This painting is titled “The First Thanksgiving, 1621” and was painted in 1921 by Jean Leon Gerome Ferris. It depicts an idealized view of a harvest feast shared between the Plymouth colonists and the Wampanoag people.
TL;DR - Write a Thanksgiving Day story. 1000 words max, with a deadline of one week. Link to yours in the comments, or not ;-)
I thought this was appropriate, as in much of the world, it’s Thanksgiving Weekend. You could also pick any holiday you like, as they are all full of expectations and drama. As usual, I had to add a twist. 655 words.
A Thanksgiving Dinner
They made landfall a month before Thanksgiving, a hardy band of explorers fleeing persecution and searching for a New World. They found a bountiful place, with friendly natives, abundant food, and land for the taking.
The crew had managed to survive the great Vegetarian Wars of 2088. One of the few remaining omnivore communities on Earth, they had pleaded for banishment, rather than face re-programming and forced dietary changes. To their surprise, PETA had intervened on their behalf and underwrote the cost of an interstellar spaceship.
A possibly Earth-type planet had been selected for them, light-years away but mere moments in the deep sleep of hibernation. These were uncharted waters, though, swept by solar storms and rogue meteors. It was one of these rocks that had holed one of their cargo hulls, destroying much of their food supplies.
They touched down without incident, but the captain knew that food was their first priority.
“Number One,” he said. “Take an away team and scout the immediate area. We need to see if there are any immediate risks here, and find some food sources.” He waved an arm. “Make it so.”
Johnson straightened her red tunic and saluted crisply. “Yes, sir.” She then wheeled smartly, marched back through the door, and prepared to explore. She’d had nothing but veggie burgers for weeks now. She’d kill for some warm, fresh meat.
They soon discovered that the planet’s inhabitants were a simple, primitive race, armed with spears and blowguns, but they seemed peaceful. Although summer was over, the land still brimmed with life. They found many edible foods, several of which were quite similar to those found on Earth. These included a variety of tubers, a lobster look-alike that averaged five pounds, several kinds of grain, and Johnson’s favourite, a bird that looked like a very large turkey but tasted more like pork. She called them Turkams.
After their first curious visit to the site, the quiet natives had left them alone. Both sexes were identical, as far as Johnson could tell. They were bipeds, short and stocky, with fat, powerful legs, short arms and a well-developed chest. She hadn’t seen any young with them, but apparently they were left to roam free all summer. The children had no natural predators, so they were reasonably safe, but there still were some losses every year, accepted as the will of the gods.
In just a few weeks, the settlers had managed to set up a camp and were well on their way to storing enough supplies to hopefully last all winter. Captain Klink had suggested they hold a traditional Thanksgiving celebration and invite their native friends. Of course, it was up to Johnson to organize it and to invite the natives. They accepted with enthusiasm, as they had their own fall event, to celebrate the return of their children from the wilds. Their leader admitted that this year's losses had been higher than usual, but, again, it was the will of the gods.
It was a beautiful fall day, so Johnson had set up a long table outside. It was bending under the weight of all the food—baked tubers, boiled shellfish, loaves of bread, baskets of berries, roasts from a sort of antelope, and, of course, several large roasted Turkams.
“I’m impressed,” said Captain Klink, as they all stood behind the table. “This will be noted on your record, Johnson.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said. She adjusted her red tunic and nodded across the clearing. “Here come our guests now.”
Klink’s voice rang out as he spread his arms. “Welcome, friends. Please, come and share our food.”
They watched as the natives approached, some carrying what must be those wandering children, a smaller version of their parents. And suddenly very familiar.
“Number One,” said the Captain, “those children they are carrying, are they—?”
She loosened her gun in its holster. “Yes, sir, they’re Turkams.”