The Turkey Who Came to Dinner - Flash Fiction Story & Four Poems by Fay L. Loomis

 

After Losing My Temper

 

fear crawls over me,

grinding toward dust

anxiety runs up my spine

 

I die in the terror

of the night

maggot filled, rotting

                                     

meanwhile, he wraps

his arms round death

invites the reaper in

 

 

Hope for Hope

 

stroke cut

outer limits

 

pandemic squeezed

perimeter inward

 

voices strange

to my ears

 

write some, read

stream movies

 

say my gratitudes

call my sisters

 

who are as bored

as I

 

 

Dead Speak

 

speak not of desires

I want no-thing

 

shrink me

to a cipher

 

allow my body to die

soul to flourish

 

 

Last Light

stark trees, traced

with confectionery snow

 

eerie light fades

slips into murky void

 

night shuts window

until the morrow

The Turkey Who Came to Dinner

Flash Fiction Story 

by Fay L. Loomis

          Rodney allowed Margery to drag him to the theatre to see Enchanted April. When the play was over, Rodney said, predictable as Big Ben, “Would you hold my hat and umbrella, while I put on my coat?”  Margery juggled her coat and the umbrellas as best she could, before they braced the rainy night.

            Outside, Rodney said, “The walk will do us good. Save money for a rainy day. ” Rodney trotted slightly ahead, his head bobbing like a turkey.

            “Did you enjoy the evening, Rodney?”

         “How splendid to be seen seated between the Kensingtons and the Parker-Smythes.  As for the play. Impossible. An island could never make a man fall in love with his wife again.  Rubbish. Don’t you agree?”

            “Yes, Rodney, complete rubbish.

            I will never have an Italian isle to enchant Rodney and make him see me once again, let alone love me, Margery thought.  It is time to fly the coop.  I will cook up a getaway and serve my plan to Rodney Sunday next.  

            Margery’s proverbial rainy day had arrived and dark storm clouds overshadowed her preparations. She carefully selected ecru fabric and lace to stitch up a table cloth, a dainty apron, and a generous bib for the ungenerous Rodney.  On Sunday, she searched the flower stalls for blooms that resembled wisteria and planted the extravagant purchase on the window sill above the table where it would ruffle Rodney’s feathers.

            As Margery stewed over their last supper, her kitchen counter transubstantiated into an altar and she could hear Father Henley reciting Holy Communion. Meal ready, she went into the bedroom, placed her apron and housedress in the packed suitcase, snapped it shut.   Returning to the kitchen, Margery scrutinized her china, selected a milk glass chalice, filled it with toasted circles of grain, and planted it firmly at Rodney’s place, alongside an empty wine glass, symbol of her unfilled life.  Forgive me for what I am about to do, she whispered.

             “Rodney, come to dinner,” Margery rumbled. She was pleased her voice had taken on hints of thunder that strengthened her resolve to execute the scheme.

            The turkey cock perched himself across from Margery, eager to stuff his gullet.  Startled, the gobbler said, in well-modulated clucks, “Margery, what is the bloody meaning of this?”  

          Margery pecked at her food for a moment, looked him in the eye, and said with lightning speed, “Cheerio, Rodney. I am serving you not one, but a bowlful of Cheerios. A bowlful of goodbyes.”

Fay L. Loomis was a nemophilist (haunter of the woods) until her hikes in upstate New York were abruptly ended by a stroke; she now lives a particularly quiet life. A member of the Stone Ridge Library Writers and Rats Ass Review Workshop, her poetry and prose are published in It Ought To Be Magazine, Kaleidoscope, Synchronized Chaos Magazine, The Blue Mountain Review, Spillwords, Fevers of the Mind, and elsewhere.