Thanksgiving with my Protagonists

Image by Element5 Digital from Pixabay



As I crossed the street toward the neon lights of Delaney’s,

a 1939 DeSoto came out of the fog and caught me straight in the Conquistador hood ornament. I momentarily saw the old lady behind the wheel as I rolled up and over, but it didn’t look like she noticed me at all.

I slammed into the street behind her car, and as the tail
lights disappeared, I wished her a Happy Thanksgiving, complete with
instructions on where to stuff the turkey.

Miraculously, I was unharmed and so were the two jars of gravy
I carried—mother’s recipe. I got to the curb and threw open the door to my
favorite bar.

Only, that blow to my head must have gotten me turned around, because I ended up in some guy’s dining room. The table was set for four, with crystal glasses and silver-inlaid china. The man sitting across the aromatic turkey from me was dressed in a red robe with intricate beading, and an ornate amulet.

“Please, sit down,” the man said in the wealthiest of
British accents.

Intrigued, as well as hungry, I took a seat and put mom’s gravy next to the turkey.

“Emily should be here shortly, but I’m afraid Regan won’t
make it tonight. He’s not quite done yet.”

“Not done with what?” I asked.

“Not fully formed in the Author’s mind.” An alarm sounded,
and the man looked at his wristwatch as if the sound could be coming from
there. “Ah! 11:11.”

The front door opened again, but that was not the Seattle
streets outside. Smog lay low, and the houses I could see across the abandoned
street had their windows boarded open.

A girl no more than eighteen stuck her head inside. “May I
come in? I brought pumpkin pie.”

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