Cold Turkey: A Short Story

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Eddie stands fuming outside in the bitter cold while his son, wife, and in-laws sit at the dinner table surrounding a cold turkey.

How did such woeful events occur on Thanksgiving Day? Read on …

***

As his favorite football team seemed determined to get trounced on national television, Eddie decided he saw enough. He rose from his father-in-law’s recliner, made his way to the front hall, retrieved his coat, then backtracked through the living room and traveled through the kitchen while enjoying its delicious aromas. His six-year-old son colored at the little-used kitchen table and they exchanged wordless smiles before Eddie reached the back door.

As soon as Eddie stepped into the frigid November air, he reached into his left coat pocket.

Nothing.

He tried the right pocket.

Equally barren.

Charging back into the house, Eddie once again noticed the smell of cooking turkey while he rumbled past his son and through the kitchen.

He found his wife and in-laws waiting for him in the living room with the television turned off. They wore expressions of trepidation.

“Susan,” Eddie said to his wife of eleven years, “where are my cigarettes?”

“Eddie,” she began after a quick glance to her parents, “you’ve been promising for years. We talked it over, and we decided to take matters into our own hands.”

“You mean you stole my cigarettes?” Eddie asked in disbelief. “You took them right out of my coat pocket?”

Her eyes pleading, Susan said, “We knew you didn’t have a secret stash here; we figured this was our best chance to prove you don’t need them. If you can get through today, then you can get through the rest of the week, and then the month, and then maybe even the year …”

Eddie, bewildered, looked at his in-laws and questioned, “Donna, Marvin—you two were part of this?”

“We love you like our own flesh and blood, Eddie,” Marvin said with his palms up. “I know it was a dirty thing to do, but we did it because we care so much about you.”

Donna amended, “We want you around for a long time so you can raise that boy of ours. My father died from emphysema. He smoked his entire life, just like you’re doing. Do you want your son to go fatherless?”

Detecting her husband’s rage, Susan confessed, “This seemed like our best option—our only option.”

His eyes narrowed to slits. Eddie said nothing in response to his family. Instead, he spun on his heel and plowed through the house once more. Of course, to make his way to the back door, he had to enter the kitchen anew, and when he did so, the smell of succulent turkey filled his nostrils again and made his mouth water.

A petty, underhanded idea invaded Eddie’s mind. 

He stopped right in front of the oven. He turned his head ever so slightly and saw his son still engrossed with his coloring book, paying Eddie no attention at all. In one deft movement, Eddie did the unthinkable.

It would be hours before anyone noticed.

***

Now that you know why Eddie endures the freezing elements and his family sits staring at a half-cooked turkey, we shall conclude our misadventure. Can any good possibly come of such calamity? We shall see …

“Daddy?” Eddie’s son asks as he pokes his head out the door.

“Yeah?” Eddie replies. His face is flushed and his voice quivers both from anger and the icy temperature. But when he looks into his son’s eyes, his fury subsides. He thinks of the mess he’s made of their Thanksgiving.

“Daddy, aren’t you going to come sit with us? We’re all waiting for you at the table.”

Eddie figures Susan, Donna, and Marvin didn’t disclose Eddie’s transgression to the boy.

“Um, I don’t really think the turkey’s fit to eat this year,” Eddie says.

“Yeah, but aren’t we still supposed to join hands and give thanks?” his son asks. “Isn’t that what today’s all about? I mean, that’s what we’ve been doing since I was a little kid.”

Before taking a deep breath, Eddie’s recognizes that he’s the biggest turkey of all. 

“You’re right—you’re exactly right. Let’s go in and first I’ll give thanks for having the world’s wisest six-year-old, then I’ll apologize to your mom and grandparents, and then I’ll give thanks for their love and—hopefully—forgiveness.”

Eddie sees his son looking at him knowingly.

“You saw me do it, didn’t you?” Eddie asks.

Nodding, the boy returns, “I didn’t tell. I think they figured it out, though. Don’t worry, you and Mommy always tell me if you say you’re sorry, people will forgive you.”

With moist eyes, Eddie takes his son’s outstretched hand and says, “I’m sorry to you, too. Do you forgive me?”

“I forgive you, Daddy,” his son replies. Then, looking up at his father with a bright, semi-toothless smile, he asks, “Can we order a pizza?”

Eddie laughs as they reenter the house and says, “Yep, and I’m buying. Just don’t get used to pizza on Thanksgiving. This is our last year of cold turkey.”


Copyright © 2008/2013/2020 by Scott William Foley

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. This story first appeared in the November 2008 issue of News and Views For the Young at Heart.

All rights reserved. No part of this story may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews or articles.

My Short Story, “Besieged,” Now Available At Podbean

I’m pleased to announce that “Besieged,” my short story, is now available for your enjoyment at Podbean. Simply click HERE to pay it a visit.

Careful with that spider you’re about to step on. You might just end the world.

“Natural Law” Is Now Available At Podbean

If you could literally do anything and go anywhere, how would you choose to spend your time? Such is the question posed by “Natural Law,” which is now available for your listening enjoyment at Podbean. Click HERE to listen.

Stasis: A Short Story

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I’m standing in our dining room, looking out of the picture window. Honestly, that’s not true. It should be our dining room. It’s actually our kids’ toy room. 

I like to see what’s going on out there. Usually, the answer is “not much.” We live on a cul-de-sac, and now that it gets dark early and the cold is here, there’s rarely anything to see. But it’s either look out the window or watch Lizzie McGuire reruns with my eight-year-old—her nighttime show—so I opt for the empty street. 

Here comes some action. A walker is approaching from the other side of the cul-de-sac. It’s hard to tell who it is with all of the winter wear. I generally recognize everyone in our subdivision, but we sometimes have strangers pass through. I notice this person is eyeballing my “Biden-Harris 2020” yard sign. Maybe a fellow fan?

Maybe not!

The guy just tore my sign out and tossed it into the street!

“Brisa!” I yell as I head to the mudroom. 

“What?” Brisa calls back from the TV room.

I pull on my heavy coat while saying, “When your mom gets out of the shower, tell her I’m going on a walk.”

“But it’s too cold, Daddy,” Brisa says.

After putting on my stocking cap, I next slide into my tennis shoes. I’m not going to let some Trump supporter get away with this!

“I’ll be back in a minute,” I say while making my way to the front door. 

“What are you doing, Daddy?”

I ignore Brisa’s question as I shut the door behind me.

Our neighborhood is beautiful in that it’s a series of sidewalks weaving through yard after yard. The covenants don’t allow privacy fences, so everything is wide open. I just catch sight of the walker at the far end of the sidewalk leading into the next cul-de-sac. I see him turn left, which means he’s heading towards the elementary school.

It’s only eight o’clock, but it might as well be midnight. There isn’t a soul out here except for the walker and me. As I trot after him, I feel the frigid air bite into my lungs. We could be in for some very serious trouble if it’s already this cold in late October. Like 2020 hasn’t been bad enough already. Between Covid-19 and Donald Trump … But better days can’t be too far off now, right?

I enter the adjacent cul-de-sac and see the guy at the end of it, crossing the street. He takes the sidewalk between two houses that leads to a trail around a big field that the neighborhood school uses. On such a clear night, I don’t think I could lose him once he reaches the field, but I increase my pace nonetheless.

What will I do when I catch the guy?

I have no idea.

I think I’ll start with just telling him that I saw what he did and that I didn’t like it. 

I reach the edge of the field just as he’s made it almost halfway across. Our subdivision ends along the west side of the field, the side I’m entering. Houses line the entire length of it. A retirement community resides on the east side of the field, with the school on the south side. 

The cold grass crunches under my feet as I try to catch up. I’m pretty sure the guy has no idea he’s being followed. Was he just walking around messing with Biden signs? How sad is that?

Without warning, the man stops. I mean, he’s frozen in place—mid-stride. 

I mumble, “What the hell?” 

Then, I scream.

A beam of light shoots out from the sky and surrounds the guy. Within seconds, I see his feet leave the ground. 

Still screaming, I dive onto my belly. 

I watch as the man goes up higher and higher towards the starting point of the light. 

But there’s nothing there! What’s shining the light? There’s nothing there!

Other than my screaming, there isn’t a sound. The man doesn’t move—not a muscle. He still appears as if he’s about to take another step. 

And then …

He’s gone. 

He’s just gone. 

The light’s gone. 

Everything is quiet again. The whole thing probably took five seconds.

What the hell did I just see? 

I’ve got to get out of here!

I jump to my feet and start sprinting. Sidewalks be damned, I’m cutting between houses!

I cross the street and race through my neighbors’ yards. I’m looking up at the sky for any sign of the light, but all I see are the stars. It’s like nothing happened at all!

After bursting through yet another yard, I spill out onto my own street and run towards my driveway. I’m so close! 

I step on the Biden sign and start to slide, but I manage to regain my balance. 

Almost there!

My front door is just within reach when I freeze.

I can’t move; I can’t scream; I can’t do anything. 

God, no! 

Light—the light—it’s surrounding me!

I feel the ground let go of my foot and I float upwards. 

No! No! This can’t be happening!

I move my eyes downward and see the top of my daughter’s head far below.

She’s asking for me—calling out my name. 

Thank God, she isn’t looking up. 

Please, God, don’t let her look u—

______________________________________________________________________________

Copyright © 2020 by Scott William Foley

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this story may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews or articles.

You Come First: My Short Story Of the Week

YOU COME FIRST

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You want to know who comes first? That’s right—you do.

It’s your right—your God-given right as an American citizen—to do whatever you think needs to be done. Who are they to tell you anything? You’re smart. You’ve been through a few things. You know what’s what, right?

These scientists, they’re changing their story every day. One day we’re supposed to wear a mask. The next day the mask doesn’t do anything. Then they’re back to telling us to wear masks again. Guess what? You’re perfectly healthy. You don’t have the virus, so you obviously can’t give it to anyone. You can’t give what you don’t have. There’s some real science.

Speaking of which, where do these grocery stores get off trying to force you to wear a mask? Are they the Gestapo? Who put them in charge? You go right into that store without your mask and just watch what they’ll do—nothing. Oh, they’ll talk. That’s all anyone does—talk, talk, talk. They’ll probably say something like “it’s for the safety of our workers,” but we all know that they shouldn’t have vulnerable people working there. Their employees’ frailty is supposed to keep you from eating? Not happening.

On the topic of food, can you believe they shut down the gyms? That’s a great strategy. There’s a virus going around, so let’s make sure people can’t exercise. Brilliant. Here’s some more science—exercise makes people healthy. The government has you sitting at home, eating like a pig, and won’t let you pump iron at the gym. They want you to get fat. They want you lazy. They want you at their mercy. That’s how they try to control you.

Furthermore, let’s talk about these people in charge. They think they can dictate where you can go, what you can buy, and who you can hang out with? Last you checked, you live in a democracy, and you most definitely did not vote for fascism. If you want to have people over, that is none of their business. Your friends are all grown, aren’t they? You can trust them to stay home if they’re not feeling well. You’re being treated like a child who’s been sent to your room, and you don’t like it. Not one bit.

In fact, they won’t even let you go to church. Seriously? There’s two things guiding the course of your life—God and the Constitution. Both of them want you in church. After all, you live in one nation under God. Are you really going to let some commie pinko tea party snowflake socialist get between you and your lord, Jesus Christ? No way. This is how they’ll eradicate Christianity from our schools, and you know it.

Schools. Can you believe this? It’s a fact that kids are barely getting sick at all, yet they shut down every school across the land. Just what are these teachers doing at home all day, anyway? Your kid hands in some papers a little late, just a few months, and those teachers take their sweet time grading. They’ve already got the whole summer off, and now an extra three months on top of that? Just to sit at home. You’re working your butt off, and they’re probably out on the golf course instead of grading papers the day they come in. You emailed your thoughts about that to your kid’s teachers, but they’re too cowardly to even respond.

Cowards. That’s the operative word. Everyone is scared of their own shadow. Not you, though. Just the other day, you were at the hardware store. You needed a new snow shovel—everyone with half a brain knows off-season is the time to buy. Some guy was taking too long looking at rakes, so you just stood right next to him and searched for the best price you could find—capitalism, baby. He thought he was tough, said something to you about keeping your distance. One cough in his direction proved what kind of courage he really had.

You’re good to go. You’ve got a big house with a giant yard and a great job you can perform from home. You earned everything you have, and if people are catching some bad luck during the Covid outbreak, that’s on them. They should have worked harder. The smart people know how to get things back on track, and it starts with the economy. When’s the last time the Covid spent a dollar?

You understand the Covid is flu. Technically, it’s not, but basically it is. Flu kills less than 1% of people who get it. The Covid kills less than 5%. You wish you were shocked the whole world shut down for less than 5%, but that’s today’s leaders for you—only worried about getting reelected. Let’s make everyone suffer for less than a handful of the population. The old, the weak, the sick—how much are those people contributing to society anyway?

You need to get this country up and running again by sacrificing whatever it takes.

America comes first, right after you.


Copyright © 2020 by Scott William Foley

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this story may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews or articles.

Huffy: My Short Story Of the Week

HUFFY1

 

Dino and Cary closed the screened-in summer porch’s deep freeze. Each boy giggled while sneaking back into the house with several Schwan’s frozen cookie dough patties in their hands. Cary looked around, saw no one, then led Dino through the hall that led straight to the garage.

As soon as Cary opened the door, both boys dropped their cookies.

There, in the middle of the garage, stood Mick’s black and gold Huffy bicycle with the garage door wide open and the family cars parked in the driveway. The bike faced outward, toward the street, eager to rocket through the small town.

The boys froze. They looked around them, behind them, even above them. They didn’t see Mick anywhere. Cary and Mick’s dad always made them park their bikes along the wall so that the cars would have plenty of room. It didn’t make any sense—both of Cary’s parents were home. Why were the cars in the driveway? Furthermore, Mick’s bike had no business sitting there, dead center, primed and ready, begging to be noticed.

It had to be a trick.

Cary didn’t bother to pick up his frozen cookies as he descended three steps into the garage. A slight breeze whistled though the garage’s only window, slightly opened, as he approached Mick’s bike.

It was beautiful. The rims and handlebars were golden and caught every bit of sunlight that shined its way in. The hand grips, frame, and seat were black, the kind of black Old West gunslingers wore. There wasn’t a chip on it; Mick kept the paint pristine. The chain had been freshly oiled and smelled like action. As far as Cary knew, no one else in town had a black and gold Huffy—Mick alone wielded the prestige. Comparably speaking, Cary’s own blue and white BMX could only be described as inadequate.

But why was it sitting out in the open? Mick never left it unguarded. He normally chained it to his dad’s rolling tool cart in the front corner.

Cary lifted a leg in order to straddle the Huffy.

“Don’t,” Dino warned. “It’s a trap—you know it is.”

Looking over his shoulder at Dino, Cary whispered with a grin, “I don’t care.”

And with that, Cary hopped onto Mick’s Huffy, kicked up the stand, stood on the peddles, and then jettisoned down the driveway into the street.

“Follow me!” Cary screamed against the wind.

Dino ran to the yard, lifted his blue and yellow Raleigh up off the grass, then tore after Cary down North Street.

“You’re crazy!” Dino yelled. “Mick will kill you!”

“It’s worth it!” Cary hollered back.

Dino caught up to Cary and they raced side by side. The other neighborhood children stopped what they were doing and stared, dumbfounded. Though Mick was a well-liked, charismatic teenager, it was common knowledge that you were not to provoke him. Cary saw a young girl with a Popsicle in her mouth close her eyes and do the sign of the cross in his direction.

“Isn’t the seat too high for you?” Dino questioned.

“I’ve never felt more alive!” Cary roared in return.

They angled their bikes and swerved right onto Beard street. Both boys knew they would pay for this infraction, but at that moment the thrill proved too intoxicating. Whatever the future held for them, nothing would ever top the day they stole Mick’s Huffy.

“Pop a wheelie!” Dino squawked over the torrent of air flowing through their hair.

Cary had never successfully popped a wheelie before, but he knew he was destined to do so on that July day. A blissful smile spread across his face. In perfect synchronization, he pushed with his legs, thrust back his chest, and yanked upwards with his hands as mightily as he could.

And for a brief instant, the front tire lifted off the pavement.

Cary bellowed, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

But then the unthinkable occurred.

Cary bawled, “No! No! No!”

For as the tire rebelled against gravity and became airborne, the handlebars ripped loose—completely loose.

Though he still clutched the hand grips, Cary found himself effectively riding with no hands as it wobbled precariously from side to side.

“What happened?” Dino screeched.

“I don’t know!” Cary replied.

Then things grew even more dire for the boys because, seemingly all at once, the bike’s front tire disengaged, both peddles flung away, and the seat spun at a ninety-degree turn.

Somehow, Cary landed on his feet.

He stood among a heap of gears, parts, nuts, and bolts as he still held the handlebars aloft.

Dino skidded to a stop next to Cary. He uttered, “Oh, no …”

“I don’t believe this,” Cary mumbled. “Do you think Mick booby trapped his bike?”

“What?” Dino asked. “Are you crazy? That’s impossible!”

“Then how do you explain this?” Cary wailed.

“I don’t know, but you’re a dead man,” Dino groaned.

“Go get my dad,” Cary said. “I’ll start gathering everything up. Get my dad and tell him I’m in front of Christian Academy. Maybe he can help us take it home and put it back together before Mick finds out.”

“What if I bump into Mick?” Dino demanded with bulging eyes.

“Just do it!” Cary yelled.

“Oh, man, this is so nuts!” Dino shrieked before racing down the rest of Beard and turning right onto Sunset.

Cary sat at the edge of the road and waited five minutes. He noticed a grey cat leering at him from within a bush across the street, then waited another ten. When twenty minutes passed, he realized that his dad wasn’t coming. Either Dino lost his nerve and went home or Mick had gotten to him. Either way, there would be no help.

After staring up at the blue sky for several seconds, Cary took a deep breath, then collected all the small parts that he could find and stuffed them into his front pockets. Each peddle went into a back pocket before he hoisted up the bike frame and slid his right arm through it until it rested on his shoulder. The handlebars were wedged under his left arm and he took a tire in each hand. He searched the pavement one last time with eyes darting erratically. No piece could be left behind—partly because he feared his brother, but also because one didn’t abandon even a bolt of the black and gold Huffy. It was a treasure, a paragon of bicycles, and it had to be treated as such.

Then began the long walk.

It wasn’t that far of a trek back to his house, but it felt interminable. Cary had no idea how he would explain the situation to his parents, and he was even less certain about how he would survive Mick’s guaranteed rage. He only knew he would put the Huffy back together again. No matter how long it took, no matter how hard it proved to be, he would right this awful wrong. The Huffy had asked for none of this—its days would not end as a heap of parts on Beard Street.

When Cary finally reached the opening of the garage, he fell to his knees in exhaustion and carefully allowed each part to rest upon the cold concrete floor. Evening approached and the crickets reproached.

The door then opened, and, while stepping over the thawed cookies, Mick walked out.

The older brother stepped down, and once he reached the bottom Cary saw that Dino trailed. They both stood a few feet from Cary and simply stared at the grease-stained, weary boy.

“Wha—I don’t understand,” Cary stammered.

“I had to be sure,” Mick said.

“Sorry, dude,” Dino added.

“Sure?” Cary repeated. “Sure about what?”

Mick crouched down with clasped hands before his younger brother. He said, “I turn thirteen next week.”

“Yeah? So?” Cary replied. He felt himself devolving into hysteria. It was all too much for him.

“Mom and Dad said I could pick out a new bike. I’m getting too big for the Huffy—I’ve had it since I was your age.”

Cary studied the Huffy’s parts surrounding him. A realization dawned.

“You did this,” Cary seethed. “You didn’t want anyone else to have it …”

“Whoa,” Dino warned, “you’re way off, man. Let Mick explain.”

Mick stood, put his hands behind his back, and paced the garage. He said, “It’s true—I set you up. I rigged the bike to fall apart. I knew you would take it for a joyride—who wouldn’t? I had to know …”

“Know what?” Cary whooped.

“If you’re worthy,” Mick answered.

“Worthy?” Cary repeated.

“If you left the bike, if you came running home like nothing happened, if you never admitted to what you did … then I would know you didn’t deserve it. But if you scooped it up, carried it with you, refused to leave it behind … That was the test.”

“And you passed, dude!” Dino proclaimed.

Narrowing his eyes at Dino, Cary growled, “You were a part of this?”

Mick interjected by saying, “The Huffy is yours, little brother.”

Cary took in the mess encircling him, then looked at Mick with his eyebrows lifted.

“Relax,” Mick said. “We’ll help you put it back together.”

Dino giggled, “This was so awesome.” Then, to Cary, he asked, “You’ll let me ride it, right?”


Copyright © 2020 by Scott William Foley

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this story may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews or articles.