My Grandpa Is a Giant Schnauzer

Iolka_Eson

May 1, 2025

My Grandpa Is a Giant Schnauzer

Chapter Two — The Return

I couldn’t drag the boat ashore. My hands were shaking, and the water still pulled at it, as if trying to take it back. So I left it in the surf and tied it to the roots of an uprooted tree. It lay on its side, roots bare and bleached white like old bones. But it held.

I ran to where our house used to be. There was nothing left. Just wreckage: planks, twisted bits of roofing, shattered dishes. The sand was pale and damp, strewn with shells. Everything that could be carried away was gone. The sea had scrubbed the place clean, like it wanted to erase all traces of life.

I wandered through the sand, not even knowing what I was looking for. Where the stove once stood, water squelched underfoot. It wasn’t until I stopped that I realized — the dog was gone.

I heard him bark — sharp, desperate. He was calling. I bolted: what if it was Aunt Miryam? Maybe he found her?

I ran past the ruins of the old Mission. Only the pale foundation and scattered tiles remained. The dog kept barking farther ahead. Not toward people. Not that way.

I turned around a slope and saw him standing by a bare rock face. The wave had torn away the topsoil, revealing ancient stone beneath the sand. The dog was pacing, digging frantically with his paws, barking nonstop.

I crouched down. Thrust my hand into the sand. Beneath my fingers — metal. Cold, solid.

We dug together. He used his paws, I used my hands. The sand was heavy and wet. It clung to me, packed under my nails. I didn’t even know what we were looking for — just dug because he was digging, and because there was something buried.

At first I thought it was wood. But not like the wood in our hut. This was harder. Smooth, like it was greased. Then I saw the strips. Green, shiny. Metal. Nailed along the edges, and the wood was fused with them.

“Is this... a hatch?” I asked, though no one could answer.

It wouldn’t budge. We’d only uncovered half of it — the sand was too thick, too sticky. I pulled at the ring, but it didn’t move. The dog slipped and growled, like he was angry at the earth itself.

We needed a stick. I found one nearby — forked at the end, perfect for the ring. I leaned into it with all my weight. The lid creaked but only shifted a little before settling back again.

A memory surfaced: Grandpa, dragging a boat across the sand with a block. We had one on the boat. And a rope.

I had to go back. The boat was still holding on, rocking in the surf like it was breathing. The block was under the fishing gear, wrapped in rope. I grabbed everything and returned to the hatch.

I tied the block to a root, threaded the rope through the ring. Pulled once, then again — the metal groaned, rising slightly, and a breath of damp air escaped from below. It didn’t smell like the sea. More like a cellar. Too quiet.

When the gap widened, the dog bolted inside without a second thought. I shouted, but he was already gone into the darkness. I squeezed through the opening — there were wooden planks below. Wet, but intact. And dark. As dark as night.

I was about to climb down after him when he returned. Shot out fast, carrying something dark in his teeth.

He dropped it right at my feet — a pouch. Small, heavy, wet, tied with string. I picked it up. The fabric felt strange — thick, almost greasy. I squeezed it. Something clinked inside. Metal.

I undid the string. One end snagged under my nail, then loosened. Coins spilled out of the pouch. I picked one up. It shimmered, like the sun had touched it. Beautiful.

Then in my head — sharp, like it came from inside — a voice:

“Dropped 'em, you clumsy thing. Pick them up!”

I jolted. It wasn’t just a voice. It was the tone. That tone Grandpa used when I dropped something.

Not loud. But enough to stop everything inside me.

I looked up — the dog had frozen, ears perked. Did he hear it too? Or just me?

The coins were scattered on the planks, on the sand, gleaming like wet seashells. I dove to gather them — fast, like I really was a scatterbrain. My fingers trembled, like I’d done something wrong.

One coin wouldn’t come out—it had rolled a little further, into the shadow. When I finally reached it, I caught a strange scent. Not salt. Not dust. Something warm. Like tea back in the hut. Like sun-warmed wood.

I pressed the coins to my chest. They were warm. Not like metal in the sun — different. Like someone had just held them.

“Grandpa?.. Is that you?”

“Yeah.”

The voice was rough, clipped.

“Didn’t leave. Couldn't.”

I froze. Stared at him. His fur shimmered. His eyes — the same. Only deeper.

“But how?.."

“Turtle. Called me. I asked. To come back. Like this.”

The dog didn’t move. Just breathed. Quick, uneven. I looked at him — and I knew. No explanations. I just knew.

He suddenly lifted his head. Went still. Ears stretched.

I heard it too. A rumble.

Faint at first — like the sea rolling behind a hill. Then louder. A helicopter.

Real. With blades. That ripping-the-air sound.

""The hatch. Cover it," the dog said — sharp, inside my head.

We jumped into action. I grabbed the rope and pulled; he shoved the lid with his paws. It slammed shut. But the ground around it was torn and loose.

We started throwing sand — it stuck to my hands, flew into my eyes. The dog ran off and came back with a branch — dry, broken. We tossed it over the hatch and covered everything as best we could.

When the helicopter hovered above us, we stood side by side. I was knee-deep in sand, the dog tense, like waiting for orders.

He didn’t bark.

I leaned into his side. The roar was right above us — strong, like everything was shaking.

The helicopter circled. Once. Twice.

Then something fell. From the helicopter. Spinning. Falling fast.

A bag. Black plastic. Tightly wrapped. It hit the ground with a thud right next to us. I ran to it. Tore off the tape. Inside was a dense pack. Military kind. No labels.

I opened it — water. Several plastic bottles. Sealed food rations, strange, unfamiliar. Medicine — neatly packed.

On top — a note. Taped on. Letters I didn’t know. I couldn’t read them — just stared. Like it was a drawing.

“What does it say?” I asked.

The dog looked at the page.

“Says help is coming. Soon. We wait.”

I nodded. Didn’t care what it said. There was water. There was food.

And he was here. My Grandpa. Even if he had fur now.

To be continued...

en 3

Correct

Corrections

foysteroyster

My Grandpa Is a Giant Schnauzer

Chapter Two — The Return I couldn’t drag the boat ashore.

My hands were shaking, and the water still pulled at it, as if trying to take it back.

So I left it in the surf and tied it to the roots of an uprooted tree.

It lay on its side, roots bare and bleached white like old bones.

But it held.

I ran to where our house used to be.

There was nothing left.

Just wreckage: planks, twisted bits of roofing, shattered dishes.

The sand was pale and damp, strewn with shells.

Everything that could be carried away was gone.

The sea had scrubbed the place clean, like it wanted to erase all traces of life.

I wandered through the sand, not even knowing what I was looking for.

Where the stove once stood, water squelched underfoot.

It wasn’t until I stopped that I realized — the dog was gone.

I heard him bark — sharp, desperate.

He was calling.

I bolted: what if it was Aunt Miryam?

Maybe he found her?

I ran past the ruins of the old Mission.

Only the pale foundation and scattered tiles remained.

The dog kept barking farther ahead.

Not toward people.

Not that way.

I turned around a slope and saw him standing by a bare rock face.

The wave had torn away the topsoil, revealing ancient stone beneath the sand.

The dog was pacing, digging frantically with his paws, barking nonstop.

I crouched down.

Thrust my hand into the sand.

Beneath my fingers — metal.

Cold, solid.

We dug together.

He used his paws, I used my hands.

The sand was heavy and wet.

It clung to me, packed under my nails.

I didn’t even know what we were looking for — just dug because he was digging, and because there was something buried.

At first I thought it was wood.

But not like the wood in our hut.

This was harder.

Smooth, like it was greased.

Then I saw the strips.

Green, shiny.

Nailed along the edges, and the wood was fused with them.

“Is this... a hatch?” I asked, though no one could answer.

It wouldn’t budge.

We’d only uncovered half of it — the sand was too thick, too sticky.

I pulled at the ring, but it didn’t move.

The dog slipped and growled, like he was angry at the earth itself.

We needed a stick.

I found one nearby — forked at the end, perfect for the ring.

I leaned into it with all my weight.

The lid creaked but only shifted a little before settling back again.

A memory surfaced: Grandpa, dragging a boat across the sand with a block.

We had one on the boat.

And a rope.

I had to go back.

The boat was still holding on, rocking in the surf like it was breathing.

The block was under the fishing gear, wrapped in rope.

I grabbed everything and returned to the hatch.

I tied the block to a root, threaded the rope through the ring.

Pulled once, then again — the metal groaned, rising slightly, and a breath of damp air escaped from below.

It didn’t smell like the sea.

More like a cellar.

Too quiet.

When the gap widened, the dog bolted inside without a second thought.

I shouted, but he was already gone into the darkness.

I squeezed through the opening — there were wooden planks below.

Wet, but intact.

And dark.

As dark as night.

I was about to climb down after him when he returned.

Shot out fast, carrying something dark in his teeth.

He dropped it right at my feet — a pouch.

Small, heavy, wet, tied with string.

I picked it up.

The fabric felt strange — thick, almost greasy.

I squeezed it.

Something clinked inside.

Metal.

I undid the string.

One end snagged under my nail, then loosened.

Coins spilled out of the pouch.

I picked one up.

It shimmered, like the sun had touched it.

Beautiful.

Then in my head — sharp, like it came from inside — a voice: “Dropped 'em, you clumsy thing.

Pick them up!” I jolted.

It wasn’t just a voice.

It was the tone.

That tone Grandpa used when I dropped something.

Not loud.

But enough to stop everything inside me.

I looked up — the dog had frozen, ears perked.

Did he hear it too?

Or just me?

The coins were scattered on the planks, on the sand, gleaming like wet seashells.

I dove to gather them — fast, like I really was a scatterbrain.

My fingers trembled, like I’d done something wrong.

One coin wouldn’t come out—it had rolled a little further, into the shadow.

When I finally reached it, I caught a strange scent.

Not salt.

Not dust.

Something warm.

Like tea back in the hut.

Like sun-warmed wood.

I pressed the coins to my chest.

They were warm.

Not like metal in the sun — different.

Like someone had just held them.

“Grandpa?..

Is that you?” “Yeah.” The voice was rough, clipped.

“Didn’t leave.

Couldn't.” I froze.

Stared at him.

His fur shimmered.

His eyes — the same.

Only deeper.

“But how?.."

“Turtle.

Called me.

I asked.

To come back.

Like this.” The dog didn’t move.

Just breathed.

Quick, uneven.

I looked at him — and I knew.

No explanations.

I just knew.

He suddenly lifted his head.

Went still.

Ears stretched.

I heard it too.

A rumble.

Faint at first — like the sea rolling behind a hill.

Then louder.

A helicopter.

Real.

With blades.

That ripping-the-air sound.

""The hatch.

Cover it," the dog said — sharp, inside my head.

We jumped into action.

I grabbed the rope and pulled; he shoved the lid with his paws.

It slammed shut.

But the ground around it was torn and loose.

We started throwing sand — it stuck to my hands, flew into my eyes.

The dog ran off and came back with a branch — dry, broken.

We tossed it over the hatch and covered everything as best we could.

When the helicopter hovered above us, we stood side by side.

I was knee-deep in sand, the dog tense, like waiting for orders.

He didn’t bark.

I leaned into his side.

The roar was right above us — strong, like everything was shaking.

The helicopter circled.

Once.

Twice.

Then something fell.

From the helicopter.

Spinning.

Falling fast.

A bag.

Black plastic.

Tightly wrapped.

It hit the ground with a thud right next to us.

I ran to it.

Tore off the tape.

Inside was a dense pack.

Military kind.

No labels.

I opened it — water.

Several plastic bottles.

Sealed food rations, strange, unfamiliar.

Medicine — neatly packed.

On top — a note.

Taped on.

Letters I didn’t know.

I couldn’t read them — just stared.

Like it was a drawing.

“What does it say?” I asked.

The dog looked at the page.

“Says help is coming.

Soon.

We wait.” I nodded.

Didn’t care what it said.

There was water.

There was food.

And he was here.

My Grandpa.

Even if he had fur now.

To be continued...

warrensjunk

My Grandpa Is a Giant Schnauzer

Chapter Two — The Return I couldn’t drag the boat ashore.

My hands were shaking, and the water still pulled at it, ~~as if~~ trying to take it back.

As if seems redundant.

So I left it in the surf and tied it to the roots of an uprooted tree.

It lay on its side, roots bare and bleached white like old bones.

But it held.

I think this is okay, you could combine this with the previous sentence and a comma.

Just wreckage:; planks, twisted bits of roofing, and shattered dishes.

The sand was pale and damp, strewn with shells.

Everything that could be carried away was gone.

The sea had scrubbed the place clean, like it wanted to erase all traces of life.

I wandered through the sand, not even knowing what I was looking for.

Where the stove once stood, water squ~~elc~~ished underfoot.

squished, squashed, washed?

It wasn’t until I stopped that I realized — the dog was gone.

I heard him bark — sharp, desperate.

He was calling.

I bolted: what if it was Aunt Miryam?

Maybe he found her?

I ran past the ruins of the old Mission.

Only the pale foundation and scattered tiles remained.

The dog kept barking farther ahead.

Not toward people.

Not that way.

I turned around a slope and saw him standing by a bare rock face.

The wave had torn away the topsoil, revealing ancient stone beneath the sand.

The dog was pacing, digging frantically with his paws, barking nonstop.

I crouched down.

Thrust my hand into the sand.

I would combine with the previous sentence. It should be, I thrust.

Beneath my fingers — metal.

Cold, solid.

We dug together.

He used his paws, I used my hands.

The sand was heavy and wet.

It clung to me, packed under my nails.

I didn’t even know what we were looking for — just dug because he was digging, and because there was something buried.

At first I thought it was wood.

You said it was metal before, this is confusing. Are you digging below the metal you felt?

But not like the wood in our hut.

This was harder.

Smooth, like it was greased.

Then I saw the strips.

Green, shiny.

Nailed along the edges, and the wood was fused with them.

“Is this... a hatch?” I asked, though no one could answer.

It wouldn’t budge.

We’d only uncovered half of it — the sand was too thick, too sticky.

I pulled at the ring, but it didn’t move.

The dog slipped and growled, like he was angry at the earth itself.

We needed a stick.

I found one nearby — forked at the end, perfect for the ring.

I leaned into it with all my weight.

The lid creaked but only shifted a little before settling back again.

A memory surfaced: Grandpa, dragging a boat across the sand with a block.

We had one on the boat.

And a rope.

I had to go back.

The boat was still holding on, rocking in the surf like it was breathing.

The block was under the fishing gear, wrapped in rope.

I grabbed everything and returned to the hatch.

I tied the block to a root, threaded the rope through the ring.

Pulled once, then again — the metal groaned, rising slightly, and a breath of damp air escaped from below.

It didn’t smell like the sea.

More like a cellar.

Too quiet.

When the gap widened, the dog bolted inside without a second thought.

I shouted, but he was already gone into the darkness.

I squeezed through the opening — there were wooden planks below.

Wet, but intact.

And dark.

As dark as night.

I was about to climb down after him when he returned.

Shot out fast, carrying something dark in his teeth.

He dropped it right at my feet — a pouch.

Small, heavy, wet, tied with string.

I picked it up.

The fabric felt strange — thick, almost greasy.

I squeezed it.

Something clinked inside.

Metal.

I undid the string.

One end snagged under my nail, then loosened.

Coins spilled out of the pouch.

I picked one up.

It shimmered, like the sun had touched it.

Beautiful.

Then in my head — sharp, like it came from inside — a voice: “Dropped 'em, you clumsy thing.

Pick them up!” I jolted.

It wasn’t just a voice.

It was the tone.

That tone Grandpa used when I dropped something.

Not loud.

But enough to stop everything inside me.

I looked up — the dog had frozen, ears perked.

Did he hear it too?

Or just me?

The coins were scattered on the planks, on the sand, gleaming like wet seashells.

I dove to gather them — fast, like I really was a scatterbrain.

My fingers trembled, like I’d done something wrong.

One coin wouldn’t come out—it had rolled a little further, into the shadow.

When I finally reached it, I caught a strange scent.

Not salt.

Not dust.

Something warm.

Like tea back in the hut.

Like sun-warmed wood.

I pressed the coins to my chest.

They were warm.

Not like metal in the sun — different.

Like someone had just held them.

“Grandpa?..

Is that you?” “Yeah.” The voice was rough, clipped.

“I Didn’t leave.

Couldn't.~~” ¶~~
¶
¶
I froze.

Stared at him.

His fur shimmered.

His eyes — the same.

Only deeper.

“But how?.."

“Turtle.

Called me.

I asked.

To come back.

Like this.” The dog didn’t move.

Just breathed.

Quick, uneven.

I looked at him — and I knew.

No explanations.

I just knew.

He suddenly lifted his head.

Went still.

Ears stretched.

I heard it too.

A rumble.

Faint at first — like the sea rolling behind a hill.

Then louder.

A helicopter.

Real.

With blades.

That ripping-the-air sound.

""The hatch.

Cover it," the dog said — sharp, inside my head.

We jumped into action.

I grabbed the rope and pulled; he shoved the lid with his paws.

It slammed shut.

But the ground around it was torn and loose.

We started throwing sand — it stuck to my hands, flew into my eyes.

The dog ran off and came back with a branch — dry, broken.

We tossed it over the hatch and covered everything as best we could.

When the helicopter hovered above us, we stood side by side.

I was knee-deep in sand, the dog tense, like waiting for orders.

He didn’t bark.

I leaned into his side.

The roar was right above us — strong, like everything was shaking.

The helicopter circled.

Once.

Twice.

Then something fell.

From the helicopter.

Spinning.

Falling fast.

A bag.

Black plastic.

Tightly wrapped.

It hit the ground with a thud right next to us.

I ran to it.

Tore off the tape.

Inside was a dense pack.

Military kind.

No labels.

I opened it — water.

Several plastic bottles.

Sealed food rations, strange, unfamiliar.

Medicine — neatly packed.

On top — a note.

Taped on.

Letters I didn’t know.

I couldn’t read them — just stared.

Like it was a drawing.

“What does it say?” I asked.

The dog looked at the page.

“Says help is coming.

Soon.

We wait.” I nodded.

Didn’t care what it said.

There was water.

There was food.

And he was here.

My Grandpa.

Even if he had fur now.

To be continued...

Feedback

The short sentences are okay for the story but I made a few notes where it was confusing to know who the subject is.

pshedron

May 2, 2025

RIP Iolka_Eson's correction ratio 😭

Iolka_Eson

May 2, 2025

Thanks a lot for correcting the text)

ViridCanine

I bolted:, thinking what if it was Aunt Miryam?

~~Not that way.~~

I don't know what the intention of this sentence is, and it may need to be omitted.

Tand thrusted my hand into the sand.

This should be joined to the previous sentence. It is a dependent clause on its own.

I didn’t even know what we were looking for — I just dug because he was digging, and because there was something buried.

I tied the block to a root, threadeding the rope through the ring.

PI pulled once, then again ~~— t~~. The metal groaned, rising slightly, and a breath of damp air escaped from below.

When the gap widened, the dog bolted inside without a second thought.

Nothing grammatical, but from the pov of the story, it doesn't make sense that the narrator knows that the dog went in without thinking. He can't read the dog's thoughts. You could say something like "without hesitation".

I squeezed through the opening —and saw there were wooden planks below.

SHe shot out fast, carrying something dark in his teeth.

Then in my head —, a sharp~~, like it came from inside — a voice: ¶~~
voice sounded.¶
¶
“Dropped 'em, you clumsy thing.

Another way to rewrite this, yet with added words of my own: Just then, a sharp voice pierced through my thoughts.

The coins were scattered on the planks~~, on the~~ and sand, gleaming like wet seashells.

I dove fast to gather them ~~— fast, like I really was~~, acting like a scatterbrain.

My fingers trembled, like I’d done something wrong.

""The hatch.

Cover it,!" the dog said — sharp, inside my head.

I couldn’t read them —and so just stared.

Looked like it was a drawing.

Didn’t ~~care~~matter what it said.

Feedback

This is a really interesting piece. I enjoyed reading it, and grammatically speaking it was almost perfect. I liked the repetition of certain words to build suspense, the heavy usage of adjectives, and the usage of choppy sentences to raise apprehension. If you would like a writing critique, there might be too much disjunction in the sentences. While it does create tension, the constant pauses can pull the reader out of the story. Try rewriting some sentences so they don't include so many dashes (-) so that reading goes more smoothly. Same goes for when you describe things that don't necessarily need details, such as a tree branch. But overall it was well written and quite mysterious. I'll look forward to the next chapter!

Iolka_Eson

May 2, 2025

Thank you so much for reading and analyzing the text)

Wet, but intact.