As he grew, Chauncey began to realize he was different. Something wasn't right. He didn't "feel" wrong, but he could "sense" his own wrongness by the way his peers acted around him.
He was different.
In those moments of realization and self-awareness, when Chauncey made choices of his own free will, sometimes he communicated. He tried to, at least.
Are you gonna eat that?
Hi. I'm Chauncey. What's your name?
You look nice.
I'm taller than you, shorty.
GET BACK HERE!
The problem with being a chicken was that communication was never straightforward. Peeping and trilling and crowing and squawking conveyed messages, but more often than not the "receiver" was too busy eating or drinking or pooping or sleeping to notice. Furthermore, as soon as Chauncey had to go back to eating or drinking or pooping or sleeping, he would immediately forget the conversation he had just had, if he ever managed to have one.
Communicating was hard.
And yet, something remained buried deep inside Chauncey, a remnant of the conversations he preserved in his core. An emotion. A fact.
He knew he was different, and different was... dangerous.
Usually, Chauncey's conversations went like this:
"Hi. I'm Chauncey. What's your name?"
"Mmm hmm. Chauncey you are one fiiiiine drink of water. Not many men around here, boy, you better watch yer back before Otis gits ya."
"Otis?"
"Mmm hmm. The big cock on the block. The old rooster that gits my keister. He'll ruffle you up right and clean, don't you worry."
"Okay. Wanna play chase?"
"Chase? Boy, you better chase yourself up on outta here. You gonna git ate."
"Ate?"
"Damn you are deader than a doorknob and sadder than a church on Monday."
"Okay?"
"You's a man. Otis is bigger n'you. You don't lay no eggs. You gonna git ate."
At this time, Chauncey's mind would usually flicker back to eating or pooping, and he would leave the hen to her own business while he took care of his. He soon forgot the conversation, but would always feel unsettled, especially in those spare moments when an unoccupied hen noticed him and sadly tilted her head to the left, blinking twice.
Chauncey never remembered what the hens told him. But they knew something. And he knew something, too. He was different. And he was scared.
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Empty Space Upon A Clean Plate
RandomChauncey had life a good life, for a chicken. With plenty of grain, water, and an entire barn of chickens to talk to, Chauncey had no complaints. He was just a chicken, after all. Leonard had been through a lot. He had suffered greatly, but som...
