I finally saw him for what he was, a war horse. A loyal and faithful companion to the chicken, a sworn protector, and a virtuous knight of the animal kingdom. I reached down, summoned my inner Walter Payton, and dashed right, circling around his hind quarters to find… no chicken.
“Stop playing with the horse. I've been over here for two minutes trying to catch this stupid bird,” came the command from behind me.
I had been so intent on getting around my mighty foe I didn’t notice Melissa walking up calmly and herding the chicken back into the enclosure directly in front of the coop. I hung my head, gave a salute to the horse, and made my way over to the gate.
I've known my sister for, like, my whole life, and we work well together as a team. We halved the space, flanking the chicken until it came within my reach and I snatched it up with a speed that surprised even me.
“Quick, throw it in the coop,” Melissa said, and like a good brother, I complied, tossing the chicken over the fence into the coop yard. Except it didn't go into the yard, it floated above the yard. I stared at it in disbelief. This chicken could walk on air. No, not air, chicken wire. Of course, the coop was covered with chicken wire.
“Why’d you do that?” Melissa pleaded.
“Because you said throw it in!” I returned in an equally pathetic voice.
Exasperation in her voice, she said, “The door,” she pointed to the door three and a half inches from my left hand.
“Huh,” was all my brilliant mind could come up with in response.
Melissa took charge of my debacle at this point and I knew it would get better. She moved to the other side of the coop yard and told me to throw dirt at the chicken to scare it towards her. Picking up handfuls of dirt, I tossed it at the chicken.
“This dirt is weird.” I casually remarked.
Melissa said, “Don't think about it, just throw it!” which immediately started me thinking. This is the horse pen, and this “dirt” has chunks of hay in it.
“Oh,” I moaned and shook my hands like a little kid.
“You did this, you keep throwing,” the commander remarked sternly. I complied.
Turns out, I’d given the chicken more credit in the brains department than were warranted. Instead of running from the clumps of “dirt” it walked right into them. The fates had looked kindly on me, and I saw my chance for redemption. I leapt up, grabbed the gold mass of feathers as though my life depended on it and came down successful. Melissa gave out a little huzzah, and I turned to walk to the coop door.
“No,” Melissa cried out.
If I may, I would like to take a moment here and make you aware of a serious disorder that affects 1 in every 7.8 billion people. “Chicken Wire Blindness” is the inability to perceive chicken wire. Individuals afflicted with this horrible condition have been known to suffer from ridicule and ineptitude in situations of extreme stress and anytime chicken wire is involved. There is no known cure. These poor souls have to live with this crippling disorder day in and day out.
Now back to our programming.
I walked smack-dab into the center of a huge bail of chicken wire. The next three seconds played out in true slow motion. I started to go down, the chicken held in my two hands in front of me. The poor bird, having the unique advantage of having eyes on the side of its head, stared at me in wide eyed horror as it simultaneously watched me fall, and the ground rapidly approach.
I thought to myself that no matter what this chicken had put me through, it did not deserve to die by being crushed. I thrust it towards Melissa who caught it with her feet like a soccer ball. I got my hands down just in time to keep me from splatting face first. So, there I was on all fours, watching Melissa dribble-kick the chicken, open the coop door, and shove the foul fowl inside.
Remember how I had said the sun was shining, and the snow had melted? Well, when snow melts it makes mud. Except I had already figured out that the “dirt” around here was not dirt. The stuff I had been throwing was dry, but this was full on liquid.
I stood up and whined, “It's poop.”
Melissa doubled over in hysterical fits of laughter.
I started to walk out of the pen when I felt a strange sensation on my leg, cold, wet, and slimy. “The eggs!” I cried out as I felt the yolk slide down my leg.
So, the moral of the story is, don't count your eggs while they are in your pocket. Or some junk like that. You know what? No! The moral of the story is chickens are jerks, and I'm gonna eat me one. KFC here I come. After a shower of course.
The End
About the Author
David was born and raised in the great state of Wyoming. Joining the Air Force out of high school afforded him the chance to travel and experience the world at large. Now he spends his time in the Pacific Northwest with his lovely wife, writing whatever is of interest to him. He loves storytelling, in whatever form it may come.
Chicken Magic
Bokerah Brumley
Chicken Magic
Bokerah Brumley
The fate of Santi’s world balanced on a feather’s edge.
And the back of a thieving chicken.
At least that’s what he always thought when Frango, Santi’s best pickpocket, strutted into the crowds at the weekly festival time, hunting for shiny bits and baubles the way Santi had taught him.
The lazy-eyed rooster hunted for reflective trinkets to take back to their nest. The bigger and shinier, the bigger Frango’s pile of feed. The birdbrain wasn’t the smartest fowl around, but he hadn’t minded taking the job.
Santi hooked his thumbs in the length of cord that circled his waist and moved down the street, relishing the boots he’d nicked earlier in the day. The soft leather caressed his feet and would make sneaking that much easier.
The aroma of cinnamon fry bread permeated the air, disturbed intermittently by the scent of mule dung and perspiration. Hundreds of voices mixed into a dull roar like heavy rain on a tin roof. Sweat beaded on Santi’s upper lip, and he wiped it away on the rough sleeve of his robe. They needed a good payday.
Frango darted between the devoted attendees, ducked beneath goods tables, and challenged the fat tabby that the grocer employed to keep the rats at bay. Though, Santi had never seen the feline with anything alive in his mouth.
A nun exited the convent to ring the hourly bells, the deep tones vibrating loud enough to silence the mob. A cart rumbled by, blocking Santi’s view of his feathered partner. He tipped up on his toes and peered over, catching the eye of a well-dressed woman on the other side of the street. He turned and dropped back into the shadow of a stoop. He had to watch out for his little friend, but Santi couldn’t bring attention to himself. In his line of work, attention never ended well.
Down the way, a man yelped, drawing Santi’s attention. The thick-shouldered, sour-faced man muttered words Santi couldn’t make out and rubbed at his bottom, a line of a dozen gold hoops quivered in his ear and gold chains circled his neck, his nose a little too high in the air. Something must have gotten him, and it wasn’t the first time Frango had pecked Adelmar’s giant bum.
In a flash of iridescent colors, Frango bolted around the corner toward home, and Santi grinned. He couldn’t make out what Frango had in his beak, but it would mean food for an evening or food for a week. Maybe more, if they were lucky.
Santi set a leisurely pace toward the hovel they shared near the cemetery. The slip away would be easy. The local authorities hadn’t yet figured out his band of creature misfits. He winked at the row of grandmothers that sat in the shade cast by the eaves, waiting on the nuns to come out and bestow the alms of the Matriarch.
Behind them, curses filled the air, and women gasped at the language. Santi crouched and pretended to re-lace his leather boots. He watched from the corner of his eye.
“I’ll kill that chicken. It’ll be the last time he steals from me.” Adelmar’s bellow alone would have been enough to scare anyone. “Who owns him?”
An answering murmur rolled th
rough the growing crowd. The woman from earlier laid a hand on Adelmar’s forearm, leaned over, and whispered into his ear. Adelmar dipped into his money pouch, and the faint clink of metal on metal followed. Damage done, she closed her hand and slipped back into the crowd.
Sold out. She’d sold him out.
Santi spun back and met the gaze of the gray-haired rag woman at the end of the row, nestled in the middle of braided rugs and repurposed textiles. He raised an eyebrow.
Her expression did not change, but she dragged another swath of ruined clothing into her lap and studied it from beneath the crevices across her forehead,
“Santiago, you run, boy. Adelmar is sending his goons,” she said, her voice low and rasping. She ripped a strip off of a farmer’s vegetable sack and dropped it into her basket. “They see you.”
He didn’t bother looking back. The glance over the shoulder always slowed progress, and, if those thugs caught him, the result would hurt like hell. Instead, he tossed a coin onto her table—which she spirited away into the folds of her dress before anyone noticed—and then he dashed the opposite way Frango had run. If Santi managed to live past the mess, it wouldn’t do him any good to expose his secret menagerie. They’d already worn out their welcome, and it was time to move on.
He bolted down the stone street, weaving in and out between carts, avoiding oxen dung and other scat, his leathered feet barely making noise. He cut right through an alleyway, hoping to be lost in a blink, but shouts echoed off the stone walls and footfalls came closer still. He burst into the narrow stone corridor between houses and slammed against a wall. Pain exploded in his shoulder, and Santi cried out.
“This way!” More answering shouts. They were still coming. If he could cut through enough, he might lose them. He took another right, already panting, but he kept running. He couldn’t lead them home. They’d take all his friends. Two turns later, he was behind the basket weaver’s, two large bins heralding her supplies as they dried. He jumped into the first and clamped his mouth closed to cover the sound of his gasping.
The crowd ran by. Then again. He waited until his heart calmed and he breathed easy.
Hours passed since his last glimpse of the goon horde. He climbed out, still listening, but he heard nothing. He made his way toward Main Street, already planning to pick up an apple or two along the way.
He made it. Another chase, but he’d beaten the odds yet again. With a little skip, he stepped out onto the main thoroughfare.
Bam!
Straight into a wide chest and beefy arms.
“Well, boy, the chicken got away.” Fat fingers grasped the back of his coat shirt and yanked backward and triggered a coughing fit in Santi. “The birdbrain must be smarter than you.”
They were in an abandoned five-way intersection. No animals. No people. Nobody to help, and then thugs appeared from all directions. Circling them until they were surrounded on all sides by faces that wavered between adoration for Adelmar and revulsion for Santi.
He squirmed, his head swiveling all around as he scanned.
There was no getting out, and no animals to help him.
“He’s my boss,” Santi joked. Frango had better have gotten something good.
“I’m your boss now.”
A blow from behind turned everything dark.
Santi crumbled to the ground.
Santi woke on the ground, his throat dried, his head spinning. Dust filled his nose. The smell of animals came from nearby. He could be home, but he hurt almost as bad as the time he’d been caught by the police chief and lashed from head to toe. The pain was the same, but without the extra stinging. A shadow passed over him, and he opened his eyes to find Adelmar peering into his face with two goons behind him.
“Hello, sweetie, lovely to see you survived the trip.” Santi flashed his most beguiling smile.
Adelmar spit in his face and then aimed a kick to Santi’s ribs.
The crack of bone vibrated thought Santi’s chest cavity, and he curled around himself. He couldn’t take another one of those. He sucked at the air, trying to take a breath, but his body refused. When he finally got one, it was like a blade stabbed him in the side where the bones had broken.
Overhead, Adelmar asked, “Do you know who I am?”
Santi squinted up at the giant. “A chicken tax collector?”
Adelmar shook a meaty fist beneath Santi’s nose. “You’re on thin ice, boy.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Santi studied his surroundings. They were in an empty barnyard. Behind Adelmar’s mansion, by the looks of things. A young woman with long black hair—probably Adelmar’s daughter—stood nearby.
The sound of trickling water came from the corner, and Santi twisted toward it. A windmill ran a piston pump which pulled water up from the ground and then fed it continuously into the water trough. He nearly smiled. If he stalled long enough, animals would come to the trough.
“Where do you live?” Adelmar kicked his legs, and Santi twisted back around.
“Near Cocky Gate,” he said. “Where else would a chicken mob boss live?”
The big man made a fist and raised it over Santi’s head.
Santi braced for the blow.
“Papa, don’t hurt him. Maybe he’s hungry. Maybe he can be reasoned with,” she said.
“Rusha, I told you.”
“But, Papa, free him.”
“Daughter…” His tone held a warning.
The young woman started toward the house, but she jumped behind a column. No one except Santi noticed.
“If you let me go, I won’t tell anyone you hit me,” Santi interjected. “No harm. No fowl.”
Adelmar scowled and slapped him.
Santi blinked rapidly to clear the spots from his vision. “It’s funny because it’s a joke.”
Goats bleated in the distance. The shepherd must be bringing them in from the fields for the night. They’d be his way out.
“I own this town.” Adelmar grasped Santi’s chin and yanked up. “Nobody will miss a thieving urchin.” He released Santi’s chin. “Tie him.”
Two goons rushed forward, yanking and tugging Santi back toward the tie posts.
“What’re you doing?” Santi whispered.
They both laughed. One said, “He likes to leave the trash to bake in the sun a while before throwing it out.”
The scraggly herd burst into the barnyard and, as one, they bolted toward the filled water trough. Santi searched for the lead female. A long-haired white and gray rammed the goat next to it.
That was the one. She would be easy to convince. He focused on implanting the idea that the two goons needed to know she was the boss. She lifted her horned head and her eyes narrowed as she watched the two force Santi against the posts.
She walked a few steps closer and stomped her foot. Santi focused a little more, and she pawed at the ground. And then she started running.
“Are his eyes greener?”
“Don’t be foolish.”
Santi barely kept the smile from his face. A nanny goat on a rampage could do a lot of damage. Before they could tie him to the posts, they went flying, one went one way and one went the other.
And the nanny rounded for a second go. They yelped and scrambled away. Adelmar bellowed that someone should catch the possessed creature.
Santi bolted across the courtyard, and he made it to the gate before anyone had looked away from the spectacle. The girl stood to the side, just behind the column, grinning at him as though she’d just gotten the best news.
Santi winked at the young woman and then disappeared over the fence.
Santi wandered the city. He crept from shade to shadow beneath the harvest moon, hunting for anything salvageable. When he was certain he wasn’t being followed, he climbed up the nearest lean-to shack and onto the rooftops, carefully picking his way back to their rented barn.
He dropped down in front of the building, frowning at the yellow glow that showed through the window. The creatures couldn
’t light the lamp. Who had found their hideout? He tugged the rope latch and pressed the door open, the iron hinges creaking.
“I wondered how long it would take you.” It was the girl with long black hair. Adelmar’s daughter climbed to her feet, dusting hay from the seat of her pants, her face wreathed in smiles. “Frango was so worried. He thought you might have been eaten by my father. Or an owl.”
Perched on her arm, Frango tilted his head, his bright red comb falling over his lazy eye.
“People don’t talk to animals.” Santi frowned at the scene before him.
“Nonsense. My name is Rusha.” She held out her free hand.
He inched closer, his gaze darting from place to place in the barn, but he didn’t take her hand. Her presence had to be a lure. Adelmar had to be out there.
She lowered her hand. “It’s not a trap. I hate the way my father treats creatures and people.” Her expression twisted in disgust, and then she waved at the others. “Ask them.”
In the corner, Dog, the goat, chewed hay. Callie, the Calico cat, batted at a moth that danced in the air beside her. Callie had joined their little troupe two towns ago, and now the grocer’s fat cat lounged beside her. Nothing else amiss.
“How did you find this place?” Nobody had found their hideout yet. “I just came to get my chicken.” Maybe Dog could butt her through the door.
“I asked around.”
“Villagers lie.”
She gave him a look then. “People never realize what their creatures notice.” She grinned, then, her green eyes flashing in the light.
“Is your father here?”
“No, just me.” She lifted a basket onto the makeshift table that Santi had made from a throwaway shipping crate. She unloaded pottery dishes covered in cloths. She offered an apologetic smile to the animals that surrounded them. “I brought food. I didn’t know you’d have company.”
CRACKED: An Anthology of Eggsellent Chicken Stories Page 31