The barn was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from a flickering lantern hung on a rusted nail. The air reeked of hay, damp wood, and the faint, bitter tang of spilled grain. Around a large wooden table—an overturned trough with a map of the farm scrawled across it in chicken scratch—stood a group of turkeys. They were veterans of this annual battle, their feathers puffed with tension, their beady eyes sharp with determination. This was no ordinary meeting. It was a war council.
General Talon, a hulking bird with a scar running across his left wing, thumped a claw on the makeshift map. “Alright, you turkeys, listen up! We’ve got six days until T-Day. Six days before Farmer Johnson starts picking us off one by one for his feast.” His voice was a low, gravelly cluck, each word heavy with the weight of grim experience. “We’ve been here before. We know what happens to the birds who don’t plan, who don’t stick together. This time, we outsmart him. This time, we survive.”
The turkeys murmured in agreement, their clucks and gobbles creating a cacophony of anxious sound. All except one. Greg, a rotund turkey whose feathers seemed to barely contain his ample girth, sat apart from the rest, licking his beak. His eyes glazed over as he stared longingly at a small bowl of stuffing set on the far end of the table, brought in for strategic study.
General Talon noticed and scowled. “Greg! You paying attention or just daydreaming about your next meal?”
Greg snapped out of it, shifting uncomfortably. “I’m listening, General,” he said, his voice light and a little too cheerful for the occasion. “It’s just, uh, I think we’re maybe overthinking this whole escape plan. I mean…have you tasted the stuffing? It’s incredible. And don’t get me started on the cranberry sauce. Sweet, tangy, just the right amount of zing—”
“Focus, Greg!” snapped Colonel Beakley, a wiry bird with sharp eyes. “We’re fighting for our lives here, not rating side dishes.”
Greg shrugged, a dreamy look returning to his face. “All I’m saying is…we’re always running. Every year it’s the same. But what if, just once, we embrace the feast? Think about it. If we took all the food—stuffing, pies, mashed potatoes—and stashed it, we could live like kings. We wouldn’t have to worry about feed for weeks!”
Talon’s feathers bristled. “You’re suggesting we steal the food meant to lure us to our deaths?”
Greg bobbed his head enthusiastically. “Exactly! If we grab the grub, there’s no feast, right? No feast, no need for…uh…fresh turkey. Farmer Johnson can’t carve what he doesn’t catch!”
There was a moment of silence, broken only by the soft rustle of feathers and the distant creak of the barn door in the wind.
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” growled Talon. “We’re not here to snack our way to safety. We’re here to escape. We stick to the plan. At dawn, we move to Sector Four—under the old tractor—and from there, we’ll sneak out to the cornfield. It’s our best shot.”
Colonel Beakley nodded. “We’ll go over the route one more time. Remember, the perimeter is watched by that mutt, Barkley. He’s got a nose for escapees. We stick together, we stay low, and we keep our clucking to a minimum.”
Major Clucksworth, an older bird with a drooping wattle, rumbled, “And for the love of feathers, Greg, no stopping for snacks. You’ll slow us down.”
Greg spread his wings in mock indignation. “I’m just saying, a little taste of glory before we make a run for it wouldn’t hurt. You know, keep morale up.”
Talon slammed his claw on the table, making the map flutter. “This isn’t about morale, Greg. It’s survival. You want to taste glory? You’ll do it from the safety of the forest, not on Farmer Johnson’s platter. Am I clear?”
Greg sighed, his plump body deflating slightly. “Crystal clear, General. No snacks.”
“Good.” Talon leaned over the map. “Now, let’s run through the plan one more time. If anyone gets separated, head for the fence line near the west silo. That’s our fallback point. There’s no plan B, folks. We make it out together, or we don’t make it out at all.”
The room fell silent again, the weight of the mission settling over the group like a heavy blanket. Even Greg seemed subdued, though his eyes occasionally flicked back to the bowl of stuffing. The turkeys knew the stakes. This was their Normandy, their last stand. The clucking resumed, softer now, as each bird prepared themselves for the days ahead.
Outside, the wind howled through the cracks in the barn, a chilling reminder of the approaching storm. Thanksgiving loomed, but for now, the turkeys clung to their hope—and their plan.
And Greg? Greg clung to the faint, tantalizing memory of sweet, sweet cranberry sauce.
