Outside, the 300-foot-tall Turkey Mammoths swatted and stamped away what remained of the world. They played crush-the-can with mansions. They kicked cars like ice cubes on the kitchen floor. They plucked heads from human bodies, leaving the torsos standing there flapping their arms. But that was a couple mountains east. The family’s cabin was way-the-hell isolated in Edward Leiberman Reserve, a safe spot where there was nobody around, nobody to maraud and rape them. But no meat-animals either. Not even small ones. Here, on a normal day, you basically ate fistfuls of grass and squares of leather boot.
But today was an occasion to splurge.
Margaret did the carving. No messing around either. She didn’t spare a single juicy flap of meat. The bones sparkled. Mathematically perfect slabs of pink-ish foodflesh sat like pancakes on the chipped ceramic serving dish. Folds of gravy syrup gleamed beneath the rusty smudgy oil lamp. The smells in the cottage = thyme, garlic, carmelized onions, and MEAT. It’s been so long since the dank cabin smelled like this. Small Randy wanted to cry, and when he peeked at the empty seat next to him he wanted to cry much more.Margaret pried her eyes from the steaming pile of food, looked at her father.
Dad straightened up to say grace. His spine crackled. “Thank you Lord for keeping what remains of this beautiful family warm and safe and strong in the face of the Turkeys and the rapers. Thank you for providing an excuse for this nourishing food before us. I’m so sick of eating just ivy leaves that may or may not be poisonous. I only wish my son Joe could be here with us.”
“He is here,” whimpered Randy.
Dad turned and offered Randy a warm, tender smile. In fact he damn near imploded with affection for the kinda cross-eyed boy. Oh how he loved his sweet goofy Randy! So damn sweet. He could just eat him right up. “Yes, son. You’re right. Such a bright boy you are. Joe is here with us today. Totally. My bad.” At this point Dad was so intensely son-loving he looked like he was trying to use focused physic energy to blow up Randy’s head.
Time to chow. Margaret forked some meat. “Do you want leg or breast or…”
“I get legs,” snorted Dad. He snapped out of his son-adoring reverie damn quick. Time for MEAT.
“I want breast I guess,” said Randy. But really, he wasn’t sure he was hungry at all.
Margaret dished out the goods, then took some forearm for herself. It turned out to be extra tough and weird because Joe always used to do these weird dumbbell exercises to make sure he could always beat Randy at arm wrestling. In the distance a Turkey made some kind of high pitched undulating tea kettle noise. The floorboards trembled, but the family hardly noticed.
For another practicallyserious short story about giant beasts running around destroying the planet, check out my epic tale: “Attack of the Giant Beast”