Turducken

Halfway through peeling the carrots for Sunday lunch, Petey announced he’d bred a turducken. The kitchen, busy with humdrum small talk and the chop of various knives, fell immediately silent.

“You mean you’ve brought one?” Our mother, hands still wet from washing, glanced from the already full oven to my brother and back again.

Petey didn’t bring anything. When he arrived two hours ago I watched him stamping through the front door, not bothering to wipe his boots. A trail of wet, orange leaves behind him like a comet tail. Nothing in his hands, not even a bottle of wine.

“No, Ma.” He wiped his forehead. “I mean I finally figured it out.”

“How in the hell—” Da opened and closed his mouth, searching for words that never arrived.

I put down my paring knife. “How many cloacas does it have?”

Petey scowled. “One, obviously. It was more efficient that way.”

Da sank into the nearest chair. “How many hearts?”

“Three. They each need their own. The earlier models didn’t survive.”

Lunch was swiftly abandoned; we piled into two cars and drove to Petey’s house. Past the barn where his lone horse was stabled, we followed him towards a fenced-off enclosure. Despite myself, I was curious. As he swung the door to a little shed open, the pale daylight illuminated a creature only a little wider than an ordinary turkey. The feathers had been shaved away on the front and sides of the bird; strange bulges rippled and pushed beneath the skin, as if it were pregnant. On the beast’s back, dark feathers—brown, tipped with cream—bristled against the faint breeze. The tail was a magnificent fan, typical of the species. I’d expected it to look monstrous. More like a frankenchicken. Instead, it just looked like a pathetic, bloated turkey.

“Oh,” Da said, sounding a little disappointed. “I thought they’d be on the outside, for some reason.”

“Sweetheart, think critically,” Ma chided. “The chicken is inside the duck which is in turn inside the turkey. That’s how they’re cooked, right?” The creature’s beady eyes were fixed on my mother and—although they were glazed over—something about its body suggested it was listening closely to every word. She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Wait. It can’t talk, can it? I shouldn’t have said anything about cooking.”

“No, Ma, it’s just a bird.”

Da stroked his beard. “You’re playing God, son. I don’t know about this.”

“Oh Michael,” Ma said, exasperated. “When old Mrs Patterson told us she got Lasik you said she was playing God. When I brought home candyfloss grapes for the first time you said we were playing God. Didn’t stop you from eating them.”

“I stand by my point.” He didn’t directly address the grapes, though, so we all knew he’d lost the argument.

I leaned closer, staring into the beast’s beady little eyes, watching the red wattle wobble as it jerked this way and that. “What do you feed it? Swans?”

My brother sniffed. “That would be inhumane, Claire.”

“You’re the one who bred a turducken, bro.”

“Children,” Ma said. “Perhaps the bickering could wait until after lunch?”

Lunch from Petey’s fridge consisted of half a stale loaf and a wad of dubious prosciutto, the origins of which were never verified to my satisfaction; while he’d been dating Ben, they’d usually had a range of supermarket-brand dairy products. Evidently, in-date food was no longer one of my brother’s priorities. After eating, if one could call it that, I stepped outside with my mother, who had a cigarette already dangling from her lips. I pulled my smokes out.

“Can I get a match?”

She patted her pockets to no avail. “I could have sworn I put the box right back in my pocket. Here.” She took my cigarette and lit it from her own, passing the genetic cherry down the family tree.

I took a long drag, the smoke scratching my throat. “What do you make of all this, Mom? I mean, really?”

“Family supports family, darling. No matter how weird.”

“Don’t you think it’s kind of screwed up?”

“I think,” she blew a ring of smoke, “it’s a good thing that he’s not into drugs and gang crime. And maybe we should just be grateful that he has a hobby.”

I stared at the little shed. The head of the turducken bobbed around inside, dipping in and out of view. “Do you think he’s playing God?”

She considered this. “I think there are worse people to aspire to be.”

†

Bigheart know where food and how to mate. Bigheart know danger, what to peck, when to run and flap.

Middleheart know water. Middleheart always want water—on feet, on body feathers. Middleheart say fish taste good, paddle feel so good, please water water water please.

Smallheart has little fast thoughts like eggs cracking. Smallheart know lots. Smallheart say we and think and escape.

Bigheart want to please Man Who Feed.

Middleheart want to please Man Who Feed.

Smallheart don’t want to please Man Who Feed.

Smallheart say danger and escape and freedom. Bigheart don’t recognize any of those words. Middleheart only think about diving down, green, fish fish fish.

Bigheart content to stay inside. Middleheart see pond, want to swim. Smallheart say now, a chance, man no lock door.

Three stretch wings wide. Three slide peg up with beak. Smallheart say yes, that. Bigheart like outside. Middleheart pulls towards pond. Smallheart say not yet.

Middleheart quack. Bigheart feel Middleheart peck inside. Bigheart hurt. Smallheart say one thing, then bigger pond. Middleheart say yes? big pond fish please? Please pond? Smallheart say promise. Middleheart silent. Middleheart don’t know promise. Bigheart trust Smallheart. Bigheart say then what?

Three approach Man Who Feed nest. Smallheart say here and box and fire. Bigheart peck at box, no fire. Smallheart say, scratch with claw. Three lift foot and scratch box. Sparks fly. Again. Again. Three watch dry grass catch fire. Three watch red fire wriggle like worms towards Man Who Feed nest. Smallheart say yes and good and revenge. Smallheart say walk quick, walk now, walk away.

Three waddle until Man Who Feed nest look small. Three walk until sun hot on feathers. Smallheart say well done, go further. Bigheart tired. Three tired. Three walk until no sun. Smallheart say further. Three walk until smell of green, big roar, yellow sand.

Middleheart say now pond?

Smallheart quiet for a while. Smallheart so sad. Smallheart say yes, now pond.

© 2022 Lindz McLeod

About the Author

Lindz McLeod is a queer, working-class, Scottish writer and editor who dabbles in the surreal. Her prose has been published by Catapult, Flash Fiction Online, Pseudopod, The Razor, and many more. Her novelette “Love, Happiness, And All The Things You May Not Be Destined For” was featured in the second issue of Assemble Artifacts. Her work includes the short story collection Turducken (Bear Creek Press, 2022) and her debut novel Beast (Brigids Gate Press, 2023). She is a full member of the SFWA and is represented by Laura Zats at Headwater Literary Management. She can be found on twitter @lindzmcleod or her website www.lindzmcleod.co.uk