It’s that time of year again. The air is crisp and cool, the leaves changing to falling sunsets of red, orange and yellow. The crunch of the leaves beneath my feet is such a satisfying sound, yet a warning of what’s to come.

         Every morning, I am pampered. My feathers set to perfection. My handlers always come to me first, spending the most time to make sure I look as perfect as taking the utmost care handling me. I look out at the beautiful sunrise as I move from my perch, onto the ground I hold my head high as they release me outside to spend time with the peasants. I fan my feathers proudly, head held high as I watch the others scurry out of my way. Being the king of the pecking order has its benefits, no downsides in sight.

         As I take my daily stroll by the fence, I notice our wild brethren flying about. I scoff, watching their futile attempts to get over the fence. It’s amusing, really, to see them work their wings tirelessly, trying to achieve something they’ll never have; a home.

         I go to the orphanage, looking at the little poults running around. No matter how bothersome it is to see the little brats, I must keep up appearances and show no weakness. Not just for me, but for my son as well.

My son Turk E. is my pride and joy, heir to the throne. Although I have sired other young turkeys, there’s something special about him. His wisdom is like no other, his tongue as sharp as his beak. He is perfection. It is a way to assert dominance, to show the other children what they may never have; a family to call their own.

         Afterwards I go to the slums, watching all the poor turkeys eating the dried, withered grass. I’ve made sure they aren’t even allowed acorns, let alone good grass. When I’m fatigued from my duties, I’ll go to the slums with the juiciest of berries perched between my beak, chewing slowly to show the others what they could never have; delicious and healthy food.

         Starting the fourth Wednesday of October comes The Preparation, a time where turkeys and hens alike prepare for the day. No matter your status or duties, everyone must participate in gathering the necessary foods and fallen leaves to prepare for the day everyone dreads.. As king, I sit back and relax, ordering the others around as I please.

         It goes on like this for a full month until The Hour of Sacrifice arrives. A random turkey or hen is chosen to be given to those extraterrestrials as a meal. I’ve watched dozens of my fallen friends and foes fall year after year to those five-fingered cretins. I never had a single care, thinking I was untouchable.

        So how did I end up splayed upon a silver platter for all to see my execution?

         Tears fall down my face as my fellow subjects chant “Burn him, burn him!” at the top of their lungs. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this. I mean, sure I mocked the wild turkeys, was biased at the orphanage and taunted the poor, but those are all meager crimes. I never thought my fellow turkeys would do this to me.

         As the doors to the shed open and the head five-fingered anomalies known as the Farmer picks me up, I slowly go limp in his arms, accepting my fate.

         Pride comes before the fall after all, and I’ll accept my consequence with no hesitation.