems. Trying to catch the Adriatic\u2019s heartbeat in words.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Wayne\u2019s chuckle was rough as driftwood on fire. \u201cCatch the sea, eh? Like bottling the boras in a thimble. Better people than you have tried, lad.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>I squared my shoulders. \u201cMaybe not all of it. But a splash of its fury, a whisper of its secrets.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>He smirked, lines deepening around his eyes. \u201cSecrets? The Adriatic keeps hers buried deeper than any shipwreck.\u201d He glanced at Francine, and a silent conversation darted between them.<\/p>\n<p>Francine flicked ash into a dented saucer. \u201cGo on then,\u201d she said, tone bored but watchful. \u201cYou brought that notebook. It must have something in it.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>My pulse hammered. I flipped open to a page of midnight scribbles:<\/p>\n<p><em>Sunset claws at chipped stone walls,<\/em><\/p>\n<p><em>Salty hush where memory calls.<\/em><\/p>\n<p><em>Waves unspool in endless grace,<\/em><\/p>\n<p><em>Adriatic dreams etched on my face.<\/em><\/p>\n<p>Francine exhaled a ribbon of smoke. \u201cPretty,\u201d she allowed, though her voice dripped skepticism. \u201cBut the Adriatic isn\u2019t some souvenir. You\u2019ll need teeth behind your rhymes.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>I swallowed. \u201cI\u2019m not here for postcards. I want real stories, things that taste of brine and keep you awake at night.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Wayne\u2019s grin caught the lamplight. \u201cNot bad, kid. But don\u2019t get your hopes up. The sea\u2019s a jealous lover, breaks more hearts than she mends. You want real, huh? Let\u2019s see if you can stomach a yarn about fire and silent words. Storytime, eh Francine?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>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, \u201cFine then, old salt. Spin a yarn that has already barnacled itself to the walls of this tavern.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Wayne chuckled, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. It was like rocks tumbling down a karst mountain. He leaned in.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cTen 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.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Francine knocked back a swig of rakija and asked, \u201cAnd this hero\u2019s name, Wayne?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Wayne\u2019s gaze sparked. \u201cThey 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.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>The image seized me, pen already skittering across my notebook. \u201cIf he never speaks,\u201d I asked, \u201cwhy did he speak that night?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Wayne shrugged. \u201cMaybe he had no choice. Sometimes the sea or the flames demand words you didn\u2019t know you had.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>A hush blanketed the Konoba More. In the distance, an accordion\u2019s sorrowful wail drifted in from the Riva, the harbor walkway where tourists and locals mingled under neon signs and ancient stone arches.<\/p>\n<p>My pen scratched on, capturing the possibility that a single voice could command a tempest or a blaze.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhere is he now?\u201d I ventured.<\/p>\n<p>Francine exhaled a slow smoke ring, eyes flicking over me like I was too naive to know better. \u201cThey say he\u2019s everywhere and nowhere. Some claim he mends boats before dawn. Others swear he\u2019s a ghost, anchored between the living and drowned.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Wayne set his empty glass aside, knuckles drumming on battered wood. \u201cThe lad never wanted fame. Once you\u2019ve spoken fire into submission, maybe you have no words left for anything else.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>My chest tightened. This wasn\u2019t a seaside fairytale but a living myth scalded into the city\u2019s soul.\u00a0 Hidden pockets of old magic in these winding alleys were enough to swallow me whole. Yet I felt the tug, the hush of Ivo\u2019s defiance calling me.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI\u2026 I\u2019d like to find him,\u201d I said, my voice small against the smoke-clogged air. \u201cLearn what silence teaches that words can\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Francine\u2019s laughter came out as a single, sharp bark. \u201cOh, sweetheart, you better be ready for heartbreak. The sea\u2019s a sly mistress. She\u2019ll lure you in, then drag you under.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Wayne shook his head more kindly than I expected. \u201cYou chase a silent man. You may only find your own echoes. But if you\u2019re foolish enough to try, best of luck to you.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>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.<\/p>\n<p>I closed my notebook, reverently tucking it beneath my arm. \u201cThank you,\u201d I managed, voice thick with gratitude and awe. \u201cNot just for the story, but\u2026 for letting me listen.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Francine stubbed out her cigarette, the ember flaring and dying in a single breath. \u201cDon\u2019t grow starry-eyed. It\u2019s the surest way to drown.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Wayne cleared his throat. \u201cKonoba More always has room for another dreamer, lad. Go scribble your poems while you still can.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>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\u2019s voice echoed in my head. Maybe he had no choice. I pictured a fierce fire that demanded words from a man who\u2019d lost them. I pictured the crackling timbers and the roar of ancient flames.<\/p>\n<p>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\u2019d find Silent Ivo.<\/p>\n<hr class=\"wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity\"\/>\n<p>\u270f\ufe0f Short Story by: Joelle McTigue<\/p>\n<p>\ud83c\udfa5 Background Videos by: Bruno Cervera, Atahan Demir, Julien Goettelmann, Samed Gojak, Dawid Leszczy\u0144ski, Super Lunar, Ruvim Miksanskiy, and RDNE Stock Project.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Podcast Episode Links: Boomplay | Deezer | iheart Radio | Listen Notes | Pandora | Pocket Casts | Podbean | Podcast Addict | Podchaser | Spotify | Stitcher | YouTube 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 [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":60903,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[100],"tags":[33816,33815,33817,33814,33818,296,3972],"dealstore":[],"offerexpiration":[],"class_list":["post-60902","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-art","tag-boras","tag-bottling","tag-joelle","tag-joelle-mctigue","tag-mctigue","tag-short","tag-story"],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v26.4 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/wordpress\/plugins\/seo\/ -->\n<title>Bottling The Boras: A Short Story by Joelle McTigue - Som2ny Network<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/fivemor.com\/?p=60902\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Bottling The Boras: A Short Story by Joelle McTigue - Som2ny Network\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Podcast Episode Links: Boomplay | Deezer | iheart Radio | Listen Notes | Pandora | Pocket Casts | Podbean | Podcast Addict | Podchaser | Spotify | Stitcher | YouTube Bottling The Boras: A Short Story by Joelle McTigue The Konoba More was carved from drifting smoke and half-whispered confessions. 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