Author: Joan MacDonald

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Thursday, December 24th, 2020 at 9:22 am
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Fiction Five

Day 3 – Some Humour for Christmas Eve

Run, Turkey, Run

There’s a bit of romantic entanglement going on down at the allotment.

Maureen’s turkey has escaped from its cage and true to his nature, is enraged. Gobble gobble. “I’m not staying in that little box. She only wants me for my poo. She always says that turkey pellets are far superior to chicken pellets.”

The turkey marches through the vegetable patches, tossing his flaring, wobbling snood and wattle from side to side. He glares at the baubles Maureen has stuck, in a semblance of artistic expression, onto door of her girl-shed, and contemplates a massive flap-jump at her painting of her rehomed hens.  He’d give them a real turkey pecking.

Maureen spots him and advances with a bucket of cold water. He escapes; one cold douche a day is enough. Anger, like a hot hairdryer, is puffing out his feathers: he wants a fight. When he spots the carefully folded stack of recycled wrapping paper by the door of the shed, he goes into attack mode and it doesn’t take long to shred the pile. Maureen finds him again, still clutching the bucket, now empty. The turkey sees she’s intent on putting it over his head: she advances, he dodges, she misses. The turkey shoots into the bramble patch well out of Maureen’s reach.

And that’s where he falls in love.

His ever-alert eyes light upon Elf coorrieing under a bush/ Gobble, gobble, gobble, gook. “Where have you come from? I thought I was the only turkey around here,” he says,

“Gibble gibble glick,” she replies. “I’m not sure of my nativity. I think there were eggs somewhere but the farmer said something like ” Elf “and threw me here.”

Turkey, always the opportunist, persuades Elf to run away with him to the forest oddly named – something to do with Henry the Eighth’s fourth wife – The Queen’s Speech. Maureen watches them from afar, then puts her bucket down. It’s been a tough year and even turkeys deserve a break sometimes. “Run, turkey, run,” she calls. There’s always next year. After all, she expects there will soon be wild turkeys free-ranging in the Queen’s Speech.

Joan MacDonald

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