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eBook Category: Science Fiction/Fantasy
eBook Description: On the day of reckoning, an angel might come to whisk us to timeless glory in a golden chariot; it may be an emissary of the nether regions, one to haul us by the leg to eternal fate. When it was the Man's turn, it was a Turtle. A tiny, green harbinger of destiny, come to dispatch a deposed tyrant into the future.

eBook Publisher: Fictionwise.com, Published: Interbac, 2006
Fictionwise Release Date: March 2007

9 Reader Ratings:

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Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: eReader (PDB) [39 KB] , ePub (EPUB) [51 KB] , Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [12 KB] , Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [198 KB] , Palm Doc (PDB) [12 KB] , Microsoft Reader (LIT) [64 KB] , Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [84 KB] , hiebook (KML) [59 KB] , Sony Reader (LRF) [60 KB] , iSilo (PDB) [10 KB] , Mobipocket (PRC) [13 KB] , Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [48 KB] , OEBFF Format (IMP) [23 KB]
Words: 3618
Reading time: 10-14 min.
All formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

ONE CLOUDY NOON in late October, a turtle moseyed past the edge of the Great Swamp and ambled down a mud-cloaked road. He dawdled past rows of trees whose roots the bayou fed living organisms. Here, waters thickened to the color and texture of sunburnt porridge. Not much of the world had altered since the turtle's hibernation. Except that the diamond trees looked wild as ever and the Jacobean shrubs more rare and serene despite tepid southbound winds that rocked the murky waters without persuasion or equality. These same winds bore a depraved spirit that made blow flies loose their minds; that brought tale of the ashy monster of the bayou (the one that made a toy of the boogie man and shadows of the Lochness dwarf of the south eastern shore). The turtle passed a timber plaque on the way, a sign that led towards or perhaps had been Sammy's Chicken Bar and Fried Green Tomatoes. By then, in this part of the swamp, wind had changed and had lost its teasing. Now its mood matched that of the rest of the bayou, which was close to bog land. A lot of tide swept in from the bayou's spirit to slap a coast ravenous for wandering smallies like the two fun-loving girls and a happy dog it had swallowed whole. The smell was cavernous and green weedy, and it held more than a hint of fish.

The turtle waddled to a ramshackle hut, a single-room shotgun cabin that stood only feet from the lip of the bayou. It had seen finer days, and was over 70 years old. No fit home for man or beast, someone lived there.

The turtle navigated three steps, seven splinters and nine cracks. Finally! He poked his head past a door, peered into the half-lit room and found no promise of supreme serenity inside; not the kind one would find in a Buddhist's den: this place was chaos and dereliction, and behold, there was the Man. He was half-sat, half-slouched on a rocker, a bottle of bourbon in his hand. The turtle ambled deep into a smell of cabbages or feet.

They regarded each other in silence.

The Man spoke first.

"Wha's yo' name, turtle," he said. "Ole Andy wants to know yo' name."

"If yo name's Ol' Andy, I ain't no turtle."