farming

Visitor from Beyond

aebranson fiction ,

Yeah, yeah, I know many don’t consider me to be the brightest tool in the pond, but I swear that I’ve got absolute proof we’re being invaded by aliens.

Perhaps first I should introduce myself – Larry D Turkey is the name, but don’t let that mannequin fool you.  I’m a hen.  You see, some years back, when I hatched in the incinerator, there were no other turkeys to keep me company for a few weeks, so the servants got a couple of ducklings to acclimate me.

Well, let me tell you, chickens got nothing on ducks when it comes to being chicken.  Those two featherbrains tried to hide under me whenever the servants arrived to wait on us, and for some reason the staff starting calling me Larry and those web-heads Darrel and Darrel.  Even after it was oblivious I wasn’t a jake, the name stuck.  Just proves you can’t get good help these days.

Anywho, back to the aliens – one of them started showing up as the light began to darken a few days ago.  There I was, minding my own business, and eating some of the corn the servants bring out to us.  Nothing sanitizes like a little bedtime snack before joining the family on the roost.

You know that syncopation you get when somebody’s staring at you?  I got hit with that feeling big time, looked up – and there it was, standing right in front of me.

At first I thought one of the goats got seriously lost.  But it was much taller, and leaner, than any of the goats.  So … this was no goat.  That meant I needed to review my predator checklist:

Big eyes?  Yup.

Big ears?  Yup.

Big teeth?  Well, no … although it was licking its lips.

It seemed prurient to back away slowly into the coop and hide like a duck.  As I made my redress, the alien stepped toward me.  My heart started hammering like the pitter-patter of savage beasts.

But when the alien reached the trough, it stuck its face down into the corn and began gobbling away, and I don’t mean like the toms.

Now, it’s been my obviation that everybody likes to eat corn.  We often get imposter squirrels and other little feathered invaders that associate from the trough.  I suppose it figures that aliens would like corn, too.

At least it didn’t want to make me into an honorary, so that’s the good news.  The bad news is that ever since then, every evening as the light gets crepuscular, the alien matriculates back into our pasture.  And then it proceeds to suck down every kernel of corn the family hasn’t finished off, only to vanquish again.

For the flight of me, I haven’t been able to figure out what it’s got to be up to.  Is this some kind of renaissance to help them prepare for eventual attack?  Or are they really peaceful, and just need something to eat because they didn’t pack enough coolers?

The servants don’t seem to mind it, but I’m not sure we can trust them.  Instead of confounding the alien, I’ve seen them hide around the corners of their quarters and take pictures….

Oh, maybe they’re going to turn the pictures in as evidence to the government.  Then some men in black will show up and find out what’s really going on.  That would be a load off my hind.

Yeah, yeah, even I have to admit the government fixing anything is the corniest idea I’ve ever had.  Now there’s somebody who gives turkeys a bad name!

 

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And that is this month’s submission to #BlogBattle, with Crepuscular showcased as the prompt word this round.  Decided to go with a true story but give it a fictional twist.  Be sure to see what other contributions are in!

Words Mean Things

aebranson fiction , ,
Pixabay.com

One of the many characteristics that separates humanity from the animals is our rich vocabulary.  Critters can get certain points across with a variety of calls and gestures, ranging from “I’m ready to reproduce” to “Get the #@%$ outta my territory.”

We have the ability to discuss deep and abstract topics because our language is so complex.  When our ancestors starting developing language, I’m sure the critters played a crucial role.  Hunters out in the forest needed to communicate quickly before their quarry got wind of them.  “There’s a bull on the hill” is more concise than “There’s an elk with antlers on that rise of land.”

Likewise, when a hunter brought a chunk of meat home to his wife, telling her “We got a bull” probably helped her decide how to cook it.  She might be more likely to throw it into a stew pot, whereas “We got a cow” could make her inclined to roast it on a spit.

When some wild critters were developed into livestock, farmers took their descriptive names to a whole new level.  You need a boar in order for the sow to farrow a litter of piglets.  Calling those young pigs “shoats” means they’ve been weaned, and the gilts are the females that are still under a year old.  What about the males?  Only a few grow up to be boars, while the rest are converted into barrows for the purpose of becoming pork.

(In the middle of that process, the opportunity for preparing a dish called “mountain oysters” arises, but we might save that for the topic of euphemisms.)

Writing – and communication in general – benefits from the precise meaning of words.  Being able to understand each other fosters good relations.

For instance, imagine a friend invited you over for a steak dinner.  You offer to bring some wine as your contribution.  When you arrive and hand a bottle of merlot to your host, he shrugs and mutters “I guess this will work.”

You sit down at the table and see a pork chop on your plate.  You squint at your friend.

“I thought you said we were having steak.”

“Yes,” he replies.  “This is white steak instead of red steak.”

His tepid acceptance of your bottle suddenly makes sense.  “Well, if you told me we were having pork chops instead of steaks, I would have brought a white wine instead of a red wine.”

And you might also be sorely tempted to invite him over one evening for a mess of mountain oysters….