Chickens.

[Joey Delgado]

We built the chicken coop on Thursday, bought the chickens--two hens--on Friday, complaints were filed with the property manager on Saturday.

 

Endless squawking and wing-flapping not well-received by the neighbors, even the Potters, whose nightly screaming matches would have made George and Martha blush.

 

The hens, ivory colored beauties named Aurora (by me) and Santa (by my little brother, who did not yet understand chicken gender), ate from my hand by gently plucking seeds with staccato thrusts of their necks through the wide mesh of the coop.   

 

The chickens disappeared on Sunday.

 

I saw smears of blood in the Potters' driveway two days later when a gust of wind kicked up white feathers by their trailer like pale ashes drifting in a ghostly smoke signal, the smell of boiling chicken drifting from their open kitchen window.

[Andre DeCuir]

Great mix of humor and the darkly serious!  Loved it!

[Teresa]

LOVE sentence three.  You crack me up.  Now then, let's go set the Potters' trailer on fire.

[Cita]

"chicken gender"... you have a good way of using words subtly with high impact results.

[Angela]

Hope they pay dearly, and soon.  Keep us posted.

[Bill Floyd]

The writing here is sharp, and the sentiment has real impact.  I love nostalgia when it's not rose-tinted.  

[Ron. Lavalette]

Every neighborhood has at least one Potters. I'd find some way to make them pay.  Maybe every time their squabbling got too loud, a window would get busted in or something.  Bastards.

[Sandra Davies]

Lovely described slice of not so nice  life.   Much to enjoy.

[Mike Handley]

Chicken gender ... lovely tidbit. The Potters sound like evil claymation people with bulbous noses and no necks.

[Gita]

George and Martha!!! Hadn't thought about those two in a while.

Lovely story and I sense retribution will be swift and cruel.