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#TBT – Chicken Dinner

Recently, like a lot of other people, I have been #pandemiccleaning and #pandemicorganising – which has included trying to consolidate the mess that is all over the house, stored in various drawers, cupboards and boxes.

Which means I’ve been finding some great stuff!

This week – for #throwbackthursday – I’m sharing a short story I wrote in year nine called CHICKEN DINNER.

This has been transcribed, as is, from the original. Please excuse my complete lack of respect for apostrophes, and full stops.


Mature farmer giggling and looking at hen jumping out of basket with fresh eggsI can’t believe it, out of all the chickens in the farm yard, they had to choose me for Sunday dinner, didn’t they. Really, I’ve always dreaded this moment, I mean, who wants to be roasted. It’s not a driving ambition that every chicken has, so why do we get roasted. I’ll tell you, we get roasted to feed some greedy family at the Sunday family meal.

I knew it was going to be me yesterday, when the farmer came out and moved me into a pen right outside the back door. A while later the farmers wife came out and began to pluck out all my feathers. How painful! Imagine plucking your eyebrows and magnify the pain a few hundred times, not a nice experience, I can tell you. I spent the night freezing cold, with no feathers and they didn’t even give me a blanket.

scared_chickenNothing happened until late this afternoon when the farmer came for me again, this time to chop my head off. He wasn’t doing this one easily. As soon as he opened the gate I was off and running! The farmer chased me round and round the farm yard until he lost all his puff, so then he called his kids. There were four of them and it didn’t take long for them to catch me. The eldest boy held me on the chopping block while the farmer chopped off my head. If you thought being plucked was unpleasant try having your head chopped.

As soon as they’d chopped my head off, the farmer cleaned me out, everything, heart, lungs, stomach, the lot. That farmer has no respect for the dead. The he hands me over to his wife so she can cut me into pieces, easier for her to cook, that’s what she told her youngest daughter. She gets to chop me to bits, to make life easier for her.

After I was chopped to pieces, she rolled the bits of me in flour to help crisp up my skin, when she cooked me. When all this was done she laid all my pieces out on a baking tray and put me in the oven.

roasted chickenI’ve been in the oven about fifteen minutes and it’s really just like a very hot sauna, although it’s not very nice, sitting in all this fat and not only is the oven hot but the tray is starting to get very hot and it is burning my bottom, ouch! Oh, look, the farmers wife is coming to take me out now, I’m about to be eaten, oh, help, no, please don’t eat me, no, no!

© Kristine Charles 2020

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