Echoes of Turtles
Story Highlights Where Small Moments Rise Into Immortality (Ricardo Jose Romeu)
Walk in word wanderers, and readers alike —
We are joyous to bring you the words of
.A proverbial writer’s writer, Ricardo is a wordsmith that crafts compelling arguments, informative pieces, translations, AND fiction. Insanity. Oh and did I mention the man has a PhD? Inspiring. A true modern literary man in the flesh.
“The Gift of a Green Mood,” is a flash fiction that unfolds in memories relived. This allows the reader to truly get snagged by the events and what occurs, where we can live through it too.
SUB TO !!!!
It ended with him shoving me into the table, and though I had a concussive landing, I still remember all the presents and the cake crashing down with me.
His birthday was a week before mine, and it had passed without any fanfare. My calls to his house went unanswered. When I told him “Happy birthday!” at lunch that Monday, one of our bullies said:
“Michael’s too poor to have a party. Ha! He has to live in a trailer!” The weight added to the air by all their laughter concentrated on his shoulders and slumped them.
His eyebrow twitched, and he abruptly got up and shouted “Shut up!” Then he threw his lunch in the trash, tray and all, and stormed off. A teacher from another class gave him detention for that.
The next morning, I gave him a cupcake with a candle in it, already lit for him. My mother bought it for him after I told her what had happened at lunch. He just looked at me with a faded smile and slapped my shoulder.
“Thanks.”
The teacher didn’t let him walk five steps into class before scolding him for the candle. Michael said, nonchalantly, that he wouldn’t put it out. Knowing him, he intended to keep that cupcake all day, untouched and prominent on his desk. But when the teacher accosted him, Michael bolted to his seat, hiding the flame with his hand. Once the teacher was in his face, he blew out the candle.
“I wish you’d go fuck yourself.”
When I saw him again after lunch, I asked him how it went with the principal. He scoffed, arms folded, and said “Does that cupcake mean I have to come to your stupid party?”
We laughed together. I gave him a playful push and said, “What else would it mean, you prick?” He smiled.
On the day of the party, I was in the kitchen laughing with my father—in his rush he grabbed a “7” instead of a “1,” so I turned “70” that year—when Mom came to tell me Michael had arrived. He tumbled out the car from the way his older brother shoved him from the back seat. His mother yelled something at him, and he screamed back “Alright, alright!” before slamming the door. The car screeched away around the bend. I leaned expectantly against the porch balustrade for my guest of honor, and watched him trudge and sway up the driveway with his hands tucked in his oversized, faded jacket.
As he came onto the porch I shot at him with my Nerf gun. He swatted the bullets away and laughed with me, but his was uneasy, forced.
“Sorry I didn’t bring a present.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
He spent most of the party staring at the bounce house—my parents’ grand surprise to me. We watched each other through the black mesh wall, and his eyes, expressionless and glossy, followed me as I bounced. I went out to check on him, but he had already wandered to the table with the cake and the presents. He seemed lost in his gaze at those presents, towering over him like Everest.
“Come on, the cake’s not till later.”
He pulled away from me, and after some heavy steps he turned back and looked at me. His fists were clenched, shivering, and his brows pressed his eyes closed and squeezed out slow tears. He tried to lunge at me, but hesitated.
“Why do you make me do this?” His voice was shaking.
“Do what?”
Then he shoved me and the bedlam started.
The Line That Stopped Time
“His eyebrow twitched, and he abruptly got up and shouted “Shut up!” Then he threw his lunch in the trash, tray and all, and stormed off. A teacher from another class gave him detention for that.”
This sequence pissed me off. God forbid a Teacher, a Role Model, a Beacon actually do their job and take notice of what children go through every single day. Acting like time in detention magically reforms behaviors enacted upon because of forces outside of these children’s control.
Fantastic writing.
Echoes from the Author
What inspired this story?
(was it a feeling, a phrase, a dream?)
I went for a walk outside, keeping in mind the idea of a birthday (for a flash fiction workshop I was participating in), and letting my imagination play until I saw something clearly. There were a lot of ideas I don't remember now, but they eventually settled on this image of a boy pushing another into a table full of birthday cake and presents and decorations. And then I asked myself who these boys were and what could have led to this moment. And the story unfolded.
What’s one strange or lovely habit you have when writing? (Tea rituals? Chaotic playlists? Writing by candlelight?)
I'm so happy I fully embraced writing long hand on a legal pad. It's cliched and all, but it has unblocked my writing in so many ways. Because it's so easy to pick up and start writing, it's helped immensely with maintaining a writing habit, even when I think I feel too tired.
If your story whispered a secret to the reader, what would it be?
(Something hidden between the lines.)
(Think about the shift in Michael's attitude the day before the party and the day of -- how the isolation from a broken family can poison your feelings towards others and push you to do things you otherwise wouldn't. And even if you don't understand what's happening, it's still happening anyways.)
Which line or moment are you most proud of?
(Is there a sentence that still echoes for you?)
"His fists were clenched, shivering, and his brows pressed his eyes closed and squeezed out slow tears. He tried to lunge at me, but hesitated."
To me, this represents the conflicting feelings Michael struggles with.
E.M.R’s Moment of Reflection
“External factors produce internal battles.”
This felt like something I would read in the many countless English Lit. classes I have partaken in. And I mean that as no dig, but a compliment. It feels timeless, and something that can only bring up great discussion and introspection.
Love the way we roll through the flashing memories. You could sense the tension rising and that tension is pushing in on Michael like immovable walls. As much as his friend wants to be there, it just reflects Michael’s woes and what he may not have.
It is heartfelt and sad all at the same time. Amazing work all around.
The Fading Echoes
For eternity, thank you for being here. We always appreciate your presence and for sticking with the turtle pace this summer.
Let’s give a big thank you to
for sending in this piece and allowing us to dive deeper into his insight. Please go check out more of his work, I am positive that you could find even more you would like.FINDMOREHERE: ANALOG STORIES