Shots in the Pond

The golf ball slid smoothly from the club face of the pitching-wedge, a noticeable divot left remnant in the damp earth. The ball, soaring in a perfect arch, dropped with a loud plop into the mossy pond. Michael stepped away, holding his hand visor-like to his eye as he searched 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 dartboard that would have been a bullseye!”

The rippling wake did make the pond appear momentarily like a dartboard.

“Yeah, well… it’s not, 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 beside Michael’s divot. Getting into his best stance – he was thinking nostalgically of his childhood coach’s mantra of ‘grip, stance, and posture’ – he slowly lifted into his backswing, his hips and arms moving in seemingly 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 grass. The struck ball – a Top Flight 2000 with three black, triangular Sharpie dots in the middle – dribbled down the hill, barely making it into the murky pond. As it rolled over the bank, a large toad croaked angrily and jumped into the water.

“Fuck,” said Adam.

“Yeah,” said Michael, “You’re pretty shitty – that’s for sure!”

Snatching the pitching wedge, Michael quickly hit another burner-ball, this one sporting a massive, canyon-like slice across its surface from a previous encounter with a lawnmower blade. He once again planted it 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 at the edge of the water before skipping high into the air, making it to the pond’s center.

“Well, goddamn!” said Adam, “I hit the bullseye after all!”

“I thought you said it wasn’t a dart board?” said Michael, looking down the hill 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 off that turtle’s shell!” said Michael, “It looks pissed; those fuckers can bite, too! You better watch out!”

“Ah, to hell with that thing!” said Adam, brandishing his golf club, “I’ll bash its shell 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 muddy, mossy 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, dumbass. Not the shot, what happened after the shot! What in the fuck was that?”

“After the shot?”

“Yeah, dude… after it.”

Adam began walking toward the water. Michael followed, using his pitching wedge as a walking stick. With each step, their golf shoes pressed into the spongy mud of the damp ground, the spikes leaving a pattern of miniscule, unnatural punctures trailing 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 on his white shirt.

“Goddammit, dude” said Adam. “This shirt is new!”

Michael, laughing, 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 muddy!”

A suction like schloop was heard as Michael dislodged his foot from the cloudy water. While pulling himself out, a wave of current pressed against him from the previously stagnant pond. Turning and falling backward onto the grass, Michael looked up in horror at what now stood facing him.

“Wha… what?” he babbled in startled confusion.

Before him stood a gargantuan snapping turtle. One that, by Michael’s now completely shattered judgement, looked to be elephantine in size. It took a hulking step forward and stood over him, the two wide, circular nostrils of its snout pointed regally skyward. It snapped aggressively at the air, the sound of which shook the earth and stirred up the water – from within which a strong current was developing both from the shake of the creature’s snapping jaw and also from new wakefulness springing to life below its dark 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 him brutally to shreds; predator on prey. It dug into his chest, snapping his ribs. It chomped down on his bulging beer-belly; Michael’s intestine now dangling from the turtle’s snout and neck like a celebratory lei.

Michael, before dying, briefly snapped into wakefulness – opening his eyes and recognizing his situation before returning to permanent darkness. Adam saw the innocent terror in his eyes, just before life left them.

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 an ancient sword of legend.

The creature took another hulking step. 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, with it signaling the cusp of the event-horizon of Adam’s sanity.

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, pressing painfully against his splintering ribs. Looking down at Adam, it spewed rancid breath and pond scum across his face – moss covered his eyelids like Mardi Gras makeup. The creature 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. He clenched his teeth. Tears rolled down his torn cheeks.

He closed his eyes forever.