His pen clicked feverishly, like a metronome that his burnt-out mind was having difficulty keeping up with. He had always preferred to do the early stages of writing on paper and with a blue pen. There was a sort of permanence to writing on paper that made his work more official. And blue was such a soothing color. The way it swirled across the page reminded him of waves receding from the sand, or the spaces in between clouds, or—he adjusted his seating to refocus.
Charles hadn’t written anything more than “plans for next novel” in several months now. Each time he sat down with the intent to plan his next great piece it seemed as though even the most elementary of thoughts were out of reach. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what went into a story, after all, he’d already written a bestseller. It was his first full-length novel, too. A whopping three-hundred-and-forty-nine pages of grit and tragedy so lifelike he’d had to email several people informing them that it was not a true story. Gut-wrenching tragedies chock-full of symbolism and deep meaning that could overthrow all of society, that’s where the money was. The only problem was that Charles no longer had much of an idea what part of society needed overhauling. There were the news headlines, of course. Conspiracies and political scandals littered nearly every page of every newspaper. But those didn’t come alive in his mind, not in the way he would need them to if he was going to write about them.
Once again, several hours passed and no ink made its way onto the page.
“What’s wrong with me?” Charles asked no one in particular, peering into the turtle-tank on his desk. His turtle, Franklin, had always been a comfort to him in the past, a sort of writing buddy. The way it slowly maneuvered and sat watching him almost made him believe it was thinking up its own stories. At this point, they would most likely sell better than his. “You haven’t got any ideas for me, do you Franky?” he whispered. “I’d give you partial credit, extra lettuce or something.”
The turtle didn’t so much as blink, a resounding no if Franklin could understand human speech.
“Oh well,” Charles rose and grabbed his sweater. “Maybe I’ll go for a walk, clear my head.” He ignored how clear his head currently was, and that a walk couldn’t possibly make it any clearer. Perhaps what he needed was something to fill it, maybe he would see something on his walk that would spark an idea. That was the excuse he decided to stick to.
“You’re not going for another walk, are you?” a voice called from the couch in the living room as he walked past it.
“Just a quick one,” Charles answered as he quickened his pace. “I’ll be back soon, Lorraine.”
He opened the door, skipped across the threshold, and shut it again. Despite having entered the freedom of the out of doors, Charles felt that his freedom was diminishing daily. Lorraine had been kind enough to provide him with a place to stay, but he suspected that she too might soon give him the boot. He’d been with her longer than he’d been allowed to stay with his parents after graduating, so that was something to be thankful for. Lorraine was his aunt, somewhat of a distant relative, so perhaps word hadn’t reached her of Charles’ infamous lack of an appetite for work. Physical work, that is.
“When it comes to writing, I could do it all day!” Charles had often boasted during college. He’d always believed it. Everyone, including his parents, had told him he was gifted when it came to writing. So how he had ended up living with his aunt, putting off getting a job in the hopes that a bestselling idea would magically come to him betrayed all of their praise. But he held to the belief that good things came to those who waited, and therefore decided that if he waited long enough, he would spark another bestseller.
This walk turned out to be no different than any of the previous ones. There wasn’t much scenery to behold in the small town his aunt had wandered off to and nowhere to go for fun. If he’d been rich, Charles would have gone to another country where his imagination might be lit anew by foreign cultures and beautiful landscapes. The money he’d earned from his novel had gone so quickly, most of it toward paying off debt. And so, seeing as he couldn’t even afford an apartment, he was stuck with aunt Lorraine. Maybe he could write about her, Charles contemplated, and the societal injustices that must have placed her here. The idea was quickly swept away as something no one would read, like all the others he’d conjured.
“Hi Charles!” a young boy shouted as he ran by, waving a stick in his hand. Charles watched him, realizing what a small town it was for the boy to be comfortable behaving so immaturely. Wasn’t he aware that kids his age didn’t play like that anymore? Phones, video games, girls, these were the things kids invested in now.
“This is why I don’t have anything to write about,” he sighed. It had taken him only five minutes to reach the edge of town, and no imaginative fire had been kindled. He turned back, lightly kicking small stones off the sidewalk.
Reentering the house, he found Lorraine waiting, her grey curls parted to reveal concern as well as irritation.
“Did the mailman not deliver your magazine again?” he asked with a slight grin.
“Charles,” she said, passing by his sarcastic comment.
“Alright, I was kidding.” He removed his sweater and walked past her.
“Charles, we need to talk about your plans.”
“Things are moving,” Charles answered optimistically as he moved toward the stairs. He hoped this would satiate her and buy him some more time, but the excuse had begun to lose its effect.
“Come on, Charles. You have to get a job,” she said, after which an exhausted sigh followed.
“I have a job, Lorraine,” he answered as he mounted the stairs. “I’m a writer.”
“You haven’t written anything in months, Charles!” He kept walking. “Months!” she reiterated as he disappeared from her sight.
Charles made it to his room and shut the door, leaning on it for a moment. He’d hoped to make it through the day without stirring up this topic, but it seemed that Lorraine’s patience was wearing thin. He sat down at his desk, where his laptop was waiting for him. He only used it occasionally now, to listen to music or when he felt convicted or bored enough to look for a job. He waited a moment before searching for writing jobs in his area or that could be done remotely. He scrolled through several of them, pausing to read their descriptions, and then shut his laptop.
“There. I looked,” he said as he moved to his bed. He wasn’t sure if he meant to or not, but he ended up drifting into a light sleep.
The ground shook, thunder cracked, and screams filled the air. Charles sat up just in time to see the house tear in half, the side opposite him utterly destroyed by an enormous foot. It was thick, with long nails stemming from it. It seemed familiar, but Charles had never seen anything so large before, not on any animal.
“Lorraine!” he shouted, becoming aware that she slept on the other side of the house. He clambered down what was left of the stairs and began to dig through the rubble once the massive foot lifted. It was no use, if she had been in that half of the house, Lorraine would be dead.
He looked around. The world seemed different. What had once been a gray landscape colored only be fields of corn was now a massive forest full of vibrant hues and shapes.
A low roar split the air and initiated a ringing in Charles’ ears. He turned to the source just in time to see a large shape outlined by the lightning. It was a part of an even more massive object from which a head emerged. It had a sort of beak, at least, it looked like a beak, and yellow unblinking eyes. Charles cowered behind what was left of a wall.
“CHARLES!” the creature rumbled, dominating every sound he had ever heard. “COME FORTH!”
Charles thought about resisting or running but came to the conclusion that this creature could destroy him regardless of whether he hid or not. He stepped out slowly, with trembling knees and quivering lip. The great creature turned to face him, its whole body shifting and its head turning toward him. He could see it better now, some of the clouds were clearing and the light of the moon was appearing. It resembled a turtle in almost every way, apart from its enormity.
“Charles,” it said, softening its voice. “Do you recognize me?”
“Franklin?” Charles whimpered.
The turtle laughed, a booming and rapturous sound. Charles had never seen a turtle laughed, and it terrified him to see the creature’s body shake from within the massive shell.
“That is the name you gave me.” Its eyes lit with a sentience even human eyes did not possess. “My true name, however, is Orrolongusharitti. I am King of the Turtles.”
Charles fell to his knees. He didn’t care how bizarre it was, the turtle, Orro-whatever was right in front of him. He could feel its breath and felt the ground tremble whenever it moved. And he’d kept this creature in a cage.
“I’m sorry,” he stuttered. “I didn’t know you were a king!”
The turtle laughed again, a lighter chuckle this time but still enough to assert its power.
“You once knew. You once spoke to me and respected me for the being I truly am!” Charles searched his memory for anything relating to the Turtle’s words.
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“When you were a boy, before you left my world, you cared for this world. Now you have discarded it and let yourself slip into the singularity of what you can see.” The turtle lowered its massive head until it was level with Charles’, although it still towered above him. “Return to obscurity, young Charles. Our stories must be written!”
“What stories?” Charles cowered as the mighty head reared and rose far above him.
“You are waking, returning to clarity.” He eyed me with foreboding caution. “Do not forget this occurrence, our destinies depend on it!”
Charles woke as calmly as he had fallen asleep, bits and pieces of a bizarre dream in the back of his mind. Something about a giant turtle. He scratched his head and rolled over.
Once the sun inched its way through his window, Charles woke to the smell of Lorraine’s scrambled eggs. He lay awake for a minute, something itching at the back of his mind. It was too early to remember, Charles decided, and headed downstairs. He stopped before leaving his room to feed Franklin, who sat as silently and motionlessly as ever.
“Any story ideas?” Lorraine asked as she shoveled eggs onto a plate and sprinkled them with cheese. Her question sparked the memory of the night’s dream, of Orro-whatever-his-name-was and the instructions he’d given him.
“Nope,” he answered, inwardly laughing off the idea of sending a story about a giant turtle to a publisher. He poured himself coffee and then sat down in front of the prepared meal.
“Well you’d better hope you think of something soon,” she said as she sat opposite him, her second cup of coffee nearly half finished. “Because I just got off the phone with Jordan down at the dollar store. He says there’s an open position for you.”
Charles shook his head, waiting to finish chewing to answer.
“I can’t do that, Lorraine, it’ll take too much time from my writing.”
“What writing?” Her eyes widened and her brows were raised, never a good sign. “You haven’t written in—”
“Months, I know.” Charles shoveled a forkful of eggs into his mouth. They were warm and had just the right amount of moisture. He loved Lorraine’s eggs. “Look, I’ve just got writer’s block, okay? I’ll snap out of it soon.”
“If you aren’t started on something by the end of the week, I’m telling Jordan you’ll be ready to work next week.” Lorraine crosser her arms and leaned back in her chair. That was the end of the conversation, and Charles knew it. He took his eggs and coffee and climbed the stairs, back to “the author’s lounge” as Lorraine had called it when he first came to stay with her.
He sat down at the desk and leaned back until his head was nearly upside down on the other side of his chair.
“Got any ideas Franklin?” He pulled himself up and leaned over to take look at the trapped creature. Images from his dream resurfaced, and he squinted his eyes at the lethargic reptile. “You’re not the King of the Turtles, are you Franky?”
The turtle made no response.
Charles laughed to himself and took a sip of his coffee. Such a bizarre dream. He contemplated for a moment what might have made him dream up such a detailed world. He remembered that Orro had told him that he’d known him before, when he was a kid. He scratched his head and tried to recall when he first got the turtle. It had been around ten years ago. His mother had never wanted to let him get one because they lived so long, and she was sure she would end up having to care for it after Charles went to college. Charles had always been fond of it, and when he did leave for college it seemed only natural to take it along.
“I never believed in giant turtles,” he concluded, and set to finding a writing topic.
He was of the firm mindset that, because he was a full-fledged adult, no one could tell him what to do. But, seeing as he was living in Lorraine’s house, he wasn’t sure if he could refuse her job arrangement and still maintain his residence in her home. Therefore, he picked up his pen and began to stare dutifully at his notepad.
“Come on,” he whispered. But still, no idea that had not been thought of came to him. His eye flicked over to Franklin. The turtle seemed to be watching him intently rather than eagerly munching on its lettuce as it did most mornings. “No.” His eyes returned to the paper. “What about a story about corruption in the CIA?” He began to think up a rough plot-line but, in several minutes, realized that it was too similar to too many action movies he’d seen.
Franklin put one of his small clawed hands to the glass.
“How about a tragic one-night-stand romance?” No, every writer and their pets wrote about that.
The turtle’s claw made a minuscule scraping sound on the glass.
“A journalist’s fight against a multi-million-dollar company?” No, he didn’t know a thing about journalism, let alone business.
Franklin let out a small croak, something he never did. Charles turned on the creature, bringing his face up against the glass.
“No! I’m not writing about giant turtles.” He squinted at the turtle. “If I submitted something like that to a publisher, I would never be seriously considered for anything ever again!”
Franklin stood his ground. Charles scoffed and laid his head on his desk.
“Here I am, talking to a turtle!” he sighed. “Maybe I just need some rest, I didn’t sleep very well last night.”
Charles felt the ground beneath him give way, and he rolled and tumbled until he hit a tree. A tree? He pulled himself up and realized that he wasn’t in his room, but once again in the massive forest.
“Oh no,” Charles moaned as he saw the shape of the enormous turtle in the distance. Its eyes fixed on his, and its head shifted to face him.
“Charles, you have not heeded my instruction!” it bellowed.
“Listen here Orrobunga,” Charles had become more confident now that he understood it was all a dream. “I am not writing about some stupid turtle world. I’m a professional.”
The turtle did not roar or stomp on him as he had partially expected. Instead, it chortled out its mountainous laugh.
“A professional, you say?” Its eyes were as cruel as its curved beak.
Charles nodded, a little less confident than he had been a moment ago.
“Would a professional wear his pajamas during the day?” It lowered its head. “And would not a professional be able to write at the very least a single sentence in the span of a month?” Its beak was almost to the ground now. “I must say, the standard for professional writers has lowered greatly!”
“What do you know?! You’re just a turtle!” Charles shouted.
Now the turtle roared. It lifted its beak and let out a shrill sound that shook the earth and tore the leaves off trees. Charles felt the wind pull at his hair and covered his ears.
“I have told you,” the turtle lowered its voice. “I am no mere turtle. I am Orrolongusharitti, and I am the King of all Turtles. I see that means nothing to you at the moment, but to all creeping things it means that I govern the Great Forest of this world.”
Charles said nothing, he felt a headache coming on and was tired of this reoccurring dream. He’d stopped thinking up loony worlds a long time ago and wasn’t about to start considering them now.
“I am going to tell you a story now,” the turtle said as it began to lower its entire body. When it was fully resting on the earth, it tucked in its legs. “I will tell you the history of the Great Turtles, and then you may see that our legacy is worth preserving.”
“I don’t want to hear about your history.”
“And do you want to work at the dollar store?”
Charles froze.
“If for no other reason than to put off physical work for a time longer, write my history.”
Charles considered the turtle’s words. It was strange, even for a dream, for the turtle to be demanding things from him like this that tied so closely to his real-world problems. But anything can happen in dreams, and Charles concluded that this sequel to his dream was proof of his strong imagination, something all writers were supposed to have a claim to.
“Alright, tell me your story,” Charles sat down. Since it was a dream, he figured he might as well play along. “But I don’t have any paper to write with.” He was not yet convicted enough to write about any of this in the real world.
“Your intelligence truly is more insignificant than I had feared,” the turtle sighed, an action that sent a hot wind through the trees and stirred birds and bugs.
“Hang on a minute—”
“I ask only that you listen whilst here in this realm. Once you leave it, and return to the world you are familiar with, that is when your work of writing my history begins.”
“Oh boy,” Charles rose and shook his head. “I thought this was a dream thing, but you want me to actually write about turtles in the real world. Got it.” He turned and began to walk away from the turtle.
“You have no other purpose than to write with what has been given to you, Charles.” Conviction sparked in Charles, and he wondered just how much this dream would be revealing about himself.
“If you’re talking about me having writer’s block, I’ll think of something,” he answered hotly. “I write quality stories about social injustice and real life, not fairytales.”
The turtle laughed. Charles hated the sound of its laugh. It was condemning and felt hostile.
“What good are your quality stories if they are simply another drop of water in an ocean of quality stories?” he asked, his long neck stretching out toward Charles. “Quality that is equal has no value.
“I’m a good writer—”
“Why? Because your college professors told you so? Because the people who are paid to congratulate you clap their hands when you read a paragraph out loud in front of the class?” If the turtle had teeth Charles imagined he would have seen a cruel grin spread across its face. “A good writer writes what is in his heart, not what he wants to be in his heart nor what he sees in the hearts of others.” This last statement was different than the mocking tone of the previous ones. It made Charles stop and think. He quickly shook off his contemplation.
“What do you know about writing? Even if you are the King of the Turtles, you’re a turtle. You’ve never written anything!”
“Charles,” the turtle said softly, as a grandparent would to their grandchild. “I may not write, but I have watched you for many years. I have watched you develop and grow into the young man you now are.” The turtle raised its voice approvingly. “I remember when you wrote great things.”
“Yeah, I published a bestseller!” Charles exclaimed, reminding himself of his past achievement. The turtle shook its head, a slow and powerful movement.
“I will show you what I am referring to,” the turtle said. It then lowered its head until it was nearly touching Charles. It was massive, a giant wall in front of Charles’ tiny frame. The wall parted as the turtle opened its mouth and let out a slow, powerful breath of hot air. Charles covered his mouth and began to back away, but the turtle’s intentions took place almost immediately.
Charles found himself looking at a young boy, whom he quickly identified as himself. The boy’s eyes were wide, excited. He held a pencil and was scribbling on a lone sheet of printer paper. There were lines of words, the majority misspelled and out of proportion. Beside what made up two sloppy paragraphs was a picture, poorly drawn, of a turtle. Charles said nothing as he watched the child read and reread his work aloud, erasing words and sentences when he felt it was necessary.
“Do you see?” the turtle’s voice entered the memory. “This young boy’s writing had no symbolism, no deep connection to the needs of the common man. It did not lift the world on its shoulders and pronounce all that was wrong with it. Yet this is the greatest work this child has yet created.”
“Why? Because it’s about you?” Charles asked angrily.
“Because it came from his heart, from his imagination.” The turtle’s voice was gentle despite its power and volume. “It did not come from a desire to appease anyone but himself.”
The memory ended abruptly, and Charles found himself staring at the closed beak of the great turtle. He backed away from it as he remembered the turtle’s accusations.
“My novel won awards, it sold like crazy! How is that not great?” Charles shouted angrily.
The turtle ignored his question and began to speak.
“A man, who eats only hamburgers, dines at a fine Italian restaurant and demands a hamburger. The chef complies, although he does not make hamburgers. The result is a very poorly made meal that is far below what the chef is capable of creating. Yet, the man is thrilled and leaves an excellent review. He has received his hamburger, his one meal, and is satisfied.” The turtle fixed Charles with a careful eye. “Tell me, is the chef’s work great?”
Charles did not answer. The turtle continued.
“No, he has merely satisfied a singularly-minded customer who demands nothing more than the most elementary. The chef’s talents have been undermined as well as the specialty of the restaurant. Yet, is it not possible that the chef can be satisfied with receiving good reviews and making mediocre meals for this man?”
Again, Charles said nothing.
“You have great ability Charles. It lies not in your ability to critique and reform society, but in the wild and vivid imagination your mind has been granted. You once knew that.”
Charles didn’t look at the turtle anymore. He let his eyes fall to the grass, to the trees, to whatever might take him away from the turtle.
“I believe you are not yet ready to write my history. But we have made progress today.” The turtle looked up to the sky, which had begun to thunder and darken. “Think on what we have discussed, and strive only to write your best, Charles.”
Charles woke with his head on his desk, drool wetting the empty page that had served as his pillow. The first thing his eyes caught hold of was Franklin, sitting as motionless as always. Charles sat up and rubbed his eyes. He squinted as he recalled the vague memory of the giant turtle once again demanding to write his story.
He couldn’t.
The deeper memory of his childhood writings returned to him. The first time his mother had told him, “you have such a wild imagination!” seemed so far away. He recalled the past four years of college, where everyone seemed to compete for the same kind of recognition. Everyone wanted to be a mover, someone who stirred the think-tank and struck a chord with the people. As if they really knew who the people were. He brought to mind the classes in which he’d read Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and other great writers acclaimed for their social themes and raw telling of the world’s problems.
He then remembered some of the first novels he’d ever read. Books like The Chronicles of Narnia and The Hobbit had sparked long adventures in the woods and deep explorations of small creeks. He wished he was a child again. It was all so much simpler then. That Charles didn’t need to worry about what people would want to read, or what his peers were writing. He wrote what he wanted to read. But the world just didn’t work that way anymore.
“I know you could do it if you’d just try,” Lorraine said from his doorway. Charles turned up to face her, confused as to how she knew what he had been thinking. There was deep sympathy in her expression and gentle love in her voice. It made Charles miss his mother. “Working at the dollar store wouldn’t be so bad if you’d give it a chance.”
Charles let out a tired sigh. It almost would have been better if she had known what he was thinking. He hated having to initiate therapy sessions.
“Can’t you write after work?” she asked as she took a seat on his bed.
“Did you read my book aunt Lorraine?” he asked, ignoring her question. Her eyes shifted across the room.
“Yes,” she answered.
“What did you think of it?”
“Well, it was very well written and—”
“Honestly,” he interrupted.
She took a moment to respond, and Charles saw weariness as well as delicate care in her eyes.
“I didn’t enjoy reading it, Charles. It was so dark and gritty, so full of hate and sadness.” Her face was scrunched and a little worried. “It was so different than what you’d written in high school, I—” she paused and let out a little sigh. “I worried about you after I read it.”
Charles nodded. He’d received similar feedback from his parents, although it felt different coming from his aunt.
“I hope I’m not hurting your feelings, but you told me to be honest.” She fidgeted with her hands, picking at her fingernails the way she did when she was nervous. “And maybe—maybe that’s just the personal preference of an old lady. I generally don’t like reading things that are so dark and gritty.”
“But the world is dark and gritty,” Charles answered, not upset, but testing her with what he’d heard repeated over and over to him while at college. “Don’t I have a responsibility to write about it? To make people see it?”
“Well, I’ve had my share of dark and gritty.” She paused, and her eyes dropped to her dry hands, the lines and twists of hard work decorating them in a telling display. “When Harry died, it felt like all that was left in the world was darkness. Everywhere I looked I saw only the worst. I could barely leave the house without—” she cut herself off and pursed her lips. When she looked up at Charles, he saw the worn face of one who’d lived in the real world, who’d witnessed its darkness and grit. He felt guilty, suddenly, for writing a book on something he hadn’t experienced firsthand like she had.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and looked down at his blank paper.
“Sometimes what the world needs isn’t a reminder of how wicked and messed up it is.” She sighed and turned her head to the window, where the orange and pink hues of the sun’s final stand were streaking across the sky. “Maybe the world needs a reminder of how beautiful the sunset is in Fall. Maybe if we had more reminders of the good things in this world, we’d have less unhappy people.”
Charles said nothing. Instead he pursed his lips, his substitute for when he didn’t know what to say. Lorraine responded with a loving smile and a pat on his shoulder.
“I’ll make spaghetti for dinner,” she said as she left. She stopped when she was just across the threshold. “With meatballs.”
Charles smiled. Meatballs had been a family favorite for as long as he could remember. It was a kind of gesture, an unspoken promise that meant I love you.
Charles leaned over and looked Franklin in his small unblinking eyes.
“Giant turtles, huh?”
“So, you have finally seen the light?” Orrolongusharitti said that night, a triumphant tick in his deep voice. The forest was filled with the sounds of night: nocturnal birds and bugs gently moving through the blue light of the moon
“I’ve got no other ideas,” Charles shrugged, refusing to admit that he had accepted the turtle’s lesson.
Orrolongusharitti made a wise, knowing hum from the back of his throat.
“Whatever your reasons, I am glad you have allowed yourself to fulfill your potential once again.”
And with that, the history of Orrolongusharitti and the Great Turtles began to unfold. The turtle told of everything he’d witnessed since his birth and things that had happened years before that. It took nearly a month of nights to hear the entire history, but Charles was writing again, and he felt more alive than he had in months.
Turtles seemed to possess a near perfect memory. Or at least, Great Turtles such as Orrolongusharitti did. His history was full of rich detail, and despite being very motionless, Orrolongusharitti's tale was filled with life and excitement. There were villains and heroes, wars and times of peace, everything that a history should have as well as new things Charles felt even he couldn’t have made up. The further Charles delved into the history of these turtles the greater his fascination became, and he soon found that he had no interest in writing anything that wasn’t about turtles.
When Orrolongusharitti finished, Charles was somewhat disappointed that it had all come to an end. He felt that there was much more to be written, as if he had only scratched the surface of understanding the mystical world of the Great Turtles. Yet Orrolongusharitti had no more to say regarding his past or of the world Charles had continued to visit in his dreams.
“Thank you, Charles, for so dutifully recording my journey through this life.” The turtle seemed much older than when they had started. He moved less and kept his head tucked within his shell more often. “You have completed my request and I will haunt your dreams no longer.”
“You could pop in every once in a while,” Charles said, fully meaning it but saying it in a joking tone.
“I am afraid that now, the history of my kind up to this point having been recorded, you need write only one more line.” The turtle’s massive eyes drooped wearily down at Charles. “The end.”
Charles had an inkling that the turtle was referring to more than his history. He felt that if he woke up now, he would never again see the monstrous turtle or the bizarre world he had become so comfortable in.
“You’re not going to die, are you?”
Orrolongusharitti let out a slow and painful sigh.
“No. Thanks to you I will live on for as long as humanity does.” Charles thought he saw a smile creep across the turtle’s face. “Now you must go and complete the work,” he said with labored breath. “I will be with you forever, Charles.”
Charles woke in front of his computer screen, at the final paragraph of the manuscript. He looked to the tank beside him but did not see Franklin. He lowered his brows, wondering how a turtle might escape a glass cage. He then recalled the dream, Orrolongusharitti’s last words concerning his history. With a sober yet purposeful heart, he wrote them.
“I’ve finished!” Charles announced proudly as he descended the stairs. He came upon Lorraine with her sketchpad out. Approaching her, he peeked over her shoulder. On the paper, so real it looked more like a black and white photograph than a sketch, was Orrolongusharitti. Or Franklin. Charles had decided that they were one and the same.
“How did you—” he looked at the paper and then at Lorraine.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, pointing to a small bowl in which Franklin sat. “I got tired of sketching the birds.”
Charles studied the picture. The turtle was old, wise, and almost magical, a perfect portrait of the King of all Turtles. He smiled at his aunt and hugged her.
“I’ll make spaghetti tonight,” he said as he moved toward the kitchen. “With meatballs,” he added.
The History of Orrolongusharitti and Other Great Turtles was published several months later by a small publishing house in search of new authors. They claimed that they were interested in his story from the first page they read, something he would not have believed before meeting Orrolongusharitti. But then again, why should they not be interested in such a mystical tale?
He never told anyone about his dreams but continued to tell the Orrolongusharitti’s analogy of the Italian chef and the burger man whenever he gave advice to young writers. Many future authors were inspired to reach their full potential by writing from their imagination, however bizarre and unsellable it seemed.
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