The golf ball slid smoothly off the club face of the pitching wedge, a noticeable divot being left remnant. The ball soared in a perfect arch and dropped with a loud plop into the mossy pond. Michael stepped away, holding his hand to his eye as he looked for a wake near the ball’s landing point.
“That was a pretty good hit!” he said, still shielding his vision from the sun, “Right smack in the middle! If the pond were a dart board that would have been a bullseye!”
“Yeah, well… it’s not a dart board, is it? Step aside, see how it’s really done.”
Adam took the pitching wedge from Michael and tapped a shag ball from the pile over near Michael’s divot. Getting into his best stance, he slowly lifted into his backswing – his hips and arms moving in perfect rhythm.
His club connected with the muddy ground, digging an even bigger divot than Michael’s, though only barely lifting the ball from the ground. The struck ball – a Top Flight 2000 with three Sharpie dots in the middle – dribbled down the hill, barely making it into the pond. As it rolled over the pond’s bank, a large toad croaked angrily and jumped into the water.
“Fuck,” said Adam.
“Yeah,” said Michael, “You suck some ass, that’s for sure!”
Snatching the pitching wedge, Michael quickly hit another ball, again planting it directly in the middle of the pond.
“God dammit, I’m good,” he said.
Adam took another swing. This one, though still not a good hit, managed to briefly become airborne. It landed with a pop at the edge of the bank of the pond before bouncing high into the air, landing in the pond’s center.
“Well, god damn!” said Adam, “I got it to the bullseye after all!”
“I thought you said it wasn’t a dart board?” said Michael, looking down toward the pond. There was some movement where the ball had bounced. A small snapping turtle, very young, by the look of it, scampered stressed into the water.
“You bounced the ball of that turtle’s shell!” said Michael, “It’s going to be pissed at you those fuckers can bite, too! You better watch out!”
“Ah, fuck that thing!” said Adam, brandishing his golf club, “I’ll bash it with this p-wedge and turn it into a tasty soup!”
Shaking his head, Michael lined up and hit another well-struck ball out into the pond. The water again rippled, though this time, after the wake from the ball’s impact died, it rippled again – a bigger wave then pushing from the pond’s middle all the way over the edge of the bank. It moved with a purpose, stopping abruptly at the edge of the water.
“What in the hell was that?” said Adam.
“That,” said Michael, “Was what you might call a hell of a shot. You may not have seen many of those, so I understand your confusion.”
“No, you dumbass. Not the shot, what happened after the shot! What the fuck was that?”
“After the shot?”
“Yeah, dude… after it.”
Adam began walking toward the water. Michael followed, using his pitching wedge like a walking stick. As they walked, their golf shoes pressed into the spongy mud of the damp ground, the spikes leaving a pattern of miniscule, unnatural punctures behind them.
As if it were a race, Michael skipped passed Adam and arrived first at the bank of the pond. Using his golf club to dig through the moss into the water, he turned and looked back to Adam.
“Nothing down here except a couple of your shanked balls!”
Michael chipped one of the previously hit balls from the water. It splashed out and struck Adam on the chest, leaving a stain of moss and mud.
“God dammit, dude” said Adam. “This shirt is new!”
Michael, now laughing loudly, took a step back, unknowingly falling back into the pond. He caught himself before falling in all the way, tossing his golf club to Adam and grabbing hold of the mud of the bank.
“Shit!” he said, “I guess we’re both going to be all muddy!”
A suction like gloop could be heard as Michael dislodged his foot from the muddy water. While pulling himself out of the water, a wave of current pressed against him from the previously stagnant pond. Turning and falling down backward onto the grass, Michael looked up in horror at what now stood facing him.
“Wha… what?” he babbled in confusion.
Before him stood a massive snapping turtle. One that, by Michael’s now completely shattered judgement, looked to be elephantine in size. It took a step forward and stood over him, the two wide nostrils of its snout pointed regally in the air. It snapped aggressively at the air, the sound of which shook the earth and stirred up the water – which became disturbed both from the shake of the creature’s powerful snapping jaw and also from new wakefulness springing to life from below the murky depths.
The turtle then looked down at Michael, who had by this point passed out – his mind liquefied from the inexplicable shock. The turtle snapped again – this time down onto Michael’s sleeping body – ripping it to shreds like predator on prey.
Michael, before dying, briefly snapped into wakefulness – opening his eyes and briefly recognizing his situation before being forced into permanent darkness. Adam saw the innocent terror in his eyes.
After devouring Michael, the creature looked up to Adam and took a step forward. Adam grabbed the pitching wedge Michael had dropped, stupidly brandishing it as if it were a sword of legend.
The creature took another stepped toward Adam. Adam, staring into the black pits of its reptilian eyes, froze in fear. Beyond the cyclopean creature, the water continued stirring, now splashing with greater fervor. Finally, from behind the creature, the plane of the water broke. Scores of smaller turtles, now emerging from the depths, scampered energetically toward Adam. The creature took another step forward, standing over Adam before squatting down – the flat bottom of its shell now holding him still. Looking down at Adam, it spewed rancid breath and pond scum all over his face. It looked to be smiling – if smiles were possible from such an alien monstrosity. It continued staring in statuesque, apparent glee as the smaller turtles swarmed around Adam, clicking their hungry snouts. Adam winced in pain at the first bite, after which the bale piled onto him.
End
About Robert Pettus: Robert Pettus is an English as a Second Language teacher at the University of Cincinnati. Previously, he taught for four years in a combination of rural Thailand and Moscow, Russia. He likes writing, but he never found the time or the courage to try and regularly do it until quarantine forced him into a much more isolated lifestyle. He was most recently accepted for publication at Apocalypse-Confidential and The Green Shoe Sanctuary online journals. Shots in the Pond is one of the stories he recently wrote.
