October 17, 2014

“The turkey corpse we left at the bottom of the garbage pail came back to life and chased us with its severed head squeaking, the neck stalk pecking in our directions, small wings fluttering, stuffing entrails dripping from its back. Father stopped the turkey’s massacre with a yardstick and rake and when the running was over, shoved the turkey corpse into the back of the freezer where it was stopped up with ice cube trays and all the frozen vegetables too freezer burned to ever make it onto our plates. At night, for the next three months, we heard the turkey clucking while pecking at the walls. We couldn’t open the door for even a moment to grab a piece of ice or else the turkey would come leaping out at our faces. Our drinks remained lukewarm or—if we were especially lucky—room temperature.”

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