This year as Thanksgiving host...

        Every week on Wednesday I meet with a writers group and we read each other our work and have it edited and critiqued.

        This week we decided to try a writing exercise. We would have to write an original story on the spot. And then read it to the other writers.

        The only stipulations were - The story had to start with the phrase “This year as Thanksgiving host, we bought a twenty pound turkey.” And end with the phrase “And that’s why we ate hamburgers.”

        We also had to use 5 words that were chosen by the other members, they were Canary, Spline, Shoes, Spatula and Watermelon.

        I was late to the meeting and only had 15 minutes to write my story.

        This is what I wrote:

        This year as the Thanksgiving host, we bought a twenty pound turkey...

        It was Grandma’s idea.

We took the white minivan with Grandpa driving, Grandma beside him, my spline older sister Greta and our canary - for some reason - and drove into the countryside.

We pulled up to a farm and stopped in front of a stack of watermelons.

“Time to get the turkey,” Grandma said before she left the van and walked up to a barn.

It took or minute or two before she came back. Behind her was a shaggy young man carrying a large crate.

Inside the crate was a live turkey!

I had never seen a real turkey before and couldn’t believe the size of it.

Grandpa opened the van window.

“What the hell have you done, old lady?!”

Grandma made the young man open the hatch of the van and he slid the crate inside.

It was right behind us.

“Oh god, disgusting,” squealed Greta.

It wasn’t the look that was disgusting, it was the smell. Turkey poop would make terrible cologne.

“Are you crazy? What have you done?” screamed Grandpa.

Grandma just smiled.

I kind of thought the turkey was cute.

I named him Fred.

The ride home was very awkward, with Grandpa screaming and Grandma beaming.

We get to their place and Grandpa makes Greta and I get Fred from the van. We carry the crate into the backyard and set it down.

“Let it out,” said Grandma.

“Are you nuts?” I asked.

Grandma walked over to the crate, unlatched it and we waited.

Fred didn’t move.

Grandma walked over to the shed and walked back with a loaded shotgun.

“Have you lost your mind, woman?!” yelled Grandpa.

“You wanted turkey, right?” Grandma asked.

Fred took this opportunity to bolt from the crate and barreled straight at me.

He just missed.

“Who wants the honor?” asked Grandma.

“No way!” I screamed.

“Grandpa, is Grandma sick?” asked Greta.

“Sick in the head,” Grandpa griped.

“I’ll show you sick in the head,” Grandma said as she aimed for the turkey.

“You’ve never used one before,” screamed Grandpa.

“How hard can it be?” asked Grandma as she cocked back the hammer.

Blam!

Grandma went flying back.

So did Grandpa, right out of his shoes.

“Goddammit, you shot me woman!”

And indeed she had.

Right in the ass.

Grandpa’s butt had been blackened by birdshot.

“Damn, I missed,” said Grandma as Fred ran away, safe and sound. He mocked us.

“Call an ambulance,” cried Grandpa.

I ran inside the farmhouse and called 911.

“Send an ambulance, Grandma shot Grandpa,” I told the operator.

She said they were on their way.

Soon after there was a loud knock at the gate.

It was the police. One of the neighbors had called to report a shooting.

“Get down!” an officer demanded.

We got down so low you couldn’t pry us from the grass with a spatula.

A large officer ran over and tackled Grandma. He knocked the shotgun out of her hand.

“She shot me,” cried Grandpa.

The cop slapped the cuffs on Grandma and hauled her off to the slammer.

Grandpa went to the hospital.

Grandma went to jail.

In the chaos Fred ran out the back gate to safety.

And that’s why we ate hamburgers for dinner.