Davide la Locomotive

A short fable about friendship, feedback, and when support becomes erosion.

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It was such a sunny, warm day. 
The turtle’s shell gleamed in the light, sparkling with shades of green. 
He was on his way to visit his old friend, the duck.

They’d known each other a long time. 
They first met down by the pond. 
The turtle loved the duck’s confidence — it strutted, it quacked, it told stories in colours the turtle hadn’t even dreamed. 
The duck had seen places the turtle couldn’t go. They’d spend hours chatting about the best watering holes and that weird looking gosling they should avoid.
The turtle still remembered the time the duck had warned him about that dodgy patch of algae — the one that made the fish swim sideways for a week. The duck had always looked out for him. That’s what friends did.

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When they met that day, the duck said, 
“Hey, you’re looking shiny today.”

“Yeah,” said the turtle, proudly. “I just got my shell waxed. Looks good, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, that new place? Hmm. Bit of a reputation, that one… ”

The duck hopped up onto the turtle’s shell. 
“I can see they cut corners. They missed a spot here.” 
Tap.
“Really?” said the turtle, craning his neck. “I can’t see that.” 
“Oh yes,” said the duck. “It’ll look good now, but give it a few days. That gloss’ll flake right off.”

Tap.
Tap-tap.
Peck. Peck-peck.
The turtle winced. 

“I think it’ll be fine,” he said.

“I bet it scratches easily.” 
“It’s fine. Really.”

The turtle looked up at the sky. 
The warmth was fading. Clouds were gathering. 
“I should head back,” he said. “They told me not to get it wet in the first 24 hours.”

“It’s already starting to dull, you know.”

The turtle headed home, wondering if he should’ve checked the reviews first. Maybe they had rushed the job. 
He’d have to keep an eye on it.

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They still met up in the days that followed. 
They talked about sunbathing spots, shared quiet moments by the pond. 
And each time, the duck climbed onto the turtle’s back.

Tap. 
A new mark appeared, faint but visible. 
The turtle said nothing. 
Just stared out across the pond, silent and still. 

“Told you they did a bad job.” 

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One day, the duck didn’t know why it felt so quiet.
The water rippled the same. The sun shone the same. But it felt different. 
Colder. 

He realised he hadn’t seen the turtle in a while. 
He waddled over to the turtle’s place.

There was a note pinned to the door:

“Gone for a polish. Not sure when I’ll be back.”

The duck sat by the pond. Alone. 

He stared into the water.
He blinked.
And there, in the reflection,
he saw it.

A chip in his beak. 

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