Thanks, I’m glad you like it. Commas are the bane of my existence. :)
Short Story / The Voice of the Turtle (Analysis)
Several times that morning, Jay had walked from window to window of his small frame house, peering out through rivulets of water filtering his vision. Storms fascinated him. They were sometimes dangerous, sometimes only inconvenient, but they were always beautiful. The gusting wind drove the rain against his windows with a sound like small boys hurling gravel. Power lines were down, the water rising and the road out front had been submerged since early morning. Now, even the higher ground of the yard had become a lake. The greenhouse out back stood like an island in an expanse of water that flowed quickly by to tumble into the swift and growing swifter current of the creek fifty yards beyond the edge of his property. His home was in no danger as long as the creek remained in its banks.
Jay poured himself another cup of coffee. He thought of the old neighborhood, Hall’s bayou and the small drainage ditch that emptied into it. On the banks of that other bayou, that other world, Jay had often stood, watching where the stream intersected the bayou; where it flowed quickly past a dozen or so large rocks; then more slowly forty or so feet through a widened pool; tumbled over a two-foot waterfall; and then picked up speed and collided with the slow muddy flow of the larger body of water.
Up there, on top of the embankment, he had imagined the ditch to be a trout stream like the photographs in Outdoor Life or the fishing programs his father watched on Sunday afternoons. These were flows of clear, cold water rushing over a mosaic of bright pebbles, shining like jewels, while sleek, fat trout finned gracefully over them their noses pointed relentlessly upstream into the current. At times, he imagined himself in Colorado or Montana or whatever end-of-the world place a Gulf Coast boy might have to go to find such a setting. But the day would have to be just right–late Fall or early Spring, when there would still be a chill in the air–and before sunrise, with the mist everywhere and live things rippling the surface of the water. Most importantly, the wind had to be at his back or he would get a face full of reality. Trout streams would not have the smell of waste disposal.
Here, there were no bright pebbles–never had been. The bottom of the ditch was lined with a thick, green scum that fragmented and tumbled downstream like pieces of discarded felt from a pool table. Even the rocks weren’t rocks, merely the remains of a concrete basin poured years before to facilitate drainage. The land was lowland, marshy, almost flowing, accepting and besting the engineer’s challenge of permanence. Summer floods, swelling the bayou, had undermined and broken up the structure, scattering it down and across the flow of water. Subsequent run-offs had widened the mouth of the intersection, collapsing the bank and forming the waterfall. Neighborhood kids played up and down the banks, catching frogs, turtles, snakes crayfish, tadpoles and wading back and forth across the stream, through the unmistakable smell of half-treated and illegally dumped sewage hanging over it.
Once, prompted by some misguided notion of ownership, Jay had painted his initials on the back of a soft-shelled turtle and released it below the rocks. He had used his mother’s nail polish, the bright, hot pink that was on every woman’s fingers in 1959. For weeks, he had returned daily to scan the sandy bottom of the pool, searching for the mounds where the soft shells wriggled down to disappear, to become the bottom itself. Each day, as he waited, he would catch the bright flash of hot pink and see the long, serpentine neck, snake toward the surface and the pointed snout, nostrils place pig-like on the end, break into the fetid air with hardly a ripple. Jay sat quietly and watched, lost in breathless connection, as his turtle went about its turtle business. The animal took no notice of him at all. It was, of course, a ridiculous idea to think that painting his initials on a turtle’s back would create some kind of bond.
But he had thought that.
Jay smiled as he watched the swirling water in his yard. Regardless of the magical thinking of children, maybe the ownership thing had worked after all. Not for the turtle, certainly. If Jay. was anything to the turtle, he was an interruption, an inconvenience at best, and something to overcome as quickly as possible since he held it captive for a few days. If anything the turtle owned Jay. He had been the one drawn back to the pool day after day. Now, more than thirty years later, the damned thing still paddled quietly across his mind from time to time.
A few weeks after he released the turtle, the rains had come. Tropical depressions, lows in the Caribbean and Gulf of Mexico, sometimes hurricanes threatened every summer. Roaring inland, dumping tons of water, they brought the bayou surging to the top of its banks in a violent, chocolate boil and trees came hurtling downstream with cottonmouths wound in the branches. Afterwards, the bayou would be different. Old sandbars were swept away and new ones formed, as debris was swept away only to be replaced by new debris. For Jay, it was always like seeing the place for the first time.
After the floods, there would also be carcasses–horses, cattle, sheep, or some other poor animal caught up by the sweep of water. There had been a rumor among the children that the father of Wallace, Jay’s best friend, had once found the body of a man tangled in a jam of trash below the Tidwell Road bridge years before. People said he had even gotten his picture in the Houston Post, pointing to the brushpile where he had made his grisly discovery. Jay had never seen the photo though his friend, Wallace, swore to God the rumor was true. Wallace’s father wouldn’t talk about it at all.
Jay had never seen the turtle again nor had he expected to. It was a small thing and had undoubtedly been swept away downstream to new territory. Still, he found himself peering into the water from time to time half-hoping to catch the flash of pink. Hardly had the flood waters receded than another flood followed hard on the heels of the first. There were several that year and one hell of a hurricane blew through as well.
All summer long that year, the weather was a source of interest for everyone. Jay and Wallace stood looking out the window one afternoon while the adults in Wallace’s family discussed the flooding. Wallace’s mother was very religious, very fundamentalist, and saw the weather as fulfillment of prophecy. She was very afraid. Jay and Wallace, attending to their own thoughts, paid little attention to the grown-ups but Wallace’s grandfather shuffled over to where Jay stood and whispered in his ear, “And the voice of the turtle was heard in the land.”
“Sir?” Jay responded, but the old man just walked away.
Besides, Jay had heard him clear enough. He thought about what the old man had said. In all his life, he had never heard a turtle make a sound.
A booming clap of thunder shook the house and startled Jay from his reverie. The lights flickered several times then went out. Jay was not particularly concerned with the loss of electricity–he was well prepared. He had a hurricane lamp, candles, bottled water, and everything he might need to ride it out. Jay made no attempt to light either candles or lamp. The dim light filtering through the cloud cover was all he needed at the moment. The water continued to rise, swirling and eddying across the yard. He left his place by the window to stretch out on the couch.
As he lay there, listening to the sounds of the storm and drifting toward sleep, he heard the voice of the turtle. It came from a distance, hanging beneath the somber gray-black clouds and driven by the winds over the muddy surge of water. A child’s voice–whispering of bright, pink colors and muddy feet–that echoed deep inside him.
The voice of the turtle is a lonely sound.
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burnvictim reviewed Version 1 -
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My basic impression is that you spend a lot of time developing the physical environment, not enough time telling me the significance of it all to the story.
I’d say that like the beginnings of the action, Jay and his turtle and his wish for a connection, but then it sort of peters out into more talk about storms, more physical details. I think if the piece were a bit longer and developed Jay’s emotional state better, the last line might be more effective.
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perfct2u reviewed Version 1 -
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-Incorrect punctuation. Replace semi-colons with commas here: ...watching where the stream intersected the bayou; where it flowed quickly past a dozen or so large rocks; then more slowly forty or so feet through a widened pool; tumbled over a two-foot waterfall; and then picked up speed and collided with the slow muddy flow of the larger body of water.
-Reword for clarity and impact: ...nostrils place pig-like on the end… *perhaps- ...the nostrils pig-like and placed on the end…
-Incorrect puntuation: If Jay[.] was anything to the turtle…
-This work is a well-written piece that transitions from present to childhood memory. The ending displaces the feeling of nostalgia I felt reading the piece with a sense of adult understanding for the deeper significance of the turtles voice. This would be an excellent piece in a collection with a similar writing style. Or as a poignant resolution on a longer reflection piece about growing up in the bayou. I would definitely read more short stories like this.
thesnoopyone reviewed Version 1 -
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Great imagery here I can picture the effects of a storm and what he was feeling while he searched for the turtle. Could the voice of the turtle be just his own thoughts?
rollingbolus reviewed Version 1 -
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Hello,
What happened at the end there?! I was looking for the next page button but…
You build the place well, chocolate boil of the bayou, descriptions of the local waterways and their significance, and you do it well, but this story is description heavy because any (mysterious) action happens too quickly.
swift and growing swifter --- becoming more rapid?
chill in the air–and before sunrise --- you do this with hyphens through out, put a space either side
face full of reality --- face-full? also, this could just be the way my mind works, but you’re talking about waste….so when you say face-full it sounds like the character is going to get a load of solid waste on him. Therefore as it’s the smell, maybe ‘a whiff of reality’ would be better
nostrils place pig-like on the end --- placed
If Jay. was anything to the turtle --- lose the full stop
the paragraph about captivity is rushed. You say the turtle means a lot to Jay….he takes it home at one point? maybe i’ve misunderstood, but if he does take it home then I think you need to spend more time on that part
very religious, very fundamentalist, and saw the weather as fulfillment of prophecy. She was very afraid --- too many verys
And the ending…..why is the voice of the turtle lonely? what does the turtle say? It feels like it should be the beginning of something rather than the end as you’ve built up to this point and then nothing really happens
If you work with this you could have a good piece but at the moment you seem to be hurrying through the parts that hold the most interest for the reader
good luck
BrianA reviewed Version 1 -
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This is a good reminiscence back to childhood. The memories of the narrator as a child are sponsored by the arrival of a regular storm season. From a perplexing comment from his grandfather the narrator has forged a link with the time, and stormy weather based upon the enigmatic voice of a turtle. The descriptions of the ditch, events, nature of contents were well done. `discarded pieces of old felt’ ,I thought was a great description of the material from the bottom of the ditch.
In the ending the narrator crystallizes the idea of `the voice of the turtle’ as a harbinger of loneliness brought on by stormy weather and distance from those times when he was not alone.
`Jay (had) painted…’ – some instances of passive voice – check text to remove.
`...sandbars were swept away and new ones formed, as debris was swept away…’ repetition `swept away’ – seek another word choice – `carried’
Jay (had) never (seen) saw the photo…’ & two sentences later you repeat the phrase `Jay had never seen the turtle…’
`Now, more than thirty years later, the damned thing still paddled quietly across his mind from time to time.’ This line sums up the story well. The writer has taken a memory, a small framed picture from childhood and shared this with others. And it is not only his time but such a piece stirs similar memories in myself. Well done.
Elf reviewed Version 1 -
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The perspective of the reader can be easily rocked as you have it written, at times I found my self struggling to remember it was Jay the adult reminiscing. I think it could benefit from some clarification when it changes from Adult to youngster. But when it reverts back to adult its good.
I like the idea, though the relevance of the meaning I find a bit elusive. But that might just bring more to the peace for other people.
Smay reviewed Version 1 -
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I really like the fact that Jay painted his initials on the turtle. It’s a nice anekdote which gives the character a great personality.
It did take me a while to get in to the story. You have a nice descriptive way of writing, but for me you went on too long with describing the scene.
I did really like the weird remark Wallace’s grandfather made about the turtle. It added a magical touch! I don’t think you really need to explain anything more. I like the story this way so you can use your own imagination!
NormaLizeth reviewed Version 1 -
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There is a voice in your story that I like. A lot of feelings and some I find even funny (I mean painting the poor turtle). The kind of stuff you think to yourself. Plenty of detail when needed since I know nothing about that part of the country. Really good giving at giving image and color.
martykate reviewed Version 1 -
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If Jay. was anything to the turtle, this is something you might want to correct
I found one other grammatical error, but lost it when I went back to look for it.
Very good and vivid descriptions. Lovely painting of the picture of the storm that is happening outside, especially when you capture the sound of the raindrops—boys throwing gravel is a good description. As a child of the south I remember these storms.
I liked your description of the bayou. I could see the green scum of the drainage ditch in my mind as I read and saw the cildren playing. I liked the description of the crawfish, the tadpoles, the turtles that live in the ditch. All the things that are part of childhood that we remember as good times.
This piece made me nostalgic—even for the storms. I think it was very well written, though I disagree that the voice of the turtle is a lonely one.
the_antagonist reviewed Version 1 -
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Your style is a stark contrast to mine, driven by concise thoughts and ample dialog. But yours works fantastically—the images your descriptions provoke ebb and flow much like the creek beyond Jay’s house, and I found myself reading along for the mere aesthetic appreciation of your sentences.
My critiques are limited, but I do have a few minor suggestions. Firstly, the age of Jay in the beginning is a bit hard to figure out. His fascination of storms hints at a younger age, but the complexity of the prose hints for something older. By the second paragraph where he has coffee you know he’s older, but I found myself wondering if he was somewhere in his teenage years when you mention the fishing programs his father would watch. It’s not until you say “thirty years later.” that I’m certain. I think this would all clear up if you just say “his father had watched” rather “his father watched.” I also think it may be a bit clearer (but mostly just a better choice of words in general, especially with small appearing to describe the house) still if you changed “small boys” to “young boys.”
Also note that you are using hyphens rather than dashes. To make it a dash, just simply add a space on either side or use two hyphens next to each other—like I do here.
I think there were 2 slight editing errors, but the only one I remember is the accidental inclusion of a period after “Jay.” I’m not exactly too sure where it is though, and it’s too minor for me to bother to find it again.
The ending, which the whole piece depends upon, works. Great job.
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