With great jubilation, the three of us went searching for our proverbial Halloween turkey for this year. With the All Hallows' impending. As you might imagine, Halloween is a keystone holiday in our household. It was cold in those turkey farms. They all kind of blurred together, esp. the hippie free rangers. Oh the long beards they had. Beards of prophets. Quail--never crazy about the public eye, esp. in the presence of evening--said, why, can we not just poach our own in the wild.
No, no, I want a bird genetically mutated, Evening said. I want to eat a bird injected with steroids and antibiotics, to better salivate over America.
Mmmm, I thought. But I wasn't really thinking that at all. It was more, hmmm.
At last we found our own, plump, safe bird. Evening brought her tools, we paid the gatekeeper at the Crystal Court trailer park, and all was flap-flap well. Special occasions bring feasts and great joy. Like the plantagenets. And I tell you, what is more joyous than the day before the saints are celebrated? And then souls? Though I don't believe in the existence of souls.
I said, I don't believe in the existence of souls. I'm imagining Quail now, future projecting towards that night, lurking on our front porch, hands in gibbets, sucking on a wishbone.