[ WP ] On a farm , the animals worship humanity as gods . Among the turkeys , being chosen for Thanksgiving dinner is seen as the highest possible honor . Write from the perspective of a male turkey who is jealous of his sister , who has been selected to be slaughtered .

I watch the sun as it crawls into the sky. The weak amber sunlight does nothing to warm the morning chill, but it seems to thaw the restraint that has been holding my heart in check. 
 
 The dim sunlight falls across the dusty pen and I can see my family, my cousins and everyone I have ever known. They are all sitting still, but no one is asleep. I see eyes clamped shut and eyes wide open, but no one meets my gaze except for my sister. She is in the opposite pen. Her face is impassive but I can see the glimmer of excitement in her dark eyes. 
 
 I try my best to match her poker-face, but beneath my feathers I am shivering, and beneath my breast I can feel the jackhammer of my heart. `` It won ’ t be you'', I think to myself, cringing at the petulant tone of my mind ’ s voice. I try to focus on my breathing and my heartbeat. I try to focus on the cold in my bones. I try to focus on anything other than the whiny voice in my mind, but I can ’ t help myself. `` It ’ ll be me, or maybe one of the other seniors. But it won ’ t be you. Stop looking so human-damn smug.'' 
 
 I hear a soft, venomous-sounding “ gobble ” and frown at this intrusion of our silence, before I realize it came from my beak. And I look down in embarrassment, peering intently at the sawdust beneath our claws. Every year the humans came at dawn, selecting one of us to be decorated with green garlands, bathed in the purifying fires of heaven and placed upon a metal throne to be honored at the center of the table. 
 
 First it was Mother, then Father, then Conner and Melissa and Shamus. Every year I watched them carry a loved-one into the Castle, and every year I felt the resentment and despair growing bigger and blacker in my heart. `` It won ’ t be you,'' I think, looking up at my sister again. `` It can ’ t be you.'' 
 
 The door opens, and the wooden floor creaks as one of the humans walks into the room. He is one of the younger humans, with a soft layer of blonde fuzz on his jaw. He gazes slowly at each and every one of us. `` Please choose me,'' I think as his green eyes focus on me. `` Please choose me. Please choose me.'' 
 
 But his gaze slides to the next pen, and the next. Around and around and around, until he is facing my sister. `` It can ’ t be her. No dammit!'' And as he bends down and grasps her, I can not contain the torrent of frenzied gobbles that flood from my beak, mixing with the sorrowful wails of my family, my cousins and everyone I have ever known. Everyone except my sister. 
 
 **EDITED for simple grammar mistakes. 

