Turtles Run Away

This story is by C. Ferrari and was part of our 2024 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

Buddy was a red-eared slider who lived in a shallow glass bowl that belonged to a boy named Ron. Ron had purchased Buddy, the bowl, and the rock Buddy sat on, from a man in a turtle van parked in the Big Mart parking lot. 

Ron had pulled his mom toward the van. His mom had tugged back and said, “Not today,” and then, “We can look, but that’s all.” 

But when she peered into the plastic tub and saw the turtles paddling around, each barely larger than a half-dollar, she said, “Oh! I never knew turtles could be so cute.” 

Ron said he would use his own money. He promised to clean the tank once a week, and to always wash his hands, and so she had relented. The main thing Ron’s mom knew about turtles was that children should always wash their hands after touching them. 

If the man with the van had known more about turtles, he might have sold Ron a lid for the glass bowl. He might have told him that even though the turtles were born in captivity, they were not truly domesticated creatures. Maybe he knew better and maybe he didn’t.

Ron thought he knew plenty about turtles. He knew they ate turtle pellets. He had read that this kind was “primarily herbivorous,” but that didn’t stop him from feeding Buddy all sorts of things, like a tadpole he’d caught, and and ant, and a dead goldfish. Ron was good at feeding Buddy and less good at cleaning the glass bowl, which became dank and cloudy with the slime that formed from whatever Buddy didn’t eat. 

Buddy had only been out of his egg a few months, so he didn’t know much, but he knew to slide off the rock and dive deep if he saw Morris the cat. Buddy had watched as Morris deftly flicked the dead goldfish from where it bobbed at the surface of the bowl right onto the middle of the carpet, where he crunched it and gulped it down, eyes squinted in concentration. 

Sometimes Ron grabbed Buddy with his fingers. That was a strange feeling that made Buddy’s stomach flip flop. Sometimes he was set down on the carpet to crawl, but he never got far before the fingers stopped him. Occasionally, he was put in an empty cup for a bit. Afterward, the water was always clearer and colder back in the glass bowl. The clean water smelled nice, but it made him nervous with the cat around. There was no place to hide when the water was clear. There was only the rock. 

Ron and Morris weren’t the only visitors to the little room. There was a mysterious visitor that Buddy called the voice. It wasn’t anyone that he could see. He wasn’t even sure the voice was real. The voice said something like, “Come away and be free.” Buddy wished he knew where this voice was coming from or whose voice it was. He didn’t know what it meant to come away and be free, but hearing it felt like an irresistible temptation, or a command, or a sort of madness. 

When the voice came, Buddy found himself diving off his rock, his flippers paddling like mad, scrambling along the slippery bowl as if he could swim away and follow the voice through the glass. In the moment, it was a delicious, wonderful feeling that made all the effort seem worthwhile. Then as mysteriously as it came, the voice was gone, leaving Buddy too tired to do anything but float and let out a bubble or two. He crawled back onto the rock feeling foolish and exhausted. Later, he wondered at what had come over him, and whether he had imagined the whole thing.

A year passed, and Buddy grew bigger. From the highest edge of the rock he could just about reach the claw of his front flipper to the edge of the bowl if he stretched as far as he could. Now when the voice came, he stretched and stretched. At first he always lost his balance and plunged into the water. Then one day, he was able to get his claw and his chin to the edge of the bowl. He was finally strong enough to pull himself over. 

Buddy landed with a thud on the carpet, the wind knocked out of him, and the spell was broken. When he was finally able to take a breath, it was filled with fear and pain. What had he done? What good was it to be on the carpet instead of in the glass bowl? He thought of the goldfish and shuddered. 

He could have landed on his back, and then what? The voice will be the death of me, thought Buddy. He crawled across the carpet and through the doorway, resolved to find a way to resist the voice the next time it came. 

He made it to the hallway and found himself at a crossroads. Ahead, the hallway continued to the kitchen – he could hear Morris crunching kibble. To the left was a longer hallway ending in a room too far for Buddy to see. To the right the hall led to the bottom of the back door with a cut-out cat flap for Morris.

Buddy stopped. The boy would find him out here. If he stayed put, they couldn’t miss him. He would feel the fingers and the dizzy sensation, and at last he’d be back in his bowl. He had to have patience and be brave. 

Just then, Morris glided into the hallway. He sat down like a sphinx opposite Buddy. Buddy pulled his head and flippers tightly into his shell and closed his eyes. He held his breath.

“Where you headed?” asked Morris.

Buddy was so stunned that he peeked out a little from his shell.

“You’ve never talked to me before,” said Buddy.

“I don’t speak to prey,” said Morris, “but you’re so big these days. Then again, I may not be able to resist chewing a flipper.”

He licked his lips and pawed at Buddy’s shell.  

Buddy popped back in more tightly. 

“Only kidding,” said Morris, “but I am curious. What are you doing out here?”

“Uh… well,” stuttered Buddy, “I heard a voice that said come away and be free. So, then I climbed out of my bowl, and now I can’t get back.” There, he’d admitted it, and it sounded as stupid as he thought it would. He waited for Morris to react. 

Morris seemed unfazed, as if he had heard turtles say stranger things.

“Maybe this voice is coming from outside,” said Morris, “then again, it could be from inside.” 

“Outside?” asked Buddy. 

Morris gestured toward the cat door. 

“Outside – where I go hunting.” And with that, Morris took a few steps and leaped through the flap in the door. Buddy got a quick glimpse of the world as the flap swung open.

In a moment Morris was back.

“That was quick,” said Buddy.

“It’s about to rain,” said Morris, “I hate getting wet.”

“Turtles like water,” offered Buddy.

“Well, then, maybe you should go out,” said Morris, “There’s noone here to stop you.”

Buddy stayed put. He wondered if the cat was trying to trick him. Maybe Morris wanted him to go outside so he could hunt him later. 

“Suit yourself,” said Morris and padded down the hall out of sight.

Just then, the rain came down. Buddy could hear it smacking the roof and pavement. He could smell it, he could feel it. 

The voice welled up, as loud as the rain, and Buddy realized something – the voice was inside of him. That’s why he could feel it! Maybe that made him crazy, but perhaps being crazy, he didn’t care. He let the voice sweep him up and carry him to the flap in the door. It took all his effort and much scratching, but he climbed up and fell through onto the wet patio. 

Outside the world was alive, exploding with the smells of water and earth. Buddy thought his heart would burst as it stretched to become one with the rain, the sky, and the ground. The voice was both within him and all around him now. It led him forward with magical certainty. Now he was in the grass, now a puddle, now a sort of canal that emptied into a bigger puddle. 

Each day Buddy followed the voice, and before he knew it, he’d found a pond surrounded by trees. 

Here, the voice finally said. 

Buddy agreed.

***

Morris, smug in his secret, followed Ron from room to room to garden as he searched.

“Cheer up,” said Ron’s mom, “Grandad’s here for dinner.” 

Grandad tousled Ron’s hair. “Why so glum, Ronnie-boy?”

Ron told Grandad about Buddy and how he had bought him with his own money. 

“Don’t feel so bad, kid,” said Grandad, “Buddy was a fine turtle, but it’s just one of those things. Turtles run away.”