Ten year-old Jon Nainoa walked along the edge of the sea, his slippahs flip, flip, flipping sand up the backs of his legs and sticking to the ‘okole of his swim trunks.

Jon didn’t care.

The sun was shining. His belly was full, stuffed with a bamboocha spam musubi given to him by Aunty Nora, the kind lady who lived near Hari’s convenience store. She often kept treats and snacks in the pockets of her big work apron and made like it was no big deal to hand them out to Jon whenever she saw him.

But it was a big deal.

It was the first meal Jon had eaten in two days.

The twins were younger and came first. Everyone knew that.

Walking along, Jon bopped to the song playing in his head. He often listened to music playing in ways only he could hear. He didn’t think about it much. Head-music was better than a radio whose batteries could die or some uncle or cousin’s off-key singing.

Plus head-music helped drown out all the voices he heard, voices no one else did.

Bbbbbbpppphtttt!

It was the sound of a trombone slide, a sound that wasn’t music, not quite, but always came just before something bad happened.

POP!

His slippah broke.

Jon stopped and fished it out of the water. He inspected the damage: the post had pulled through. “Ah, man!” he said, “Now how I going walk home? Hot, you know, on the asphalt! I cannot hop all that way!”

“Grab the bread tie,” said a gravelly voice.

“What?” Jon looked around.

“The bread tie! The red one! It’s almost buried in the sand right next your other foot. Hurry!”

Jon snatched the u-shaped tie just before the white seafoam hid it forever. “Got ‘em!” he said.

“Great. Now push the post through the puka in the bottom of the shoe and slide the bread tie so it secures the post to the bottom.”

Jon fiddled a moment, then said, “Like this?” He gave the strap a tug. “Oh, I get it! It works! Wow! Mahalo…” he trailed off. “Eh, where you stay?”

“Behind you.”

Jon whirled around. “Where?”

“Down here,” said the voice.

Jon tilted his head down and stood there, mouth open and blinking hard. “Are you for real?”

“Of course. At least as real as you are.”

“But you’re a turtle,” Jon said.

“Yeah. The best folks are.”

Writing prompts: a turtle, a plastic bread tie, a trombone

This short was created on Jan. 14, 2021 for PEAU Women’s Writing Crew. More Lauele stories staring Jon to come!