Part One of a four part series of Subway-inspired short stories of 500 or fewer words.
Turkey Doesn't Live Here Anymore
There was a loud knock on the door, but when Salami Sam opened it, he only saw the empty woods. The turkey ghosts were at it again.
“Turkey doesn’t live here anymore!” Sam desperately yelled into the night. “Enough! Why won’t you leave me alone?”
Sam heard murmured gobbles, haunting the air. He thought he saw a flash of red turkey neck in his peripheral, but it was hard to know what was real any more. Sam thought back to the first time he saw the house. He wept with his head in his hands as the gobbling intensified.
“The House of Turkey, huh?” Salami Sam asked the realtor, laughing.
Having made his fortune in the deli trade, Sam was ready for a quieter life of perfecting recipes and curing Italian meats. The isolated cabin in the Black Hills of South Dakota seemed the ideal spot to settle down.
“Yessir, this used to be the most popular turkey shop in the Dakotas,” the realtor said. “The fella here served up more smoked turkey, turkey sausage and turkey legs than anyone else in the history of the hills …”
“Huh. Well, I was wond—
“Funny thing — the guy who ran the place went by the name of turkey, too. Hence, The House of Turkey, you see?
“I see. And now it’s a house?”
“Mmm hmm. The owner disappeared one day, you see. All his turkey, too. His lease ran out, the other businesses went under, and now we have the isolated lodge before you for sale. So what do you say?”
“That’s it. I’m getting the gun,” Sam thought.
He’d purchased a shotgun at the Rapid City Wal-Mart last week for just such an occasion. Sam hadn’t fired one before, but he figured it was simple enough.
“I want a gun,” Sam told the clerk.
“Uhh … what kind of gun?”
“The kind that kills turkeys.”
The clerk smiled. Sam did not.
Loading the shells according to the instructions, Sam walked out front. The gobbling had reached the volume of a tractor; the dark, flapping apparitions swirled and zipped through his limited nighttime vision. Sam aimed into the night and chambered the shells.
“Why couldn’t you just leave me alone!? I barely ever even eat turkey!” he yelled.
Sam pulled the trigger and … nothing. It seemed jammed. He tried again, and again, and still nothing happened. The gobbling got louder still and Sam could swear the turkeys were laughing.
Returning inside, Sam consulted the instructions and took apart the weapon. Sweating tiny rivers, he disassembled the shotgun to discover tightly packed feathers, crowding the firing mechanism to the point that it couldn’t fire.
A grapefruit-sized stone smashed his kitchen window and landed on his living room floor. Sam screamed.
Wrapped around the rock was a piece of trash fastened with some twine. Written inside, in the crude handwriting of a creature lacking opposable thumbs was one word: MOVE.
Illustration by Alex, age 25
Turkey Doesn't Live Here Anymore
There was a loud knock on the door, but when Salami Sam opened it, he only saw the empty woods. The turkey ghosts were at it again.
“Turkey doesn’t live here anymore!” Sam desperately yelled into the night. “Enough! Why won’t you leave me alone?”
Sam heard murmured gobbles, haunting the air. He thought he saw a flash of red turkey neck in his peripheral, but it was hard to know what was real any more. Sam thought back to the first time he saw the house. He wept with his head in his hands as the gobbling intensified.
“The House of Turkey, huh?” Salami Sam asked the realtor, laughing.
Having made his fortune in the deli trade, Sam was ready for a quieter life of perfecting recipes and curing Italian meats. The isolated cabin in the Black Hills of South Dakota seemed the ideal spot to settle down.
“Yessir, this used to be the most popular turkey shop in the Dakotas,” the realtor said. “The fella here served up more smoked turkey, turkey sausage and turkey legs than anyone else in the history of the hills …”“Huh. Well, I was wond—
“Funny thing — the guy who ran the place went by the name of turkey, too. Hence, The House of Turkey, you see?
“I see. And now it’s a house?”
“Mmm hmm. The owner disappeared one day, you see. All his turkey, too. His lease ran out, the other businesses went under, and now we have the isolated lodge before you for sale. So what do you say?”
“That’s it. I’m getting the gun,” Sam thought.
He’d purchased a shotgun at the Rapid City Wal-Mart last week for just such an occasion. Sam hadn’t fired one before, but he figured it was simple enough.
“I want a gun,” Sam told the clerk.
“Uhh … what kind of gun?”
“The kind that kills turkeys.”
The clerk smiled. Sam did not.
Loading the shells according to the instructions, Sam walked out front. The gobbling had reached the volume of a tractor; the dark, flapping apparitions swirled and zipped through his limited nighttime vision. Sam aimed into the night and chambered the shells.
“Why couldn’t you just leave me alone!? I barely ever even eat turkey!” he yelled.
Sam pulled the trigger and … nothing. It seemed jammed. He tried again, and again, and still nothing happened. The gobbling got louder still and Sam could swear the turkeys were laughing.
Returning inside, Sam consulted the instructions and took apart the weapon. Sweating tiny rivers, he disassembled the shotgun to discover tightly packed feathers, crowding the firing mechanism to the point that it couldn’t fire.
A grapefruit-sized stone smashed his kitchen window and landed on his living room floor. Sam screamed.
Wrapped around the rock was a piece of trash fastened with some twine. Written inside, in the crude handwriting of a creature lacking opposable thumbs was one word: MOVE.
Illustration by Alex, age 25
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