by Timothy Jung (6th)

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 19TH, 1963

We’ve been all calming down, but it doesn’t seem like it. On Sunday, Clark was following me everywhere, asking what my name was. Then on Monday, we were discussing what to do, and where to go to, and when everything would go. But that’s how we planned. How it went is a different story. We decided that since we were near the east coast, we would move a little further up north, where Clark’s cousins were. There we would plant the memorial stones. And I thought we were resting. But we were always reminded, would Drillz, Bigfoot, and the five others that gave up their lives want us to rest, or continue?

I’m exhausted today, so I cluck out, “Gravy!” and all of a sudden there’s a blur, and when I look up, it’s not Gravy.

“Monsieur Stuffing,” he introduces as he bows. Stuffing. I’m trying my best to learn everyone’s names, so that just in case they, well, you know, have to sacrifice themselves, I can remember them. I just hope that never happens. I bow back to Stuffing. 

“Monsieur…” I trail off. Clark is right, maybe I should make a name. It would help. “I don’t have a name.” 

“All fine, all fine,” he says, coming back up. “What is your order?” I think. Maybe I’ll try those sunflower seeds. I quickly made up my mind. 

“May I please just have chopped corn seeds?” He looks up. “Well, I’m very sad to report, but we just lost Monsieur Chopper. And no one can chop seeds as well as Monsieur Chopper.” This makes me feel guilty, really, really guilty. “Do you want anything else?” Stuffing asks, but I’m too filled with grief. 

“No,” I reply. “I don’t have much of an appetite.” 

I wish I could say something else, when I hear someone clucking, “Stuffing!” Stuffing gets onto his feet, and in a blur, he leaves. And still, I count. I count every day, making sure nobody is taken by humans. Not now, not ever. All 36 are here, but 14 of them are pebble keepers. I just hope none of the pebbles are lost, because we  honor where they were with a pebble from where they died, meaning that if we lose one of the pebbles that honor the elders, we need to find a pebble from the first island that we were on. Let’s just hope that they make it north.

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 20TH, 1963

It’s time to make it up to the north. We continue going by flight, over and over again. Looks safe to me. Turkish Baron is leading the group, and we’re all ready. Then something shakes the skies above, and pierces the silence of our flight. Someone is hunting us from a distance. One of the turkeys drop. Turkish Baron looks back. 

“Listen up!” he shouts. “These humans are gun-bearers. For turkeys that do not know what that is, it’s a long range weapon that shoots a metal, and will kill you if it hits you. I will go down to distract the gun-bearers, along with 9 other turkeys that have been ready to risk their lives.” No, no, no. 

“Let me go!” I cry out. He looks at me. 

“No, you haven’t even got a name. Also, you have a gift of being clever, and we need to preserve that gift.” A gift? Me? I’m speechless. He locks eyes with me. “I will die not knowing your name, clever one,” he says, as he dives down towards the ground where the noise is from, and 9 others follow him. They stay in perfect formation, and dive down together. I wish I could do that. In a couple seconds, they’re all shot down except for Turkish Baron, and he skillfully dodges the blurred pieces of metal, going faster than ever. “Go! Leave!” he shouts, as his wing gets shot down. 

Once we’re safe, I count once again, and there’s only 25 turkeys left. And all of us have to carry memorial stones. Now Clark lets Flappy onto his back, and we’re all so filled with grief. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I wonder if getting to Clark’s cousins will even be worth it. We all decide not to eat or drink anything for a day, to honor the 25 that fell. I wish life was simple.

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 21TH, 1963

Everyday now, I make sure that no one can die by themselves. It’s the week before Thanksgiving, and humans want turkeys. I just hope that farm is safe. It’s hard enough trying to stay away from death. I can’t stand that some turkeys just stop running away from death, not even scared. 

Clark comes over to me, and I ask him, “Why did they sacrifice themselves? How do they run towards death, without any fear?” 

He looks at me for a couple seconds, then responds, “They were full of fear. They just never decided to let it overcome them. They had so much fear, thinking things like ‘what if my death doesn’t help the group?’, ‘what will the pain be like?’, or even, ‘does it matter?’” He paused. “And they died not knowing what your name was. They saw your potential, but couldn’t know your name. Turkish Baron said it himself!” I look up at the night sky, and clear my thoughts.