Happy Holiday's

     I am a turkey, with feathers and wings. I do not have a rhyme or a reason to use them though, and even if I did, I am powerless. I reside somewhere that should be foreign, in anguish eternally. Before I lost my vision, I recall looking around for once, drab and grimy were my barriers, a sea of others that resembled me, too many decayed on the ground, trampled to expiry. 

     A day that sticks out in my head is the day I got debeaked. More than half of my beak was taken off with a searing cutlass, leaving a singing wound that was deafening in its reminder of the cruelty I faced. It was ghastly, and quite obviously, left me contorted. I suppose that I am not actually deformed, since all the others also do not have their beaks. I assume you are quite curious how I, a doltish fowl, can have coherent thoughts, (and such a superb vocabulary). I regret to inform you that I also haven’t the faintest idea. I was just birthed from the cold incubator and plopped here, among dull brains that do not seem to possess the terrifying power of realization. Yes, they go through the same horrors that I face, and some far worse, but none of them seem to realize it. I am solitary, with the strange misfortune to be aware and conscious of such pain. My legs are slowly disintegrating under the weight of my breast, they pump me unmercifully to make me more and more colossal, and if you do not grow, or are seen as weak and sickly, they take you away. The destination? I don’t know, but if it’s anything like here, I pray for their poor souls. 

     The day is coming, the ones that seem to be the same generation as I are being plucked, one by one. I should be fearful of what lies ahead, but all I seem to do is to bask in the thought that it might cease. I am sitting in my own feces, claiming sores all over my once delicate skin, now mottled with infection. 

     I wake, something is lifting me. The air hits my undercarriage, a sweet stinging relief to the sea of affliction. I am transported to a container, with many other birds going insane, I feel one drop dead. It couldn’t handle the stress. It is glacial, but it must be freedom. I think this because freedom usually comes after great sacrifice. I am ruthlessly thrown into another space, bouncing on bitter metal, my hopes evaporate. It was foolish, anticipating a release.

     I presume it’s been a while, but it’s hard to say, I usually measure the suns and moons with rest and food, but now there is no nourishment, no scheduled time to eat, so it all blurs to a more extreme.  

     As I drift to sleep in eternity, a rather large jolt wakes me up. I try to stand, finding my legs numb with Jack Frost, and even if I was perfectly sun baked, they wouldn’t be much use with the weak, brittle bones anyhow. I am picked up, as chaos only a hundred birds could make from striving to take flight, I am unanimated. I am a taxidermy creation, filled with soft pink stuffing, on the outside, brutal. I dream that it is the scratches that lay within love. 

     Inverted, I am shackled by my legs, the unyielding metal delving into my flesh, sending ichor spiraling down. Eyeless, I study my kismet. I feel the blade plant belligerent kisses on my throat, sprouting my esse, or what was left of it. I am still grappling with this as I am released into a vat of boiling liquid, 

     Quiesco placide in puerili amplexu mortis.

     I sure am theatrical. I do surmise I’m dead, but now I am watching my carcass from afar, suspended above it. I can see! It is holy, I am no longer in the body that houses tendons and blood, but instead I am watching a rather peculiar scene. I am not where my demise took place, but in a rather pleasant home. I am peeping on a lady, her brow shiny with perspiration. I watch as she opens the oven, a balmy wave hits and stirs back her bangs. She reaches in, hands covered with the colors of fall leaves, and brings out, low and behold, my body. It is shimmering with juices, potatoes and bread coming out of my orifices, it is obscene. I feel odd watching her cooking other divine food things while I cool on the oven. A little boy waddles in, curious hands grapple the counter tops. The mother scolds him and sends him out, repeating that he could be seriously burned. He whimpers, but sits at the table, waiting, since he is rather ravenous. Another figure walks in, an aged man. He goes into the kitchen, and pats the younger women on the shoulder, they mention a few tidbits, and he paternally kisses the top of her head, whispering that she is doing great. He starts bringing the dishes onto the table, where the little boy starts wriggling around excitably. The grandfather plants an oversized amount of mashed potatoes on the boy's plate with a plopping sound. She brings out warm bread, and he goes into the kitchen to fetch the bird. 

     The house is pregnant with contentment, talk, and love. I, however, am emotional. I do not know what to do with the information put in front of me. I do not know what to think of it. Overwhelmed, I decide to get lulled into the abyss, caressed lovingly for the first time by the dark hands of the absence of light.