Great stories here. I'll ad a simple one from last year's turkey season:
Birds are gobbling upon arrival at 6 am. I hurry to setup my decoys & rush off to hide behind a pile of logs, sitting on the ground.
An hour later, a nice tom comes strolling in but doesn't even stop to strut near the decoys. I can see his eyes the whole time & then he starts wandering off. As his head is turned and I'm staring at his back about 20 yards away, I figure, "Why not?" and draw back for a shot. Arrow lands at his feet & he just keeps walking off. I mumble a few curses, collect my arrow and go back to my sit spot.
15 minutes go by and now 3 jakes come walking up. None of them are stopping to strut either. Too many sets of eyes are watching so I wait & then draw back for an easier 15 yard shot at one of the birds. The arrow lands near his feet and they just stand there. So I grab another arrow off my bow quiver, in plain sight of them, and lose another. But upon release, the lower limb hits my leg, the quiver comes loose at the bottom limb and the 2 remaining arrows are now falling in my lap, making me look like a bumbling idiot. I'm fumbling with the arrows, whispering obscenities, trying to get my quiver back together and trying not to get cut by my loose broadheads. That last shot had flown right over the jake's back and they all walk off safe and sound.
After about an hour, I move positions and try again. Now I'm almost laying down, back to a downed log with decoys out in front of me in easy sight of the dirt road where they all like to stroll. The big tom comes back in... Behind me. It feels like he's gobbling in my ear! I can hear him drumming, spitting and such just behind me, mere feet away. And then he walks off without ever giving me a view.
I lick my wounds and do my best to touch up my broadheads on the truck window, grab some lunch & restrategize. I decide to setup on some different birds at the other end of the property, right out in the open but sitting under a good-sized buckeye tree. I finally manage to coax one in and its another big tom. He walks up in front of me, circles to my left, just out of range & then disappears. I stay completely motionless for about 45 minutes. I mean dead still. After not hearing or seeing anything, even with some soft yelps and clucks, I finally straighten my neck a little to ease the tension and instantly hear a "Put! Put! Put!" off to my right. Busted. He's gone.
It's getting to late afternoon and I figure I have one more chance. I setup on the hill between the two flocks and figure I have nothing to lose at this point. The last bird moves in again. Real slow. He lingers & gobbles about 60 yards out at the bottom of the hill, refusing to come up. Then, finally, he does. It takes about another hour for him to get within 10 yards and he decides to stay behind a tree. I wait. He's gobbling, spitting, drumming, etc. but he won't show himself. Then he comes out for a quick view but then gets behind a bush. So I wait. Then, he puts and quickly walks off back the way he came. Puzzled, I wait 15 minutes and then go look around. A snake was blocking his path to the decoys.
Now I see that the first tom from the morning had also come back in down at the bottom of the hill. So I hurriedly gather my decoys, run to the bottom of the hill, setup and just hide in the tall grass. Morning tom comes in at about 20 yards, I sit up, take my shot and watch the arrow land near his feet -- again! He puts and runs off. Then I hear a gobble to my left. It's the afternoon tom. I lay back down and wait. He's coming in with a hen. I wait for the hen to pass and then draw back on the tom. The arrow lands... At his feet. I grab another arrow and aim high this time. I'm missing low so this time, I'm aiming high. That arrow sails off and lands exactly where I aimed -- right over his back. Pissed at myself and my piss-poor shooting that day, I mutter some obscenities, grab my last arrow, nock it and without a thought, fling it at the tom -- more out of protest and frustration than actual aim. I then watch my last arrow fly as perfectly as I could ever hope to see, straight into the vitals of that tom. He runs off -- arrow hanging out the offside and piles up about 60 yards away.
So, in the end, I bagged a nice, old tom. But I admit that it's hard to feel all that triumphant over one final parting shot after a day of constant failure.