This is a regular column featuring original poetry and fiction by and for teens, provided by Figment.com, the online community writing site for young readers and writers.
Sitting around the Thanksgiving table is never boring. Every year, something new happens. Two years ago, the turkey exploded all over the oven, and the cranberry spread was made of cherries. Last year, Grandpa Davis told so many dirty jokes my mom called the police. But this year? It beats all.
It all started when Auntie Rose brought her new puppy to dinner. She called the little monster “Apollo,” but in my head I called it “Apocalypse.” The thing was tiny, cute, fluffy, and pure evil. The moment it walked into the door, it began to bark, and proceeded to bite everything that moved.
Mom kept the turkey safely in the oven, protecting it from the wrath of Apocalypse. When the oven dinged, she took it out, placed it carefully on the counter, and walked out to the living room where everyone was watching the Packers slaughter the Vikings.
That was her mistake. Soon, we heard the sounds of ripping flesh. I attributed it to the commercial for the horror movie that was playing on the screen, but when a perfume ad came on, and the tearing sound didn’t cease, I rose from my chair and checked what in the heck was going on.
The little monster was eating a turkey leg, and one leg was already gone. It chewed slowly, looking at me with its cold, black eyes. Suddenly I heard a shriek from behind me.
Auntie Rose was furious. “Bad dog!” she shrieked, “You put that down right now!” and she dove at the little white monster, who jumped off the counter, dragging the turkey with him.
Hearing the commotion, my relatives joined in the chase after a dog carrying a turkey twice its size. The little monster weaved and threaded its way through the stomping feet, determined to keep its prize.
Five minutes later, my tired and defeated relatives gave up, and went back to the game. Apocalypse was on the counter, triumphant, still chowing down on the turkey leg, not even caring about the craziness he'd been the source of. Even with the taste of food on its tongue, even in the face of all the horror it’d caused, it was still hungry. Slowly chewing the meat, its beady eyes warded off further chases.
I heard a choking sound from behind me. My mother, my ever formal mother, who had worked so hard on dinner, was laughing. Great guffaws escaped her lips as she held onto the counter for support, as she watched the dog slowly chew up her hard work.
"That... was... so... funny!" she gasped, almost falling over, "It truly is a happy Thanksgiving!" My mother laughed and laughed. I couldn't help it. I smiled too.
We were probably the only family in America to have burgers for Thanksgiving.