Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Revenge of the Turkeys

School has been kicking my tail. Thank God, Thanksgiving holiday will give me a rest and time to catch up.

I wanted to leave this story with you for the holidays. It needs some work and a lot more fleshing out. I think its pretty funny.

Enjoy.


Revenge of the Turkeys


Thanksgiving 2008, the sky lay over the land like an ephemeral ghost, leaving a creepy cast to the morning. The night before, a comet had shone its gleaming glow across farmer Brown’s many acres. Farmer Brown’s land had been in his family for generations. Since the first Thanksgiving, when the pilgrims celebrated with the Indians at Plymouth Rock, natives were sharing the indigenous turkey bird with the newcomers to the Eastern shore.


The Brown family became fabulously wealthy supplying Turkeys to the Thirteen Colonies. George Washington, Ben Franklin, and Thomas Paine had all sampled the delicious fowl. Down through the years enshrined in Thanksgiving lore the Big Brown Birds as they were called had been feasted on by Presidents, artists, and the super wealthy.

As the Brown family awoke this morning, silence gripped the farm. The rooster had not crowed. The horses did not whinny, and there was no gobble gobble from the barns where thousands of Big Brown Birds lived. Squinting from the eerie dawn light the Farmer Brown and his wife came outside to investigate. As he looked towards the turkey barn he heard a marching sound, the ground rumbled like an earthquake and the fog parted curtain-like revealing a scene that frightened him so badly he fainted.


Farmer Brown’s wife Bessie screamed. She was plump as a cherry tomato is round. Her cheeks were shiny red, with a pointy nose. Her fanny stuck out not unlike a turkeys’ feathery plumage. She stared in shock at what had scared her poor husband into unconsciousness.

Rows upon rows of turkeys marched through lanes of the farm. Looking like army ants carving trails in the grass as they advanced towards the wealthy country folk. Farmer Brown came to just in time to be wrapped up and taken towards the prep barn where the birds were cleaned and processed for shipment across the country. Bessie was dragged along behind like a worm on a fishing pole that had not been reeled in. Ominously the barn doors closed with a loud bang.


Several hours later several birds stood around a large turkey fryer. The propand flames beneath the fryer had set the oil boiling in the metal cauldron furiously. The head turkey passed out cigars as they made sure the temperature was at a constant 350 degrees. Taking a large drag off of his stogie the chief glanced at the timer. Inside the house the female birds opened the oven and basted the contents.


As noon approached the sun’s cool rays lit up the dreary, cold afternoon. One of the Big Brown Birds looked longingly at the large metal triangle in the middle of the yard. Rubbing his belly with delight he began to ring the dinner bell.



I can hear the groans now. Let me know what you think.


May the Grace of God be with you.


Larry

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