A Taste Of Incest Turkey Mom

Author's note: This experimental entry in the Winter Holidays 2014 Contest is an alt.version of A Taste of Incest: Turkey (Dad) - same fictitious story but gender-swapped. All sex involves humans aged 18+. Views expressed are not necessarily the author's, who once lived in the quaint Gold Rush village of Volcano, California. Constructive comments are welcome.

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An Taste of Incest: A Taste of Turkey (Mom)

*****

"Got everything of yours loaded, Mom?"

"All packed and powdered, honey. Everything's jammed-in tight. Looks like both our checklists are fully ticked. I'm ready to roll if you are."

"Hang on, then."

Alex pressed the floor pedals, twisted the key to ignite the reliable straight six, slid the floor stick into gear, and eased off the clutch. The forty-five-year-old pickup barely lurched as they motored away from the curb. Megan adjusted her windwing for a faint breeze.

Damn, they don't make'em like this any more, Alex thought. The rebuilt ex-Forest Service truck's engine purred like a tiger kitten. Restoring the longbed stepside Chevy to mint condition had been a two-year project, almost a work of desperation after Dad's death. He blinked back tears at the memories.

The wide bench seat felt empty with only the two of them.

Neat streets of suburban Sacramento faded behind them. The sun had not yet peeked over the Sierra Nevada crest; with this early start, they would be high enough in the mountains to avoid eye-burning glare when dawn arrived.

Megan turned the radio dial to the capitol's public station. The overnight NPR network music feed would die soon, to be replaced by local daytime programming, what her late husband Hal called Coffee-Table Classical. Better than the Geriatric Jazz infesting the evening airwaves. Bay Area radio was exciting. Sacramento radio sucked.

Dull background music as they drove and chatted was a family tradition.

---

The Wyatt family lived on traditions, especially those taking them into the Sierra Nevadas. Some were weekend or week-long camping excursions to remote National Forest campgrounds or even rough clearings beside hidden lakes to pitch tents, hike, swim, and play. Some were regular occasions. Up to Volcano village and Daffodil Hill for the spring bloom. On to Lake Tahoe for Fourth-of-July fireworks or New Year's snow play. Or past Volcano to Kit Carson Pass for quaking aspens and other tree colors at the start of autumn.

And every year, on the weekend after Hallowe'en decorations came down (weather permitting) they drove past Folsom Prison and through Placerville -- it was Hangtown in Mark Twain's day -- following the Pony Express route up Mormon Emigrant Trail and off a narrow dirt track to Panther Ridge, and turkey-hunt heaven.

That was their winter holiday tradition. Fresh wild turkey.

To Alex, it was all part of growing up. Trick-or-treat, then clean up, and pack up, and roll uphill. Lots of chattering and laughing on the road. Take the right tent site. Set up camp. Read, play, photograph, and compute while waiting for the right time for Mom to take the Remington 20-gauge into the brush and shoot the day's limit; she was an ace bird-hunter and instinctively knew where to look. (Dad did his hunting with a Pentax camera and telephoto lens.) More tomorrow, and then break camp and head back home.

Tenting was the fun part. Only one tent at first, then two tents when Alex started primary school. He liked snuggling with his parents but he liked his own big-boy space even more.

On all their trips, Alex and his mom Megan traded spots on the bench seat while Dad drove. Megan's knees often straddled the stick shift when she sat in the middle. She seemed to enjoy that.

Alex tried to follow suit when it was his turn to be sandwiched. Megan pulled him away. "Don't crowd your father," she admonished. "He needs room to move the shift. Hey, let's count license plates! There's a Tennessee!"

Distraction is the better part of childrearing.

They made up stories as they rode.

"Look, that station wagon with Manitoba plates! They're smuggling maple syrup for the black market."

"That little boy is really a dwarf polar bear -- and he does NOT sit on the stick shift, so pay attention, mister!"

"Look, they're turning off for Angels Camp in Calaveras County. Maybe they have a carload of jumping frogs."

And so on.

Stories increased in complexity as Alex grew. These drive-along stories helped tie the Wyatts together. So many boys entering adolescence disdained their families. Their fast-aging parents knew nothing, NOTHING really, of any importance, like sports and clubs and the engrossing interplays of girls and boys. "Oh, gimmee a break -- it's not like when you were kids!" (sneer)

Not Alex. Stories enmeshed the Wyatts. Made-up stories, and real stories. Hal and Megan made sure Alex knew his heritage, the good and bad branches of the family tree, the interesting or disgusting or insane black sheep and all. One not-too-distant uncle was a bank robber; another had been a pioneer balloonist; yet another ran a Reno brothel. Stories flowed even before studies showed such family knowledge was a major factor in offspring's self-esteem and success.

The traditions almost died with Hal. His metastasized pancreatic cancer took a year to kill him. The best oncologists at the capitol's best medical centers with the latest technologies could do nothing.

A year of hoping, praying, and denying; of constant care, at home, in hospital, and finally in hospice. And another two years of mourning, and of Alex's immersion in restoring the truck from grief. Three years of absence. Alex felt like his sixteenth year onward had been bloodily cut from his life.

Neither Alex nor Megan socialized much during those years of pain.

They slowly restarted the traditions when Alex completed the restoration that summer. They drove to the Mendocino coast to watch waves and seals and to San Francisco for the World Series. The Giants won again, of course.

And now, a return to the turkey hunt. Life goes on.

---

Megan often glanced at Alex as they rolled along. They wore similar jeans-and-flannels outfits, his overshirt a red-black plaid, hers a blue-on-pink butterfly print, and both in well-faded Levis and scuffed hiking boots. He wore a 49ers ballcap and hers said RAIDERS. Well, nobody is perfect, right?

Damn, he looked so much like his father at that age! That same long, lean, muscular body and tight butt; dark walnut hair trimmed close around his square head; eyes like obsidian, firm nose, wide cheekbones, cleft chin; one ear pierced with a small sapphire stud. She sighed. No more tears.

Radio reception faded as they cut between canyons and ridges. They missed the last official Winter Storm Watch announcement; the front would move south from earlier predictions.

A good drive today. Bye-bye asphalt. Crunch the unmarked lane to Panther Ridge. Bounce the old white pickup along the rutted track. Shift the split-differential into compound low, almost as good as four-wheel-drive, to make it up a particularly steep grade. Climb through sugar-pine and Douglas-fir and red cedar swathes of forest, up to a bare ridgetop overlooking carved valleys and distant haze. Drive to a favored nook between mammoth granite boulders sheltering a rock pool.

Then, pitch camp: pop-up tents with sleeping pads and bags thrown inside; folding table and chairs; a Gaz stove to heat water for cocoa+coffee fortified with tequila (not quite legal for the boy but nobody needs to know). Talk softly, awaiting turkey time.

"...and then Professor Tahernejead tapped Jamie, her T.A., on the shoulder. She frowned and told him, 'Studies show that rectal thermometers are still the best way to take a baby's temperature. Plus, it really teaches the baby who's boss. Now, who do

you

think is boss here, and how can we establish that, hmmm?' The class cracked up. Jamie just blushed."

Megan grinned. "Insubordination is its own reward, sure. That's what my granddad always said. He should know; he was busted often enough."

"At least in college," Alex said, "an uppity T.A. just gets fired, not thrown in the brig." He sipped his spicy mocha. "Sucks being right at the wrong time. Or wrong anytime."

"Granddad liked insubordination, baby. He still managed to put in his twenty years. Never did get past sergeant-E5. Said he never wanted to be a gunny, and he made it."

"But you're proud of him anyway, yeah, Mom? He never took crap, always did what he knew was right, took his lumps like a man, and lived to brag it out."

"He was an old-school rebel, all right. I don't know if I could up to that role model. Don't know that I ever wanted to. It's a hard way to build a life."

"Depends on time and place, right? Didn't he say that a hero is just a lucky asshole? And a leader is just a lucky rebel. Maybe he didn't get that kind of luck, and his kind was better. For him, anyway."

Megan resisted the urge to add more tequila to her mocha. After the shoot would be okay, but not now. Drunks and guns don't mix.

"Or maybe Granddad just knew his limitations. I've found I have different limits. And maybe you don't have any limitations at all. I'm real proud of you, Alex. Proud that you're pre-med, that you take life seriously."

Alex blushed at his mother's praise. "Yeah, it's serious. Y'know..."

"Yes, I know." She touched his shoulder. "I'm still... I can't be solid all the time. I'm just..."

He stood and bent over and hugged her. "You've been solid as a rock, Mom. But rocks crack under pressure." He squeezed tighter. "We just do what we can, what we have to; we carry on. All that sweet crap, right? What

*I*

can do is go into oncology and try to save other fathers, and mothers, and children, keep them from going through this, too."

She squeezed back. They embraced in silence. He stood and stretched. She grinned crookedly.

"You're solid too, Alex. But you're also flexible. I don't know how far I can bend. But I'm trying to... loosen up. Hope I'm not too old."

"What, too old? You're not even forty. I won't

let

you freeze up. Even if I have to find guys for you to date."

"Now, Alex, don't you..."

"Don't what, Mom? Don't try to support you emotionally? Don't try to bring you back ino the world? You can't stay alone forever. You should know better than to fight me."

She swatted his tight ass. "Yeah, I know better. And it looks like about time for turkeys to be out." She rose from her folding chair. "I'll just shift into Mama Bear mode and go bag us some birds." She extracted the gun case behind the truck seat and loaded the Remington. "See you in a little bit, kid."

"Stay safe, Mom," he called after her as she walked into the scrubby brush.

One turkey per hunter per day; that was the legal limit now. They had never seen a game warden here but they still played close to the law.

POW! Megan brought in the first bird a few minutes later and headed back out. No one would catch her with two birds at once. Alex could claim it as his, if needed.

Hunting was the fun part. Plucking and dressing the bird was not, but was necessary, and he had pulled support for many years now. Dad had done his hunting with a camera. That was much cleaner but did not fill the freezer.

POW! POW! That must have been a fast mover, Alex thought; Mom's aim is usually dead-on. Megan was back a few minutes later with the day's second and last bird. Alex set to work while she cleaned and re-packed the shotgun.

Megan loaded the cleaned carcasses into the cooler to take home. Alex built a campfire. He cracked his dad's usual semi-racist joke.

Injun build-um small fire, keep-um warm.

White man build-um big fire, keep-um warm... hauling wood.

Ugh.

Megan had learned to groan quietly at such humor.

Hunting was serious work; campout cooking was not. The turkeys were for holiday feasts. Megan skewered ears of maize corn and juicy Polish sausages to roast over the small blaze. A smoke-stained porcelain pot of vegetable soup bubbled on the flames. A few impaled-and-roasted apples comprised dessert, washed down with hot cocoa liberally fortified with raw tequila. Yes, they dined in style.

"Does it seem extra cold to you?" Megan had thrown a heavy wool blanket over her shearling coat.

"Sure does. Maybe we got an old weather forecast. Wasn't supposed to get down to zero tonight." He refilled their hot cocoa and tequila blend. "We'd probably better crawl in soon." A flurry of snowflakes fell around them. "Oh crap. This weather was supposed to be all north of Donner Pass. Might get nippy here."

Might get nippy.

That was almost New England-funny.

They finished their drinks, smothered the fire, hugged goodnight, and retired to their separate tents. Megan pulled off her boots and climbed fully-dressed into her oversized high-loft sleeping bag. She got as warm as possible before changing into polar-fleece longjohns and heavy wool socks for the night.

---

A logical proposition: Hot cocoa and even tequila are merely forms of dirty water. People do not buy water but only rent it. Humans are water's means of transporting itself from place to place. Thus, water I/O (input-output) must balance. That is simple logic, yes?

Which is why Alex, cold-dressed in woolies, crawled out into what would have been a near-whiteout if the sun was up. Sure, he

could

have unzipped the piss-fly in his tent bottom and drained his bladder without venturing outside. But that would have been messy and smelly and the ground there was not quite loose and absorbent enough to capture his outpouring without backflooding. So he went out to water a rock.

Flashlight? He don't need no stinking flashlight! He's been here a million times. Well, not with this quantity of tequila in him.

Which is why after draining his lizard Alex did not notice the wet slickness of granite slab he stumbled on, the slick slab next to the sharply-cut rock pool, the rock pool filled with icy water.

"OH FUCK!"

Megan dragged herself from slumber. What?

"HELP! Help! ...help..."

That was Alex's voice! And growing fainter! What?

Megan grabbed her flashlight (she actually had one handy) and pushed from her tent. She swept the beam around -- and saw splashing in the rock pool. Alex! She ran to the pool's edge, careful to avoid the slick granite slab.

"Alex! Reach over this way! Alex! Give me your arm! Alex! Alex!!"

Alex managed to push himself to the pool's edge. Megan strained like a third-world stevedore and pulled her son from the water.

"C'mon Alex, you can't just lay there! Get up! Get up!"

Alex was too numbed by cold to respond. He lay limp on a bed of moss beside the pool.

Megan thought quickly. Dry and warm. He has to get dry and warm. Now!

She ran to the truck and pulled a tarp from the back, then to her tent for a cotton blanket. Cotton is much more absorbent than wool. She threw the tarp over her son's soaked form and crawled under it to towel him off as best she could.

"Alex, c'mon Alex, get up, you can't stay here. You'll freeze here, Alex, you'll die! I can't lose you too! C'mon, Alex!"

Alex was not a small man; his wiry six-foot frame was scarcely taller than his mother. He grasped at consciousness, hardly able to move by his own effort. But that effort was enough for Megan to boost and hold him. She pushed the tarp away and half-dragged, half-carried her son to her tent. She pushed him inside to wrap him in her heavy wool blanket and cover him with her opened sleeping bag.

Megan ducked out through the swirling snow to Alex's tent. She retrieved his sleeping bag and blankets and stuffed them into her own shelter. She crawled inside and sealed up tight. She quickly zipped the matching sleeping bags together, put them aside, dug-out two pairs of wool socks from her pack, and steeled herself for the next step.

She peeled the icewater-soaked socks and longjohns from Alex's cold, wet body and toweled him as dry as possible with another cotton blanket. She slipped socks onto his feet -- a snug fit, but workable. She rolled him onto a wool blanket and lightly covered him with the joined bags. She stripped off her own damp clothes and replaced her socks. Nothing else.

Megan had taken Emergency Medical Technician training even before Hal got sick. She recognized hypothermia; her son needed to have his body heat boosted NOW. She knew the standard drill for dealing with hypothermia. Naked full-body contact. That was the prescription.

She unrolled her son from the blanket and rolled him into the paired sleeping bags. She crawled in with him, zipped in fully, and pulled wool blankets over them for greater insulation.

She held his icicle body tighter than she had ever clutched anyone before.

And she cried. But only briefly.

Megan's mind had gone into full-auto mode when her flashlight picked out Alexs's splashing. No time for panic; REACT! Now, having done all she could, she switched back to normality and allowed herself to feel.

She felt fear, and anger, and impending loss, and hope, and more fear... and determination. She would NOT lose her son, too! Failure was not an option.

She chanted softly to Alex as she pressed and rubbed against him and massaged his thawing body and limbs.

"Alex, Alex, you're going to be okay Alex, I'll keep you warm, I'll keep you alive, I love you so much, oh Alex, don't go to sleep son, stay awake, stay here with me, don't go away son, I'll keep you warm. I love you Alex, it's all going to be okay, stay awake son..."

His flesh was chill but not frigid; the rock pool was not near freezing and he had not been submersed long. He was nowhere near frostbitten. He would survive, intact.

Alex had the most wonderful dream. He was warm and buoyant, almost floating; and spicy soft flesh against his; and oh, a wonderful woman was holding him and kissing him and whispering to him, such a lovely voice; but why was she calling him son?

"...What...?" he whispered.

Megan suppressed her sobs. "Alex, it's me, your Mom. You were almost gone but you're here, you're okay Alex, I'll keep you warm. I love you Alex, I love you." She pressed closer to him.

"...Mom? What...?"

"Alex, we're on the turkey hunt Alex, and it's snowing, you fell into cold cold water and you could have died, oh Alex you would have died, but I pulled you out, and the only way to keep you alive is to keep you warm, and I'll keep you warm son, I'll keep you alive, oh Alex I love you."

Damn, he thought groggily. Damn. She feels so good but she's my Mom, she's naked and I'm naked, oh damn, oh damn...

"Alex! Stay here Alex, don't fade on me, stay with me, I love you Alex, stay here."

A guttural croak. "Yes, yes Mom, it's you, I know you, I love you too Mom, oh god, it's just so... oh Mom, oh Mom, no no, oh Mom, you've got to-"

"I've got to stay right here. I'm not going anywhere. Oh Alex..."

Alex was very aware of his mother's beautiful breasts warming his chest, and her slightly-trimmed muff brushing his pubes, and her strong but soft arms wrapped around him and stroking him. And her stiff nipples, and his. And her face pressed to his. And her lips. And her tongue, right on his.

They kissed. Not a mother-son kiss. A lovers' kiss. A kiss such as she had not felt since before Hal crumbled. Alex kissed her back with a strength Megan had not seen in her son since then.

That strength did not last long. The cold had drained his energy. He fell into dreamland with his lips pressed to his mother's.

---

Megan felt her son asleep and warm. She slipped out of the sleeping bag and pulled on dry longjohns. Damn, she had to piss! She donned her coat and mud slippers and dashed outside for her own rock-watering. She took her flashlight, of course.