"We approach the wounded turtle whose back legs are twisted and loose, like they’re deflated bike tires. What happened to you, friend? What’s wrong? Sage cradles the turtle in his arms, legs hanging weird out of the crook of Sage’s arm. The animal’s eyes go wide, sucking all the light in the clearing. The head twists and clamps on sage’s arms three times. Quick, hard bites that break skin and leave blood dribbling out. The last one takes a hunk of flesh with it. Sage drops the turtle, which scuttles briskly into the bushes.
“Damn, god damn” Sage says, smiling, shaking his head.
“You good?”“God damn” Sage is smiling at his arm. “Can’t believe that happened. Ain’t that about a bitch.”
Sage looks at me and pinches shut the wound with a chunk of flesh missing. He opens and closes it like a mouth, says, “god damn, you believe ‘at?”
Jacob Brooks’s work has appeared in Stimulant and Bizarre Publishing House.