A Day in the Life: Thanksgiving in Omentown, Part I

Dear Readers,

   This is another one of my "Day in the Life" posts, where I take a slice of life in one of the time

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streams I study and fictionalize it for your time stream.  The world is real, the events are not.  This one is a two-part story.

   For this time around, in light of the US Holiday of Thanksgiving being this week, I've decided to feature a Thanksgiving story set in a contemporary but divergent time stream.  This Day in the Life is set in Port End, Maine, which does not exist in your time stream.  I like to call it "Omentown."  You'll see why.

 Always,
 Dr. John Skylar
 Chairman
 Department of Anachronism
 University of Constantinople


     Ed woke when Dawn came.  Her light, filtered through the window, entered with a cold grey tint to it.  He knew what that meant on more than one level.  For one thing, it meant that he would see snow outside, and that November's end meant the effective, if not real, end to autumn.

   He yawned in bed, then looked over at Theresa.  Somewhere inside the tangle of brown hair that covered the pillow, he expected to be able to find his wife's face, but he did not want to wake her.  Ed crept out of bed and up to the window to look outside.

   With bleary eyes, he surveyed the landscape outside.  On Jeremy Sellers' fencepost, he saw a Nightjar.  Ed would have to remind Theresa to make some soup for the poor guy.  That Nightjar just would not leave, and with its presence came a bad flu for Mr. Sellers.

   Ed smiled when he saw the flock of wild turkeys in his own yard.  Seemed fitting for the holiday about to come.  They would have food on the table for it, at least.

  His smile disappeared when he saw the weasel that crossed his lawn.  Not a good sign at all, that weasel.  Worse, after a moment with his eyes on it, the saw an owl in the nearby tree.

   "Theresa," he hissed, and she stirred.

   "Whazzit?" she grumbled, face in the pillow.

   "You need to see this.  An owl and a weasel in our yard."

   She lifted up her head; he saw it in the reflection on the glass.

   Then she said, "Oh, crap.  Really?"  She rushed to join him at the window just as the owl swept down and took the weasel into its silent talons.  Without so much as its coward-squeak, the weasel lost the battle.

   "Hunting during the day," Ed commented, "They don't usually do that."

   "Shut up, Ed, we both know what it means.  We bought all the books.  Weasels are cowards, and Owls are misfortune.  Cowardice feeds misfortune."

  "Well.  Guess I'd best rush out to work today, huh?"

  Her blue eyes went wide, "Yes!  Get dressed!  I'll make you breakfast."

  Ed grinned, "Now, now, dear.  Don't fear the omen.  That would be cowardly."

  Theresa rolled her eyes and left him in their bedroom.

#

   Hours later, Ed walked through Port End's streets on his lunch break.  Aside from a few events worthy of salt over the shoulder, nothing strange happened to him yet, and he hoped to see to it that nothing else would happen.

  "Just perfect," Ed spat when he saw the argument ahead of him, "Why do the omens always come true right before lunch?"

  In front of him, Ed saw a homeless man, with a hat of scrap wool, facing a brick wall.  Against that brick wall cowered another businessman, one of Ed's friends from the Maple Syrup bottling plant, named Carl Ash.  He came up to where he could hear them.

   "Listen you fancy-digs bashterd, I don't have even half a penny for food this T-day, so maybe you ought to think twice 'bout saying 'Get a job,' or maybe you'll find I've got one involves cuttin' you into little bits.  What, am I too dirty for ya?"

   "Sir-sir, I'm sorry, I didn't--"

    "You sure did!"  The hobo punched Carl right before Ed's eyes, then reached for his pockets.  A knife?

    Ed muttered again, as he felt his pulse quicken, "This must be the cowardice.  Dammit, what's the omen about?  Must be about helping Carl.  This guy'll come after me next if I don't."  He rushed over and punched the hobo right in the back of the head.  The punch connected and the homeless man's forehead connected with the

   He picked up Carl, and they ran.  On the way, the little man said, "Good job back there!  I thought he'd kill me for sure."

  Ed frowned, "Thought he might kill me, too."  Damn omens.

To be continued!