For years her kind had been hunted. Their children snatched from their bosoms before they were completely formed. Her mother, bless her memory, said to her ‘Chikkie, this is our life. To be chased about, left in conditions favourable or not, to not be barren yet be childless, to never have a moments peace. This is our life’. Chikkie was too young to understand her mothers words, she was a mere chick. So she played away, with all the other chicks. A game of hide and seek from the other hawk who tried to eat. It was all good fun. Until it was not.
That morning, the one Chikkie called the scarlet Dawn, changed Chikkie forever. The farmers heavy footsteps echoed through the yard. All the adults became quiet, nodding to each other and craning necks. Chikkie danced away, like all the other chicks, oblivious to life. Until the sharp cry pierced the silence. A voice Chikkie knew too well: Mama!! Chikkie ran, as fast as her too tiny legs would allow. It was too late, mama squawked and screamed, the farmer’s hands were stronger. Her mother was taken. The adults bent their heads, pecked the soil, and began to scatter. Another one had fallen. Chikkie sat at the gate of the coop. She sat from sunrise to sundown, no signs of mama. Two more days, Chikkie sat, denying herself food, still no sign of mama. Then, Chikkie understood mama’s words from before.
So Chikkie vowed! She would never be subject to any man! Never! She began to think, how does one escape the coop? To search for a life better than the one she lived. Chikkie prayed to the creator above, for a way out of the mess she and hers called life. And the creator answered. In a dream, he showed her a way to dig tunnels with her claws. A patch of soft loam in the sawdust covered floor.
So Chikkie recruited the members of the farm. Mother, father, child, all dug at night. During the day, they sqwacked and scratched, playing the fool. So the farmer came and laughed in delight, at how rich he’d soon become. And the chickens continued, fools by day, diggers at night. And soon, they had dug their way, out the gate of the yards that caged them.
So one by one, in the sequence of man, woman, chick, Chikkie asked them to go through the tunnels, while she created a distraction. Chikkie squawked and squawked and squawked, with maniac strength and determination. She squawked,until the farmer could take it no more.
In anger, he snatched her by her feathers and carried her to her death. And through the entire walk, his constant stamping like death’s war drums, Chikkie smiled, silent and stoic. She had changed the system. She had won. As the cool blade touched her just exposed neck, Chikkie looked up to the sky and said ‘gracias Dios mio’. One slice, quick and fatal. Chikkie was dead.
The farmer threw her in the bowl, as he heated water for her dressing. Surprised by the unusual quiet, he went to check on his farm. He found it completely empty, save for Chikkie’s brown feather and the words ‘we have won’ in barely legible writing.
And so, Chikkie’s name would forever live on the beaks of chickens, as they dig the soil in honour of her memory.
***************************************** So I dabbled in Fiction!! Lol, this is my first try, except you count the ones I wrote at 5. And after a discussion with a fellow blogger, I thought it would be nice to have some fictious stuff here and there to slow the aging process which reality speeds. I hope you enjoy the story.