Launching Turtle at the University of New Brunswick at 8pm March 15 - Alumni Memorial Lounge
Monday, March 8, 2010
Thursday, December 3, 2009
The Turtle has Landed
Apparently the book has finally arrived and looks great! Now to plan the launch.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Turtle - extract
Evening
Arrived in with a pack on his back, raised up his chest, breathed down his nose, hitched up his trousers, relaxed his shoulders, fingered the straps, said it contained the bones of his grandmother.
Expected a drink without any payment. And got it.
Mentioned he was looking for a woman and that she may have passed through. Told us the colour of her hair, her eyes, and her skin, that we would recognize her. But we hadn’t seen a woman like that. Not ever.
Never mind. He could wait.
“I suppose you’ll be wanting a room?”
That was none of our business.
Up at the counter, turned his back, dropped on a stool, faced the mirror, poured from the bottle, and drank from the head. He had been travelling when asked but didn’t take kindly to questions.
Had the whole bar looking on and didn’t seem to notice.
I sat close. With the others. At our tables.
Hunched forward. All eyes on this pack.
Had the look of a scoundrel and a man with a past.
But you couldn’t mistake the compassion in his eyes.
Would most likely have stirred at the age of twelve, have taken a look at himself, and have known there was greatness ahead.
For all his mistakes, I envied him. My own past was light and not nearly chequered enough. So I caught his eye in the mirror and refreshed his bottle. It was enough in return when he lifted his head, nodded his thanks.
While the others in the room surveyed my gesture, not nodding but shaking their heads.
Pulling their chairs in beside me. Lowering their voices.
“Nathan, what do you suppose he’s doing here?”
But I wasn’t supposing anything. I was minding my business. Tending my bottle.
“Do you really think he’s got his grandmother’s bones in that pack?”
It was like I said, I wasn’t supposing, I wasn’t even thinking.
They watched from behind, tensed in their chairs, gripping their glasses, following his movements, forming their opinions.
While I hedged my bets, bided my time. Content just to have him here, in our bar, sitting on our stool, up at our counter, drinking our drink. Livening up the night.
Aware that if he so desired, he could tilt his eyes, look in the mirror, and take all in.
Whispering low. Sharing their fears.
“He scares me. Just the way he pours from that bottle scares me.”
And if I was to admit it, I might have felt the same.
One by one. Voicing their concerns. While he sat alone at the counter. The semblance of a man without a worry or a care.
Pushing their faces right up next to mine.
“It’s those hands that have got me troubled. Broad as shovels, forging fists tough as steel.”
“Just look at his legs. Trunked in muscle.”
“His neck. Hard as rock.”
“His back. Protruding with spine.”
All in all, a man to be respected.
—————
There was a time when I lifted two fully grown men, one in each hand, up past my shoulders, and held them there for more than a minute until they had patched up their differences. And if those men resented my interference, they never told me so.
The rest of the town was more than appreciative.
—————
“Where do you think he’s come from?”
“How long do you think he’s been travelling?”
“How far do you think he’s going?”
These were the questions. There, were no answers. He was just going to sit and drink and maybe wait. And my suspicions were that he might leave before the bar closed. I didn’t want to be caught in the melee that would follow after. So I finished my drink and bade them goodnight.
But not without one last glance to the counter.
Arrived in with a pack on his back, raised up his chest, breathed down his nose, hitched up his trousers, relaxed his shoulders, fingered the straps, said it contained the bones of his grandmother.
Expected a drink without any payment. And got it.
Mentioned he was looking for a woman and that she may have passed through. Told us the colour of her hair, her eyes, and her skin, that we would recognize her. But we hadn’t seen a woman like that. Not ever.
Never mind. He could wait.
“I suppose you’ll be wanting a room?”
That was none of our business.
Up at the counter, turned his back, dropped on a stool, faced the mirror, poured from the bottle, and drank from the head. He had been travelling when asked but didn’t take kindly to questions.
Had the whole bar looking on and didn’t seem to notice.
I sat close. With the others. At our tables.
Hunched forward. All eyes on this pack.
Had the look of a scoundrel and a man with a past.
But you couldn’t mistake the compassion in his eyes.
Would most likely have stirred at the age of twelve, have taken a look at himself, and have known there was greatness ahead.
For all his mistakes, I envied him. My own past was light and not nearly chequered enough. So I caught his eye in the mirror and refreshed his bottle. It was enough in return when he lifted his head, nodded his thanks.
While the others in the room surveyed my gesture, not nodding but shaking their heads.
Pulling their chairs in beside me. Lowering their voices.
“Nathan, what do you suppose he’s doing here?”
But I wasn’t supposing anything. I was minding my business. Tending my bottle.
“Do you really think he’s got his grandmother’s bones in that pack?”
It was like I said, I wasn’t supposing, I wasn’t even thinking.
They watched from behind, tensed in their chairs, gripping their glasses, following his movements, forming their opinions.
While I hedged my bets, bided my time. Content just to have him here, in our bar, sitting on our stool, up at our counter, drinking our drink. Livening up the night.
Aware that if he so desired, he could tilt his eyes, look in the mirror, and take all in.
Whispering low. Sharing their fears.
“He scares me. Just the way he pours from that bottle scares me.”
And if I was to admit it, I might have felt the same.
One by one. Voicing their concerns. While he sat alone at the counter. The semblance of a man without a worry or a care.
Pushing their faces right up next to mine.
“It’s those hands that have got me troubled. Broad as shovels, forging fists tough as steel.”
“Just look at his legs. Trunked in muscle.”
“His neck. Hard as rock.”
“His back. Protruding with spine.”
All in all, a man to be respected.
—————
There was a time when I lifted two fully grown men, one in each hand, up past my shoulders, and held them there for more than a minute until they had patched up their differences. And if those men resented my interference, they never told me so.
The rest of the town was more than appreciative.
—————
“Where do you think he’s come from?”
“How long do you think he’s been travelling?”
“How far do you think he’s going?”
These were the questions. There, were no answers. He was just going to sit and drink and maybe wait. And my suspicions were that he might leave before the bar closed. I didn’t want to be caught in the melee that would follow after. So I finished my drink and bade them goodnight.
But not without one last glance to the counter.
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