turtle stew

It was a dark day when Earth and Ocean fell into each other.

Dusk'd been writing weepy poems that got Dawn stuck sweeping up after the dance, no time to invite the light. Lulling, longing. Slept through another alarm. Buried in the sheets. So the collision seemed unavoidable, stitched into another story before this one even started.

When the Long War did end and the maps were drawn, the crabbiest planted their feet in the mud and stuck around. Others, for all their reasons, burrowed entirely or floated away.

Stella emerged on the one side and Billy on the other, hard shells on the field between. Pulled together by the sinking sands of time then torn apart by love, Billy scuttled off. Stella traded shells for scales and swam higher. The fish built schools. And when at last she gained knowledge of flight, the sky appeared.

Turtle Stew was with the cod at the time.

He'd been missing the depths so he seized the Magic Conch to travel home again. News of the sky traveled fast, arriving soon after Stew sat down for tea with grandma. After the cookies were finished and the crumbs were scooped the turtle stepped out to leave. Moved by tales of wings the barnacles also stepped out, leaving the mud to climb on board, to visit the fish, to see the sea.

The ascent was slow but steady. The submarine surfaced and finally shared shell with moon. All around him Stew saw water. And then on the horizon, beside Air on top of Ocean, was Earth again.

The turtle set his course and sailed through the endless night, no tree nor star to guide the way. Still he arrived. The ship docked on an island spotted with coconut trees and mystery. The barnacles disembarked and found the hermits. Turtle Stew found a case for the Conch in the shade, and in the distance sunlight and sounds of ukulele.