The retired turtle trainer flew over the ball field for the hunter.

Well, here’s the result of a 30 minute story telling last night:

The retired turtle trainer flew over the ball field for the hunter.  The hunter had stolen his only remaining friend from those long gone glory days.  Theodore the Turtle had been with Peter Vosberg for nearly 20 years.  For the last 5, they had lived in solitude on the grounds of an abandoned school, some 50 miles into the Smoky Mountains of East Tennessee.  In all that time, Peter had barely spoken to another human being.  He made his monthly trip into Murphysville, a rural community that was built around facilitating the lives of country folk, but the only words he spoke were when he told the cashiers to have a good day.

Today, though, he was talking more than he had in all those years.  He was screaming at the vague outline of the hunter that had stolen his prize turtle, hurtling insults and threats that he would gladly carry out in defense of his little friend.  The hunter had known what he was looking for.  Theodore was valuable.  Both the shell and meat of his species had been sought after in Africa for thousands of years and, it seemed, was now being hunted in Tennessee.  Still, though, Peter couldn’t imagine it would be so valuable that someone would steal his companion.

The hunter was pulling away.  Peter was growing tired.  He was old, and the hunter was a young man in his early thirties at the most.  He’d gotten a good look at him before he’d fled out the door. Peter’s mind raced to think of some way of stopping the man.  There was no one around to call for help.  His nearest neighbor was about 2 miles away, and that would hardly help him when he didn’t even have a phone to call with.  Then Peter lost sight of him altogether amidst the twilight and the trees.  A moment later, he heard a door shut and he saw headlights flash on.  He was near the road.  Tires squealed as the vehicle pulled out.  The engine roared deeply and sounded to Peter like a truck or large SUV.  That was the only observation he could make before the hunter pulled away into the darkness.

Peter fell with a heavy thud onto the ground.  Distantly he registered pain somewhere in his body.  Amidst his heaving breath came racking sobs of sorrow and outrage.  His friend was gone. Of that he had no doubt.  By sunrise his companion would likely already be killed and packaged for shipment to the black market or whatever sick collector had commissioned the kidnapping.  Late into the night Peter stayed there.  He did so until the deep chill of the night threatened to take more than his happiness.  Reluctantly, he trudged back to his lonely house, threw himself onto his tattered sofa, and fell into a fitful sleep.