Christmas is coming

 This will be my last post until the New Year. It has certainly been a busy time and a good year ending writing-wise. Cranked Anvil published my flash fiction called Little Fawn in their 123 Micro fiction section online. You can read it here. I also had a poem shortlisted by Ink Sweat & Tears for their Christmas slot. They said they ran out of room for it, but encouraged me to submit to them again next year. 

Although I was unable to attend Sutton Writers Christmas party (I had a previous engagement), I did attend their prose night a few days beforehand. I read a new flash fiction which went down well. People laughed in the right places and were very complimentary about the humour and dialogue, so I was chuffed. There were some good stories to listen to and I find it encourages me to write more, which is no bad thing.

To end this year, I'd like to share with you a seasonal short story I wrote only yesterday, and edited frantically last night and again this morning! This is my thank you for reading my blog and following me on my writing journey. I hope you will travel with me again next year.

HAPPY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE

A turkey story

That year, dad brought home the largest turkey we’d ever seen. Mum was in a panic.

‘It won’t go in the fridge,’ she cried. ‘Whatever possessed you?’

‘We could put in the greenhouse until we need to stuff it,’ granny suggested.

My sister Molly moved closer to the turkey and reached out a finger.

‘Don’t touch it,’ mum said, pushing her hand away.

I thought the whole thing was funny, especially when mum threw her hands in the air and glared at dad with a, ‘Will it even go in the oven?’

Dad shrugged. I guess we’d have to wait and see.

*

‘Where’s your sister?’ mum asked me. It was a dull morning, and I was sitting by the fire reading. I’d not seen Molly for a while. ‘Go find her; it’s time for lunch.’

‘Do I have to?’

Mum gave me one of her looks. I put down my book and went to look for her, but she was nowhere in the house. Finally, I looked out of the kitchen window, and there she was in the greenhouse, staring at the turkey. I went outside.

‘What you doing, Mol?’

‘It’s got feathers.’

‘There’s always some left. It’s normal.’

‘No, I mean, there are more feathers now than yesterday.’

I moved towards the turkey, sitting on the largest platter mum could find. It looked just the same to me. ‘Mum says it’s lunchtime.’

‘I’ll have mine here. I don’t want to leave the turkey here on its own.’

‘Mol, it’s dead. It doesn’t know you are here.’ I grabbed her arm, and she pulled away. I stomped off back to the kitchen and told mum.

‘I’ll get her,’ granny said, taking Molly’s anorak. ‘She’ll catch her death out there.’

‘She’ll be like the turkey, then,’ I said, sitting at the table.

A reluctant Molly came in and drank her soup so fast she must have burnt her mouth. She stuffed crusts into her mouth, the crusts mum had cut off the bread before making breadcrumbs for the stuffing. As soon as Molly finished, she asked to leave the table, and soon she was slipping on her anorak to go and sit with the turkey again. I asked if I could have her tinned peaches, but mum said she’d save them for her.

Because I had nothing much else to do, I wandered out to the greenhouse to annoy Molly. Molly was two years younger than me. I would be going to big school after the summer holidays next year. ‘You will be a little man,’ granny said. I didn’t really want to be a man yet. I enjoyed playing with my friends. I didn’t want a job like dad. Homework was bad enough.

Molly was sitting on the cold concrete floor. Mum would say she’d get piles, but that’s her look out, but I did wonder if I should lend her my scarf. I slid the door shut behind me against the cold wind and shivered.

‘It’s got even more feathers now,’ Molly said.

‘Don’t be daft.’

‘And it’s throbbing, like it has a heartbeat.’

My sister had always been weird. I mean, girls are, aren’t they? But sometimes it’s like she’s from another planet.

‘I brought you a mince pie.’ I pushed my hand in front of her nose. Molly ignored it.

‘See,’ Molly said. ‘You can see it.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Molly, it’s got no neck or feet. Its innards have been dismantled and stuffed into a plastic bag inside it. It’s dead like that parrot in Monty Python. It is no more.’

Molly turned to me. There were tears in her eyes. ‘You don’t understand.’

‘I understand that it will be a tasty Christmas dinner and I’ll fight you for the wishbone.’

‘You’re horrible, you are, Timothy, horrible. Just leave me alone.’ Molly turned back to stare at the turkey again.

‘Do you want the mince pie, then?’

Mollie’s sigh meant no. Well, that’s how I took it, so I turned around and left her there and went back into the warm to eat the mince pie.

*

You know, I think Mollie would have stayed out there with the stupid turkey all night had dad not dragged her away. She was insisting the turkey had flexed its wings. Mum was worried, putting a hand to Mollie’s head.

‘I really don’t need Mollie sick on Christmas day,’ mum said to dad, ‘not with Bob and his family coming. She really can’t go out there again tomorrow. Anyway, I need to get that turkey ready for the oven.’

‘Great,’ I said. ‘Stuffing time.’

Mollie began crying. Mum picked her up and hugged her. ‘Come on, petal, time for bed. You need your sleep. It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow. I thought we might go carol singing with the church group. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You love Christmas.’

All I could hear was Mollie sobbing as she went to bed.

‘The child is oversensitive,’ granny said.

‘She’s bonkers,’ I said.

‘A little harsh,’ said dad. ‘You know how she gets over things once she gets an idea in her head.’

Yeah, bonkers, I thought.

*

I was woken by a commotion downstairs. Flinging on my dressing gown and slippers, I went to see what it was all about.

‘She must be running a fever,’ granny said.

‘She’s been out in the greenhouse since it got light, no wonder.’ That was mum, her hands flat on the table as if it was steadying her.

‘It’s true,’ Molly said furiously. ‘It’s alive, and it’s walking about the greenhouse.’

‘Fetch the doctor,’ granny said.

‘He’ll not come out on Christmas Eve. We’ll have to take her to the hospital.’

‘Can I come?’ I said. They all turned to me.

‘Timothy,’ mum said. ‘Get dressed and go and fetch your father.’

‘Why will no one believe me!’ Molly looked at me with pleading eyes. ‘Go and look. Please.’

‘Oh for goodness sake,’ I said, and marched out of the lounge, through the kitchen and out into the garden. Gosh! It was cold. I pulled my dressing gown tighter around me and headed for the greenhouse. I slipped open the door and was greeted by a gobble, gobble sound. The shock made me back away, and the next moment, the turkey, fully feathered and with a long neck, pushed its way out of the door and was running around the frosty garden. I looked back into the greenhouse. The platter the turkey had been sitting on was empty and there were black feathers scattered around. Then I spotted the open plastic bag where the giblets should have been. A blood trail ran from it across the floor. There was a ring of hay next to it. I blinked, unable to believe what I was seeing. Had someone switched turkeys as a joke? Had Uncle Bob done it? It sounded like the sort of thing he’d do, but he later denied it.

‘I told you!’ Molly was standing there with her arms crossed.

‘But….’

‘I don’t know how, but it wanted to live. I wrapped a blanket around it last night.’

‘Last night?’

‘I came down for its resurrection. Like Jesus. I even brought in some of Thumper’s hay for its re-birth.’

Now mum and granny were standing in the garden. Mum looked terrified. Granny shrugged. ‘Well, this is a fine how d’ya do.’

The turkey was foraging in the flower beds for any seed dropped from the bird feeder, looking very pleased with itself.

‘What am I going to do with all the stuffing I’ve made?’ mum wanted to know.

No one was prepared to offer a suggestion, but we didn’t eat turkey that year, and Mollie never ate it again. As for the turkey, Mollie named it Holly, and it lived with us until it died, naturally, ten years later. I found out that turkeys are only about twelve weeks old when they are slaughtered ready for Christmas dinner, so Holly had a good, long life. Of course, no one believed the story of the resurrected turkey, and whether you do, well, that’s up to you. But I grew to love Holly and found she made a good pet, even if she did decimate dad’s flower bed when she got out of the run he built.

©Heather Walker 2024

Photo by Ionela Mat on Unsplash