I’m a simple guy in this strange world run by giant chickens. Big, white and fat, they being the most advanced beings on this planet are intelligent enough to run the entirety on their terms.
I live in this rusted iron enclosure with a hundred more of my type. Here’s little space to breathe and to move around. It was not long before I was brought here. The open fields, sunrises and sunsets are now off limits. There are rusted nets, congestion and a window through which weak sun shafts dazzle for limited hours every day, a sad reminiscence of how the golden setting sun looked like. There’s dirt, negligence and misconduct in some corners but it is now a regular ordeal. We don’t talk much; just enough to survive. Every day is pretty much the same, on better ones they toss in some bread and legumes with the grains.
I was chilled to the bone in the first few hours, frightened and afraid of the darkness in this new world unknown; it took a while getting used to. As I was dusting off my way through the cobwebs reaching out for some air, I ran into a tall woman. Fair, handsome features and most importantly, friendly, Miss Mimmins introduced herself.
On the fourth day, ten minutes into a conversation, she told me the strangest thing about this place. “There is a daily lottery of which rules are unknown. To the winners a much superior and lavish society is promised.” she said. Usually five or less lucky ones move out everyday and are never heard of again. The void is soon filled with new inmates. The fortunate five are congratulated and the newcomers welcomed.
“How long do you think it would take before we get out?” I asked her.
“I am not sure”, Mimmins continued. “Poor Christina has been here for 8 years now. They say that it is because she breeds healthy infants. And there are more girls like her.”
Winter came, and with it arrived the festivities. The radio outside the nets sang carols and the deep chicken cackle was less frequented. On Christmas eve, Mimmins rushed in. She looked rather amused. But it being Christmas was not the only root of her happiness. “I won it! I won it! I’ll be leaving tomorrow they said.” she cried as she hugged me. I was happy but also aggrieved to think of losing my most valued company. Her being in a better place was a mere consolation. The following day she was all packed and suited as she stood amongst the others who had made it too. A brief song of farewell marked the end of her prison time.
Mimmins’ absence was increasingly making my life tedious. It remained the same for some time until it was my turn! I just couldn’t believe that the ball was in my court within well around a week after she had left. I would be out by New Year. There was a murmur that they needed more humans out in the world. The head cock, a stout brown body with sharp facial features came near me, others regrouped aside. “Tomorrow is your day, gentleman. It’ll be fun.” He said in a low voice; his red cockscomb swayed with his moving head.
As the bell rang, I was summoned to the gate along with others. I wondered where Mimmins was and whether I’d be able to meet her again. George, a humble man and another inmate, stood in front of me. I was taken out after five minutes of his departure.
I walked past the gate when a spectator whispered, “The last mile, kid.” Then another did the same. I bowed my head as I came out and then looked at the sky for the first time in months. It was unusual but it had just rained; the clouds had cleared up. A rainbow peeked through some persisting clouds and the winter sun gave comfort. My joy short-lived and overcome by confusion turned soon into horror as I figured what was going on. A sight of terror stood before me. They had hung George against a bloody wall on one side of the open street bustling with chickens, and probably also the three others before him. He hanged half dead from a rope under the watch of the same cock who had come to talk to me the day before. George shrieked and gasped till his limbs ceased to shake.
We were in that section of the market where the chickens sold human meat, to be feasted and enjoyed. They skinned George in front of me and chopped the immobile into pieces. Blood flooded on the giant table as the customers stood spectators, and some stood amused. “60 pounds.” the chopper yelled before he packed the pieces in two layers of black plastic.
Image credits: Jimnah Njue.
P.S. I wrote this when I was during college, probably at the start of second year. This was my first and last attempt at writing a short story. I got the idea to write this as I was buying chicken from a local wet market.
