05-26-2021, 11:43 PM
At first they are lucky. The creature snores, peaceful in its slumber, as the first chicken waddles across the mound of earth. There is only a small tremor, the blanched skin along its back rolling beneath the soil when a scrap of its mane is snatched, greedily, between the blunt edges of a yellow beak. It adjusts, lazily, and the mound barely shifts as the creature finds comfort quickly again. A second, low grumble, bubbles up through the dirt, but the soft snores resume, even as an off-season gourd rolls to a stop beside the hill of its earthy nest.
Such luck.
For a moment.
A third chicken arrives then, ruffling its feathers and shrieking in the shrill way that only nagging women can, and it’s this frivolous interruption that finally coaxes the creature's black eyes open. A third, low groan bubbles from its throat as it rises like an elderly man from a rocking chair; slowly, with the audible creaking of its aching joints likely uncomfortable for everyone. It yawns, sleepily, a beet red tongue lolling out between its toothless white gums as it shakes the remaining soil from its waxy, crackled back and stands to tower, eleven hands high, above the poultry and vegetation that had so abruptly aligned before it.
In the next, strangely swift, moment it lowers its great radish head before the three and inhales deeply in examination before exhaling remnants of soil, snot, and the occasional earthworm inches from their faces, and gourd shells. It wonders what to do with them, but first it will let them speak.
Such luck.
For a moment.
A third chicken arrives then, ruffling its feathers and shrieking in the shrill way that only nagging women can, and it’s this frivolous interruption that finally coaxes the creature's black eyes open. A third, low groan bubbles from its throat as it rises like an elderly man from a rocking chair; slowly, with the audible creaking of its aching joints likely uncomfortable for everyone. It yawns, sleepily, a beet red tongue lolling out between its toothless white gums as it shakes the remaining soil from its waxy, crackled back and stands to tower, eleven hands high, above the poultry and vegetation that had so abruptly aligned before it.
In the next, strangely swift, moment it lowers its great radish head before the three and inhales deeply in examination before exhaling remnants of soil, snot, and the occasional earthworm inches from their faces, and gourd shells. It wonders what to do with them, but first it will let them speak.