Hello again my friends. Summer is now over (sigh) and “Winter is coming.” Darkness has once again descended (this past weekend) and we live now for the warmth of spring too return. That being said, these dark times are punctuated by moments of brightness… the holidays. Thanksgiving looms and I’ve been working on an offering for y’all. It’s kinda a story… kinda a poem… has a sprinkling of rhymes… but is mostly prose. It is what it is.
I’ve been accused of sometimes being a bit dark in my writings. If this is so, you won’t be disappointed in the fable that follows. Stash
The Twisted Tale of a Turkey Named Tom
It was the eve of Thanksgiving
And a jittery turkey named Tom was upset.
He knew what was, for him, in store.
Long ago, when only a fledgling,
He’d heard of the horror of Thanksgiving…
The gravy, the potatoes… the turkey gore.
Years passed quickly and Tom was now grown.
Ample in figure and deliciously plump,
His fine feathered wings were meaty and strong.
On this morning, there were hushed whispers.
Farmer Joe had sharpened his axe…
Tom knew he was where he didm’t belong.
In a blink, Tom hatched an ambitious plan…
He’d wait for a gust of strong wind…
Then flap his broad wings to fly south.
If all went well, he’d be on a beach,
Basking in Florida’s sun…
Instead of within someone’s mouth.
The next morning, before dawn peeked,
Tom quietly made his way to the yard
He waited patiently for the wind to arrive.
Sadly, on this day the air was still…
Missing was the strong breeze that
Tom had depended upon to survive.
Tom flapped with all of his turkey might
But as much as he tried,
He couldn’t get himself off of the ground.
Fear took hold of our feathery friend.
For Tom, it was a sad realization…
Mother Nature had let him down.
Tom’s plan needed to be quickly altered.
The farmhouse door closed with a bang
And he needed to think quick.
Joe’s eyes scanned the dark coop
But Tom could not be found.
(He had hidden behind a fat chick.)
Unable to seize the bird of his choice,
Joe settled instead on Uncle George.
(This came much to poor George’s distress.)
“I’m not very proud of myself.”
Tom tried to explain to his family…
“Not my finest moment, I must confess.”
Tom was nowhere to be found
And George stood there, at hand…
That’s when Joe stooped to pick him.
Like the plot in a Gothic novel…
Like characters in a Dickens story….
Tom was the coward and poor George became a victim.
I wish this story could have a happy ending…
That the farmer became a vegetarian
And that everyone lived happily ever after….
But sadly, this was not a fairy tale.
There was no sudden reprieve….…
No joyous celebration…. no feathery laughter.
Well, perhaps I spoke in haste…
In denying there wasn’t a bright side
To this tale of betrayal, so malicious.
While many delightful foods
Were offered on this day,
Everyone seemed to agree…
It was George, who was most delicious.