Turkey Thanksgiving

Written by: Lillie

Author's Note: The words below are not my own. I only translated them from the original language of Turkeen, a language consisting of several scratch marks and beak pokings into the earth that is commonly used by the species we call "turkeys", not to be confused with Turkish. They are believed to be the last words of an unknown turkey.

For those readers who are unfamiliar with Turkeen, each passage of writing must begin and end with a double gobble. Each sentence, too, must end with a gobble, and gobbles are allowed to be inserted in any place thought to be particularly important and so, appropriate for the occasion. Words tend to consist of one or two syllables, as more than that is difficult for the average turkey to comprehend. Tense is usually in the present as turkeys deal with the here and now.

Gobble, gobble.

There is a lot of noise around me, gobble. Every turkey gobbles his or her hardest, gobble. We are all scared, gobble. What is happening, gobble? I am in a box, gobble, with gaps between the wood planks, gobble. A chink of light shines through one gap; the rest are all dark, gobble. By this light I see my friends and turkeys who are not my friends, turkeys I do not even know, all who are scared like me, gobble. Feathers stick through the bars of my box, gobble. Black eyes glance in fear at me and do not see me, before they look away at something else, and gobble away, gobble.

I am afraid too, gobble. I write to calm myself, gobble. I write because I am afraid of what is to be, gobble.

I do not know how I am here, and not there, at home, where I always am, gobble. I want my roost, my food, my friends, gobble. I do not have them here, gobble. I want a thing I know, gobble. I know nothing here, gobble. To know naught scares me, gobble. And no turkey knows why we are here, gobble. If one does, we will know and we will at least not be afraid of the unknown, gobble. But we do not know, and so, we have no comfort, gobble.

All that happens today is strange, gobble. The sun shines in the morning and the men on the farm feed us, gobble. That is as always. But then they start to feel us and pinch us, gobble. It makes me want to be sick, gobble. I have just got my food down and they poke me, gobble, like so. (Here an indentation of where a turkey's beak jabbed the earth was found, doubtless to be an enthusiastic reproduction of the poke.) That hurts, gobble.

They poke us, they do not treat us well, and then they say, "This one is good", gobble. What does that mean, gobble? We try to peck their hands and they say we are good, gobble? But we cannot ask because we see a large, brown cloth come to us and then dark comes over us, gobble. The space is tight, gobble. I throw myself around, gobble. I feel stuck, gobble. The cloth is grainy and rough, not nice too, gobble. Tiny holes between this cloth let in light, gobble. I hear the men say, "This one is good", gobble. "All done!" they cry, gobble. We turkeys gobble out a cry too, gobble. We are mad and want to go back to the light, gobble.

There are noises, gobble. Not the same noises, man noises, gobble. They say it again, gobble. Gobble, I must write faster, gobble. They are saying, "This one is good," gobble. I must write faster, gobble.

In that black, I fly, gobble. I do not fly: the black flies and carries me with it, gobble. The earth shakes and there is a roar and a throb, gobble. Man noises, gobble. They call it a car, but this sounds bigger and more scary, gobble. It thorbs louder, gobble. I cough, gobble. The gobbles around me never stop, gobble. The madness turns into fear, gobble. We wish the earth stops shaking, gobble.

The earth stops and I do not know when, gobble. I only know I am taken out of my black and I see it is a sack like the ones they keep our food in, gobble. Only there is no food in that bag, just me, gobble. But I am out of the bag now so there is no food and no turkey, gobble. And then I am put inside this box of wood bars, gobble. A man holds it and lifts my box and I, gobble.

He walks with me, gobble. I do not know where I am and can see little, gobble. The world moves too fast by me, gobble. Then the man stops and seems to wait a while, gobble. I look and I freeze, gobble.

There is a long line of these boxes, each with a turkey, gobble. Each are large and strong and I do not know any of them, gobble. Why, gobble, are we all here? There is a sense of bad things to come, gobble. No good comes of the black and dark, gobble.

The man puts me at the end of the line, gobble. He leaves, gobble. More men come back and place more boxes next to me, gobble. Then, there are more boxes on top of me, gobble. The black covers me again, gobble. There is only a chink of light between two bars, gobble. The turkeys all around me are as scared than I am, gobble.

(Here the soil seemed to be disrupted by the turkey's feet, as though held onto tightly.)

There is a scream, gobble. It is the scream of a turkey, gobble. The scream stops but does not die out, gobble. It stops as though something put an end to it, just like that, gobble. I know that scream, gobble. I have heard it before, gobble. It is a bad scream, but what does it mean, gobble?

A man has just come, gobble. He takes a turkey near me, gobble. I do not see which one, gobble. Another one comes, gobble. And another, gobble.

I wish I am home, gobble. I close my eyes, gobble. The black covers me, gobble. There is but a chink of light between the two bars of my prison jail, gobble. Feathers and black eyes peep through these bars, gobble. Each turkey goes and each screams, but none are coming back, gobble.

I open my eyes, gobble. A man is coming, gobble. It is my turn to go, gobble. All the other turkeys and their boxes are gone, gobble. The black no longer covers me, gobble, yet I wish it would, for once it flew me away from my home and now I wish it would fly me back to a place I know.

Gobble, gobble.

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