Ended BYC Writing Prompts! A Short Story Contest

[Lacy Duckwing]

JUST like me with piano! my piano teacher says to look at my music and not my keyboard but I have to look at the keyboard because I make tons of mistakes otherwise.

Try playing in the dark. It works better than trying to fight the urge to look down. With no lights on, even if you do look down, you can't see anything.
(That's how my Mom learned. I still sometimes look at the keys unless I know the peice well enough not too. )

 

[Amer]

Try playing in the dark. It works better than trying to fight the urge to look down. With no lights on, even if you do look down, you can't see anything.
(That's how my Mom learned. I still sometimes look at the keys unless I know the peice well enough not too. )

*me who plays the oboe*
What is this looking down?

 

[LhickenChicken]

Try playing in the dark. It works better than trying to fight the urge to look down. With no lights on, even if you do look down, you can't see anything.
(That's how my Mom learned. I still sometimes look at the keys unless I know the peice well enough not too. )

thanks!
@Lacy Duckwing your profile is sooooo cute! I just love how that chick is just like Hey what?

 

[Lacy Duckwing]

thanks!
@Lacy Duckwing your profile is sooooo cute! I just love how that chick is just like Hey what?

Thank you! That chick is my EE named Lilac.

 

[Blue Raptor]

Thank you! That chick is my EE named Lilac.

Aw, that’s a gorgeous name.

 

[Lacy Duckwing]

Aw, that’s a gorgeous name.

Thanks!

 

[TropicalChickies]

Prompt: non-fiction (with a bit of historical)
Title: What would a chicken type?
It's difficult for me to explain just how much I love my chickies. I mean, I have the words, but can anyone relate? Truly, they fascinate me, with their scaled clawed raptor feet, their glittering inward turning eyes that see a world I cannot.

Recently, I read that birds hunting on the ground see the trails of insects and snails bathed in a violet phosphorescence which they follow to their prey. And they are hunters, my fluffy chickies, of surprising agility and acumen, keeping the leaf-cutter ants and gobbling grasshoppers from annihilating the garden plants.

Perhaps it's because their world is crisscrossed by this glowing web of bugtrails that their eyes are so intently open, staring at what I perceive as just the ground. Although...I fancy sometimes that these small feathered dinosaurs also see another world altogether, ancient and clean and full of power. An earth fresh from a fiery renewal or an icy bath.

We might think of chickens as symbols of the American barnyard, clucking and cockle-doodle-dooing along with the mooing of cows and oinking of pigs, but they are actually of Asiatic origin, island jungle fowl who scratched in the leafy detritus of tropical forests. I can see this part of their story clearly: long-plumed birds swaying in wicker cages stacked aboard a dugout canoe their captors paddled from archipelago to mainland, traded for silk or metal in the bustling bazaars of the east and brought west across the open steppes of Eurasia on horseback, to a cold wild place of warring tribes we now call Europe. Eventually, they made another water crossing to the Americas.

For all their "exotic" history, my chickies are also undeniably domesticated, as much a part of ourhearth and home as our six dogs--who grudgingly acknowledge the them as equal apples of my eye.

Every day, I marvel at my chickies' remarkably accurate sense of time and exactitude for routine. In the mornings, they wake us up promptly at 6 am, squawking for food and to be let out. They make their way over to the "water cooler" for a drink and a gossip session. While they have a variety of sounds for different occasions, like a throaty hiss to warn of circling hawks, their inter-chicken communication is mysteriously silent.

I will see two of them, standing stock still with their heads less than inch apart, not moving, asking and answering. Then they waltz into my kitchen like they own the place, clucking and chatting to me about their day.

How do I know they "talk"? Well, here is an example. Chickens are notoriously prone to foot problems, ulcers called "bumblefoot" where a small cut becomes a painful lump. But as we've found, it's become fairly routine to keep their feet clean and remove any infection before it becomes a big problem. So when we see a chickie limping a bit, it's time for a salt water foot soak and a cleaning.

Cleo our carrioca (featherless neck) chickie was the first to get bumblefoot. We took out the abcess and she recovered. Then we noticed Joanie, the big boss, had a decidedly swollen foot. Joanie, however, really did not want to be picked up. Ever see Rocky? Then you know how hard it is to catch a chicken on the run. Well, I saw Cleo and Joanie with their heads together the next day, intently and silently communicating.

I walked by and Joanie immediately squatted at my feet to be picked up and held. She was very calm. I'm convinced Cleo told her it would be ok, that we just wanted to heal her painful foot. No one will convince me otherwise.

My chickies follow me everywhere now. They each respond to their names. One night I was typing on my keypad and Butchie, the youngest, was perched on the chair behind me, following the "pecking" movements of my fingers with her beak.

. . .

I wonder.

What would a chicken type?

Maybe something like...

Clean up your mess, people. We have been here a very long time. We've seen it all in our collective journey--tar pits, lava flows, tidal waves, tornados, dust storms, fire and flood. And we've never seen anything like this.

How can you be so smart and so dumb to annihilate your only home?

They know an older world, clean and full of power. Their ancient glittering eyes have seen.

Why do I do what I do? Live without convenience or culture, washing and wearing the same ragtag clothes until they fall apart, digging in the soil for roots to boil for food?

Many reasons. One is my chickies, and the world I know they see.

 

[Amer]

Prompt: non-fiction (with a bit of historical)
Title: What would a chicken type?
It's difficult for me to explain just how much I love my chickies. I mean, I have the words, but can anyone relate? Truly, they fascinate me, with their scaled clawed raptor feet, their glittering inward turning eyes that see a world I cannot.

Recently, I read that birds hunting on the ground see the trails of insects and snails bathed in a violet phosphorescence which they follow to their prey. And they are hunters, my fluffy chickies, of surprising agility and acumen, keeping the leaf-cutter ants and gobbling grasshoppers from annihilating the garden plants.

Perhaps it's because their world is crisscrossed by this glowing web of bugtrails that their eyes are so intently open, staring at what I perceive as just the ground. Although...I fancy sometimes that these small feathered dinosaurs also see another world altogether, ancient and clean and full of power. An earth fresh from a fiery renewal or an icy bath.

View attachment 3503969

We might think of chickens as symbols of the American barnyard, clucking and cockle-doodle-dooing along with the mooing of cows and oinking of pigs, but they are actually of Asiatic origin, island jungle fowl who scratched in the leafy detritus of tropical forests. I can see this part of their story clearly: long-plumed birds swaying in wicker cages stacked aboard a dugout canoe their captors paddled from archipelago to mainland, traded for silk or metal in the bustling bazaars of the east and brought west across the open steppes of Eurasia on horseback, to a cold wild place of warring tribes we now call Europe. Eventually, they made another water crossing to the Americas.

For all their "exotic" history, my chickies are also undeniably domesticated, as much a part of ourhearth and home as our six dogs--who grudgingly acknowledge the them as equal apples of my eye.
View attachment 3503968
Every day, I marvel at my chickies' remarkably accurate sense of time and exactitude for routine. In the mornings, they wake us up promptly at 6 am, squawking for food and to be let out. They make their way over to the "water cooler" for a drink and a gossip session. While they have a variety of sounds for different occasions, like a throaty hiss to warn of circling hawks, their inter-chicken communication is mysteriously silent.

I will see two of them, standing stock still with their heads less than inch apart, not moving, asking and answering. Then they waltz into my kitchen like they own the place, clucking and chatting to me about their day.

View attachment 3503973
How do I know they "talk"? Well, here is an example. Chickens are notoriously prone to foot problems, ulcers called "bumblefoot" where a small cut becomes a painful lump. But as we've found, it's become fairly routine to keep their feet clean and remove any infection before it becomes a big problem. So when we see a chickie limping a bit, it's time for a salt water foot soak and a cleaning.

Cleo our carrioca (featherless neck) chickie was the first to get bumblefoot. We took out the abcess and she recovered. Then we noticed Joanie, the big boss, had a decidedly swollen foot. Joanie, however, really did not want to be picked up. Ever see Rocky? Then you know how hard it is to catch a chicken on the run. Well, I saw Cleo and Joanie with their heads together the next day, intently and silently communicating.

I walked by and Joanie immediately squatted at my feet to be picked up and held. She was very calm. I'm convinced Cleo told her it would be ok, that we just wanted to heal her painful foot. No one will convince me otherwise.

My chickies follow me everywhere now. They each respond to their names. One night I was typing on my keypad and Butchie, the youngest, was perched on the chair behind me, following the "pecking" movements of my fingers with her beak.

. . .

I wonder.

What would a chicken type?

Maybe something like...

Clean up your mess, people. We have been here a very long time. We've seen it all in our collective journey--tar pits, lava flows, tidal waves, tornados, dust storms, fire and flood. And we've never seen anything like this.

How can you be so smart and so dumb to annihilate your only home?

They know an older world, clean and full of power. Their ancient glittering eyes have seen.

Why do I do what I do? Live without convenience or culture, washing and wearing the same ragtag clothes until they fall apart, digging in the soil for roots to boil for food?

Many reasons. One is my chickies, and the world I know they see.

View attachment 3503977

Wow, that is fascinating.

 

[MaeM]

Here's my entry. I appreciate any feedback since I am not a native speaker.

Prompt: Poultry

Title: Big Brave


My real name is Henrietta and I was a surprise rooster.

I was so undesired that Mr. Hall didn’t even bother changing my name after he found out that I am a boy.

Oh, he was so disappointed. I was sold as a female little chick at a local store. Mr. Hall bought me thinking that he would have a few extra eggs per week when I matured, but he got morning crows instead.

The crowing was not the problem, though. He felt scammed, perhaps because he wasn’t able to see all I did to take care of his hens when he wasn’t around. I fed them, I helped them look for better places to nest, I protected them from predators.

I didn’t do it for him, though. I did it for the hens: six beautiful Golden Comets who all had a place in my tiny, conic heart.

One day, something terrible happened. I woke up to one of the hens’ screams. I got out of the coop immediately, but it was too late. Something had broken into the run and attacked her. I didn’t know what and I didn’t care. Now that it seemed to be away from us, I only cared about Olivia.

I pecked her on the head insistently, calling her, but she wouldn’t move. As I tried to wrap my mind around the fact that she was gone, I heard Mr. Hall’s voice.

“You son of a…!”

He had gotten out of the house with his rifle in his hands and was pointing at me with a stern look. I stretched my neck in shock and tried to explain that I hadn’t done this, but all he heard was a desperate “buck buck buck”.

He put the rifle aside, but right away he grabbed me by my legs and hung me upside down so that I’d “learn a lesson”. Then, he angrily listed all the crimes that I had committed since I became a rooster: crowing all day long, chasing people away from my territory, and the worst false accusation —hurting Olivia.

I flapped my wings. Yes, I might’ve been rough when trying to mate with my hens, but I certainly loved Olivia more than Mr. Hall did. Why couldn’t he understand this?

He lifted his rifle again.

“Please, no!” I begged.

Olivia was gone, but I had other five hens to protect.

My heart raced as the old man pulled the trigger and I heard the loudest noise ever.

To this day, I don’t know why he chose to shoot the tree instead of me. I mean, he hated me and he had done this kind of thing in the past, as far as I knew. Why had he purposely missed? And why was he trembling?

He grabbed me again and said that we would go for a ride. He put me in a dark bag where I couldn’t see a thing but I could sense the movement of his truck.

Next thing I knew, I was at the side of an empty road. Mr. Hall or his truck was nowhere to be seen. I was alone and scared, and I had the terrible feeling that I wouldn’t be able to go back with my hens.

Humans can travel hundreds of miles with their trucks, and I could barely walk with my scaly feet.

After days of wandering and surviving on my own, a little girl trusted me enough to crouch in front of me. She offered me a treat, and as I accepted it, she smiled and said that I would be her new best friend.

I still miss my hens from time to time, but I have a whole new flock to protect and keep my mind busy. My feet are now healthy, and I don’t feel the need to chase people away from my territory. Turns out, not all humans are bad, and it shouldn’t be normal for us to be scared of them.

Oh, and I was given a new name, one that I like more and fits me better —Big Brave.

 

[Shabby Chic-Hens]

Ah. I have not the motivation to make a story