The Last Turkey Ranch

The air at The Last Turkey Ranch smelled like sage, sweat, and turkey feathers—equal parts soothing and suffocating. On the sunbaked lawn, a line of mismatched yoga mats stretched across the dust, each one occupied by someone—or something—doing their best impression of flexibility.

Riley Grange, wobbling on one foot, wasn’t doing a great job of it. His arms flailed like mismatched windmills, his foot skidding in the dirt. Around him, chaos reigned. A wiry turkey-human hybrid with feathered arms toppled sideways, his squawk of alarm echoing as he took two others down in a tangle of limbs. Nearby, a smug turkey strutted onto someone’s mat, issued a judgmental gobble, and flapped away like it had better places to be.

“Channel the strength of the flock!” bellowed Marcy, the yoga instructor, her turkey-feather headdress slipping slightly as she clapped her glittery combat boots together with authority.

“Pretty sure the flock’s already asleep,” Riley muttered under his breath, wobbling like a one-legged flamingo as his hybrid feathers ruffled in frustration.

“Embrace your wingspan! Stretch like you’re soaring!” Marcy barked, clapping her hands like a drill sergeant.

Riley sighed, letting his arms flop to his sides. “I should’ve joined the table tennis squad,” he said, loud enough for the hybrids nearby to snicker.

To his left, a rogue turkey launched an assault on someone’s shoelaces, its beady eyes gleaming with malicious glee. Another hybrid attempted downward dog but collapsed mid-pose, looking more like a defeated pretzel. Riley bit back a laugh and collapsed onto his mat, earning a disapproving squawk from Marcy.

The Ranch’s Rhythm

By the time yoga ended—mercifully, with no major injuries—Riley shuffled toward the communal dining area, his legs aching and his patience thinner than a turkey feather. The yard was alive with the ranch’s usual rhythm, a symphony of chaos that Riley couldn’t quite decide if he loved or tolerated.

The dining area was a patchwork of outdoor tables and mismatched chairs, each one a scavenged relic from a dozen yard sales. Above, garlands of felt turkeys and flickering Christmas lights swung lazily in the breeze. Riley collapsed into a creaky chair, its legs groaning louder than he felt, and surveyed the scene.

To his right, the spinning squad pedaled furiously on a row of salvaged bikes. Their instructor, a hybrid with a mohawk of real turkey feathers, shouted motivational gems like, “Feel the burn! Turkeys don’t quit!” Over by the turkey pens, Hank Malone crouched low, murmuring to a massive tom named Big Blue. The bird, with its ridiculously puffed chest and glint of ancient wisdom, watched Hank like it was calculating the meaning of life—or judging him for his lack of snacks.

Rumor had it Big Blue was older than the ranch itself, though Riley wasn’t convinced turkeys could live that long. Still, there was something unsettling about the way the bird stared, like it knew things Riley couldn’t begin to guess at.

Further down the yard, an eccentric tinkerer adjusted gears on a squeaky treadmill, its belt now coated in fresh hay. A younger hybrid waved a handful of grain at a turkey perched on the machine, but the bird refused to budge, its glare radiating the pure contempt of a gym-goer forced into cardio before coffee.

The Roostkeeper

Riley poked at a bowl of granola—an overly festive version laced with dried cranberries “for seasonal flair”—as snippets of conversation drifted from the next table.

“It’s been glowing again,” someone whispered, their voice low but urgent.

“Think it’s a sign?” another asked, leaning in.

Riley glanced up, catching fragments of the discussion. They were talking about The Roostkeeper, the ranch’s not-so-secret secret. The golden-feathered turkey, revered like a saint by the older militia members, had become the ranch’s unofficial mascot and greatest mystery.

Riley had seen it exactly once, perched regally on a roost like it owned the place. Its feathers shimmered unnaturally, catching the light even in shadow, and its gaze was… unsettling. To Riley, it seemed like a smug chicken with a god complex. But even he couldn’t deny there was something about it—a gravity, a glow—that hinted it might actually live up to its legend.

“If the hunters get their hands on it…” one voice trailed off, heavy with implication.

“Game over,” another finished grimly.

Riley shoved the granola aside, suddenly not hungry. The thought of the hunters circling closer made his stomach twist—not because he cared about the Roostkeeper’s mythical status, but because the ranch’s quirks, for all their madness, had started to feel like something worth protecting.

Hint of Trouble

As Riley wandered toward the barn, hoping to escape the whispers of doom, a firm hand caught his shoulder.

Hank Malone loomed over him, his weathered face creased with concern. He didn’t waste time on small talk. “Got a minute?”

“Not really,” Riley quipped, though his heart sank. He already knew where this was going.

Hank led him to the edge of the property, where a group of militia members stood in a tense huddle. Beyond them, the horizon stretched toward Cheaha State Park, its dense woods deceptively calm in the fading light.

“We’ve had scouts spotting hunters near the park,” Hank said, his gravelly voice low and deliberate. “Lyle Harrow’s crew. Trucks, shiny suits, the whole nine yards.”

Riley frowned. “Maybe they’re just passing through.”

Hank’s eyes narrowed, his tone sharpening like the edge of a blade. “They’re not just passing through. They’re circling. And if we’re not careful, they’ll leave us featherless and gutted.”

The weight of his words settled over Riley like a stone. The ranch, for all its chaos and quirks, wasn’t just a refuge. It was home. And now, it was in danger.

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