Once upon a time there was a pretty red hen. She was young and happy and looked forward to laying her first egg. On Tuesday, she tried to lay an egg, but couldn’t. On Wednesday, she tried again. She tried all that day, but her effort was useless. Finally, on Friday, she laid a cream-colored egg. In excitement, she clucked and squawked and flapped her wings. Lil’ Red had laid an egg! She caressed her egg lovingly and tucked it under her belly. “I’ll name you Stewie,” she soothed. Suddenly, the wall beside her opened and a huge hand stuck in and grabbed Lil’ Red’s egg. Lil’ Red flapped in fury, but it was useless. Hen and Chicks For days, Lil’ Red’s eggs were stolen. Days melted into weeks, weeks into months, and months into almost a year. Two days before New Year’s Eve, Lil’ Red decided to stop laying eggs. She was tired of getting her eggs stolen by the children, Molly Mae and Jason Jon. On New Year’s Eve, Mrs. Tatianna, the farmer’s wife, wanted to make a cake. Since Lil’ Red had decided to stop laying eggs, she wasn’t able to bake it. To make up for it, her husband decided to make a special rotisserie chicken treat. He strolled over to the chicken coop. Who should he butcher? Not Pam, she was the best layer. Not Jane, Katie, or Molly—they also were good. Finally, he came to Lil’ Red. “Aha!” he cried. “You’ll be roasted before you know it.” So that’s the tale of Lil’ Red, who got a knife put in her head.
September/October 2023
Hen and Chicks
Pastel
The Train Window
Gazing out the window, I observe the teal ocean. Its waves thrash against the biggest rocks I’ve ever seen, but in its violence, I see only beauty. Its blue is that of a turquoise crayon six-year-old me would firmly grip in her tiny hands. She would scribble on a blank page, filling it with what she saw in her tiny green eyes as the most wonderful drawing in the world. She’d be eager to get home and show her disastrous “artwork” to her parents, who would, in turn, smile their strained smiles and nod to each other, knowing there’s no way their little girl could ever pursue art as a career. Outside, I notice the sun seems to be getting sleepy. It has decided to rest its weary head upon the horizon, sinking peacefully into the now calm, quiet ocean. In a few hours, the explosion of colors that we know as a sunset will die down, fading into a dark inky blue, then purple, then black. The stars will come out, and the moon will do its best to shine as bright as our majestic sun. It won’t come too close, but that’s okay. Our tiny moon tries its best. In the end, I’ll still be here, staring out the tiny window of this little brown train. Seasons, tides, and weather may change, but here I remain. Staring out the tiny window of this little brown train.
