Every time the car hit a bump in the road, Turtle cringed — as if the car was instead pinning her down and hitting her. Familiar surroundings gave way to foreign sights, smells, and textures, and she felt herself diving back into her usual shell. Old, but comfortable.

As if noticing the growing discomfort beside her, Leslie Weinfield turned her head to look at her passenger.

“Autumn’s quite beautiful around here, isn’t it?” she started. “I’ve heard that the winters tend to get a bit chilly, but the beautiful sights make up more than enough for the cold…” She trailed off, as an eerie silence muffled her bright and hopeful chatter.

After a moment, she continued.

“Are you nervous about meeting the family?” Leslie asked. “They’re different, I promise. They won’t hurt you.”

But Leslie’s final words slipped out with a naivety that sparked both Turtle’s anger and ferocity. “I’m not nervous, and I don’t care if they love me or not. Stop. Let’s just go.” Her words echoed a mixture of bitterness and mistrust — a decade of pain. But the wounded expression splayed on Turtle’s face just as quickly disappeared from view. She pulled up her hood, turning to stare blankly at the trees passing by.

Leslie sighed.

And just like a hiccup, the conversation ended. The car sputtered onwards.

—

At a fairly young age, I loved to write short stories and share them with the people dearest to my heart (particularly my elementary school teachers, who understood even the simplest of characters and appreciated my passion for plot). I lost this drive and confidence over the following years, partly due to school’s focus on five paragraph essays and structured form. Although such instruction was definitely valuable, I have recently realized the even more incredible value of going back to my roots. Such writing is still very very very rusty, but I hope to continue pursuing and playing with my imagination, emotions, and words!