Chapter 7: Fióna Carijó
612 Words
I, Fiona—hen of impeccable posture, radiant feathers, and unshakable dignity—was simply living MY LIFE.
To be exact, I was eating a few particularly juicy worms near my favorite bush, the one my late aunt adored (may she rest in peace).
The sun was pleasant, the breeze gentle, and everything was perfectly normal… as normal as it gets on this ranch.
Until it happened.
Out of nowhere—and without the slightest warning, because apparently the universe enjoys testing my patience—a blonde human appears. Extremely perfumed. Wearing boots that have clearly never touched a speck of dirt. All neat, shiny, sparkling, and painfully urban. She looked at me as if I were some kind of rare, mystical creature.
I was literally just eating.
And then she ATTACKED.
Yes, attacked.
Like a confused hawk.
As if I were a walking diamond.
Or worse—a PET.
The woman suddenly crouched down, reached out, and grabbed me like I had nothing better to do than be kidnapped by a fancy-smelling stranger!
Naturally, I started protesting immediately:
CLUCK! CLUCK-CLUCK-CLUCK!
(Translation: RELEASE ME, YOU MANIAC!)
But, of course, she didn’t speak my language. Humans rarely do.
As I flapped my wings, utterly outraged, I noticed she was trying to… PET me?
Absolutely deranged behavior.
I am a fully grown hen. A respected member of this community. I do not accept this kind of unsolicited affection.
And that’s when I saw HIM.
Marco.
My favorite human (he doesn’t know this yet, but it’s true).
Big, strong, smelling faintly of horse and responsibility.
The one who secretly gives me extra corn when he thinks no one is watching.
I thought: “Ah, finally. Someone sane.”
But when he approached, instead of saving ME—the actual victim—he started arguing with the blonde human.
The conversation was ridiculous.
Girl: “She ran away!”
Marco: “She LIVES here!”
Girl: “I thought she was hurt!”
Marco: “She’s a chicken, not a fragile grandma!”
In the chaos of their pointless shouting, I seized my chance.
I spread my wings, summoned the ancestral strength of my ancestors, and FLEW.
Well… “Flying” is a flexible concept.
But I performed a glorious leap—Olympic-worthy.
Shot between them like a feathery bullet of freedom.
It was beautiful.
I sprinted toward the barn, finally thinking I was safe.
But NO.
The perfume queen came after me.
The goddess of white boots decided that, of all the chickens in the world, I was special.
I ran.
She ran.
Marco ran behind her, clearly laughing inside.
And then—like in all great tragedies—mud and gravity joined forces.
Suddenly, they slipped, toppled, and splat.
Both on the ground.
One on top of the other.
As they were filming one of those romances, Rosa watches secretly during her lunch break.
I stopped, watched them, and thought:
“For the love of corn… humans are exhausted.”
I walked up with all my usual elegance and pecked Marco’s boot, just to say:
“THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I WAS TRYING TO AVOID.”
Alice jumped up, furious, covered in mud, looking like an angry gingerbread cookie.
She shouted, complained, flailed her arms, and marched away like a tiny general leading an army.
I watched her go with respect.
She may be insane, but she has presence.
Marco sat there, breathing deeply, staring at me as if I had caused all this chaos.
I flapped my wings and replied:
CLUCK.
(Translation: You chose to work with guests, darling.)
Then I left, dignity restored and my worms waiting.
The end.
- Writer
