Fowl Play - By Jenine Kruger

Written By: Jenine Kruger

Category: Comedy short story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Jenine Kruger, a passionate South African storyteller and law student, brings humor and adventure to the fore in her comedy short story, "Fowl Play." Entered in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, this tale explores themes of identity, belonging, and self-worth through the eyes of an award-winning rooster named Kip. As Kip navigates unexpected challenges, readers are invited to reflect on the value of being true to oneself amid life's unpredictability.

About the Work

"Fowl Play" is a delightful comedy that takes readers on an unexpected journey with Kip, an award-winning rooster with a regal attitude and a penchant for adventure. Kruger masterfully weaves humor and tension as Kip faces abandonment, debt, and the threat of a jackal. Through vibrant imagery and engaging characters, the story highlights the importance of identity and belonging, ultimately leading Kip to rediscover his value beyond feathers and accolades.

Fowl Play

Original Submission by Jenine Kruger

________________

About the author

Jenine Kruger is a South African Law student with a long-standing passion for storytelling. While in high school, she took part and received numerous awards in various creative writing competitions. She wrote mainly short psychological thrillers exploring the thin line between perceived reality and psychological distortion. Jenine’s love for storytelling was nurtured by her grandmother, who read to her when she was very young. She remembers being completely absorbed in those stories and forming deep connections with the characters. Through her own writing, she hopes to give children that same sense of wonder and, above all, to inspire the same love of reading that shaped her childhood.

Summary of contents

Kip is no ordinary rooster. He is an award-winning show rooster who considers himself the most important creature on the farm. With his feather stylist and impressive collection of trophies, Kip is accustomed to being treated like royalty. Unfortunately, Harold, the grumpy farmer who lives with his wife, Miriam, and Kip, sees him as an expensive nuisance.

When Miriam becomes ill and asks Harold to take Kip into town, Harold decides that he has had enough. Instead of taking Kip to his appointments, he drives him into the wilderness and abandons him. Determined to return home to Miriam, Kip follows Harold's tyre tracks and begins his journey across the unfamiliar landscape.

His journey becomes complicated when he encounters Vincent, a crow demanding payment for twelve bags of premium cracked corn that never arrived. Kip's previous business venture has gone disastrously wrong, leaving him unable to repay the debt. Rather than admitting the truth, Kip invents an elaborate story about being kidnapped by Harold and blames him for the missing corn. He also enrages the crows by telling them about Harold's scarecrows and promises them access to Harold's maize fields. Furious, the crows plan their revenge against Harold.

As Kip continues his journey, he encounters a puff adder who tells him about a shortcut home but warns him about a dangerous jackal living in the forest. Kip takes the shortcut, only to find himself face-to-face with the predator. The jackal attacks Kip and plants a frightening doubt in his mind: perhaps Miriam will eventually forget him and replace him with another prize rooster.

Kip escapes with the help of Lucy, an eccentric Egyptian goose and old friend. Lucy helps Kip realise that his worth does not come from his trophies, appearance or status, but from the place he holds in Miriam's heart.

When Kip finally reaches home, he is reunited with Miriam, who has been desperately searching for him. Their emotional reunion reassures Kip that he truly belongs on the farm.

But peace doesn't last long. The following morning, Vincent and a massive flock of crows launch an outrageous attack on Harold's beloved Chevy. As Harold battles the furious birds, Kip watches safely from Miriam's lap, secretly delighted by the spectacle.

Chapter 1

In The Presence of Greatness

“Come on, Harold! We’ve got a busy day ahead of us,” I crowed from the passenger seat of his old rusty Chevy. That old man was always making me late for my appointments. I wouldn’t be surprised if he did it on purpose. I had my feather stylist at eight, a photoshoot at eleven, and Miriam still had to polish my spurs before dinner. “Excellence doesn’t maintain itself, Harold!”

I hopped onto the dashboard, my talons clicking against the cheap plastic. My reflection bounced across the windshield. Brilliant iridescent feathers in shades of deep mahogany, emerald, and obsidian. Magnificent plumage. Regal posture. A comb sculpted by the heavens themselves.

“Oh, what a handsome devil you are,” I said with a satisfied nod.

Harold sat at the kitchen table, finishing his dreadful imitation instant coffee while watching me through the window. Just as another one of my magnificent morning serenades echoed across the farm, he slammed his mug onto the table.

“Miriam!” he grumbled. “That blasted rooster of yours is at it again! I can’t enjoy one peaceful morning with that feathered menace around!”

Miriam stood in the doorway, wrapped in a soft knitted cardigan, a tissue clutched in one hand. Every few seconds, a little cough escaped her throat. Harold's complaining barely seemed to register. She had clearly grown accustomed to it over the years.

“Thank you for taking Kip into town for me, Harold,” she said gently. “I’ve come down with the most dreadful cold, and I don’t want him missing his appointments.”

Harold looked from her to me.

“He’s a chicken, Miriam.”

She frowned as if he’d said something terribly rude.

“He’s Kip, Harold. An award-winning rooster,” she corrected. “And he gets anxious when his routine changes.”

Harold sighed the sigh of a man who had lost this argument many times before.

He finished his coffee, pushed himself away from the table and shuffled towards the front door, looking exactly as he always did, like he’d lost an argument with his wardrobe. Perched on his head was that dreadful little newsboy cap he refused to retire, followed by the same faded flannel shirt and mud-stained overalls with enough patches to qualify as a quilt. His brown field shoes carried the unmistakable aroma of cow manure.

“It’s going to be a long drive,” I sighed. I could smell Harold long before he reached the truck.

The drive was unbearable. Harold had a remarkable talent for finding every pothole on a perfectly good road. He leaned over the steering wheel, his permanent hunch making him resemble a question mark with a driver’s licence. Every crater sent the truck crashing back to earth, and I honestly didn’t know what was hanging on by a thinner thread: the suspension or my feathers.

I was convinced Harold’s suspension had packed up sometime around the last century, but the old man was too stingy to get a new truck. Miriam usually drove me to my appointments. She had the good sense to avoid the craters in the road. She also kept the air conditioning on, which Harold appeared to consider an unnecessary luxury. I wasn’t even sure this piece of scrap metal had air conditioning.

I just hoped she got well soon. My insurance didn’t cover being chauffeured around by incompetent old men.

After about an hour, Harold missed the turn into town.

“Bit strange,” I said. “I don’t remember my feather stylist relocating.”

Harold didn’t say anything. He just turned onto a dusty gravel road.

“Going for the scenic route?” I asked. “That’s thoughtful of you. Fresh air is excellent for the feathers.”

The gravel road stretched on for miles until even the last telephone pole had disappeared. Eventually, the Chevy rolled to a stop in the middle of nowhere. Harold killed the engine and let out a long sigh while rubbing his temples.

“Right,” he muttered. “Besides the fact that you are my biggest financial burden on the farm, you’ve turned my life upside down. You eat better than I do, you crow before sunrise every morning, and Miriam treats you like you’re royalty. Well, not anymore.”

He climbed out, stomped around to my side of the truck, yanked open the door, and pointed at the empty wilderness.

“Out you go.”

Before I could protest, he scooped me up and set me on the side of the road.

I stared up at him, confused. What on earth was this man doing? He must have finally lost his marbles.

Harold climbed back into his rusty Chevy and turned the key. The engine coughed, spluttered, and then reluctantly came to life.

“Harold!” I called. “Let’s talk about this. There must be some misunderstanding. What about my appointments?”

“Most creatures would consider it the honour of a lifetime to wake each day to the rich, powerful voice of an award-winning show rooster!” I crowed, strutting confidently back towards the truck.

Harold leaned out of the open window, a smug grin spreading across his weathered face.

“Good luck, Kip. Maybe now you’ll finally start acting like a real chicken.”

He gave me a little wave before pressing his foot to the accelerator. The Chevy rattled down the dirt road, leaving a cloud of dust behind. I watched the rusty old truck grow smaller and smaller until it disappeared over the horizon.

Chapter 2

A Temporary Setback

I stood there in silence for a minute, and then it hit me.

“He actually left me here. No. Impossible. Harold may smell like fermented cow manure, but even he couldn’t be that stupid!”

Did that old fool abandon me... on purpose?

Oh, that miserable farmer had done it this time! Harold had driven me miles from home, dumped me in the middle of nowhere, and driven off. The audacity of this man was honestly baffling.

I’d just got a pedicure yesterday. Now look at me. I was walking barefoot on a dirt road like some common barnyard animal.

He didn’t know who he was dealing with. I was Kip, an award-winning show rooster. My winnings kept that man’s farm running, yet every Sunday he glared at me like I was the main course!

This wasn’t even his first attempt to get rid of me. I remembered him locking me in the shed that one time, or when he’d “accidentally” left the gate open. Harold gave me far too little credit. He’d mistaken my IQ for that of a pigeon’s, clearly.

He’d always been jealous of me since I was a chick. Miriam just loved me more; he should simply make peace with it. I couldn’t help it if she had excellent taste.

Wait until Miriam heard about this. Harold would probably spin one of his usual sad, pathetic stories to make himself look like the hero.

What did I do this time, Harold? Leap out of the moving truck? No... I’ve got it. I wandered onto the road and was flattened into the tar by a passing lorry. Tragic, heartbreaking, and entirely fictional.

He’d stand there, scratching the back of his neck, claiming he’d searched for hours. He’d point dramatically towards the horizon and sigh, “I did everything I could.”

Yes Harold, everything, except tell the truth.

That man really underestimated me. Little did he know, I’d be back home before supper, sitting proudly in my usual spot right beside Miriam, exactly where I belonged.

Best believe, Harold, from now on I’ll be crowing at four o’clock sharp every single morning. You think you’ve heard me before? You haven’t heard anything yet. Nobody makes a fool out of Kip Featherington.

He was such a selfish man for separating me and Miriam. She was an absolute saint; I loved that woman. She never complained about my appointments. She agreed that greatness required maintenance. My monthly chiropractic adjustments kept my spine perfectly aligned to strut at the poultry shows. It was absolutely essential, despite Harold insisting it was “ridiculous nonsense.”

Coming from a man with the posture of an overwatered sunflower, I’d take that as a compliment.

The sun was roasting me alive. I didn’t do heat. I was an indoor rooster.

I scanned the horizon, and all I saw was sand, shrubs, and a suspicious-looking crow. I still owed his cousin corn powder. I should really just avoid eye contact at all costs. Perhaps if I looked sufficiently unimportant, he’d leave me alone.

By following Harold’s tyre tracks, I should find my way home easily. I always knew my exceptional sense of direction would prove useful eventually.

It would be a long journey filled with blisters, feather loss, dehydration, and, worst of all, sun damage. Lesser roosters would’ve given up. I, however, was bred for greatness.

I struggled to keep putting one claw in front of the other. Whilst I strutted, my thoughts constantly drifted to Miriam. There wasn’t another soul quite like her. She had the warmest smile, the gentlest voice, and the kindest heart. When she scratched the feathers behind my neck, the world somehow didn’t feel quite so big.

The thought of seeing her again was what kept me going. I hoped she wasn’t too worried. It wasn’t good for her health. She’d probably searched the coop by now and even the garden.

Hold on, Miriam. I’m coming as fast as I can, under the circumstances.

As I trudged along in the blistering heat, I began planning Harold’s downfall. Violence, though very appealing given what that man had put me through, was not the answer.

No, I had something far more effective in mind.

Guilt.

I started practising my limp for when Miriam would see me. It needed to look believable. The left leg looked too theatrical. The right leg lacked emotion. After a few attempts, I found the perfect balance between the bravery and suffering of a noble soldier returning home.

Satisfied with my brilliant plan, I adjusted my imaginary limp and began strutting along the tyre tracks.

Hours passed. My feet were throbbing, and to make matters worse, I chipped a nail.

This was by far the second-worst day ever.

I remembered the worst day of my life like it was yesterday.

The air smelled of disappointment. Dark clouds rolled overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Even the wind seemed to know something terrible had happened.

Miriam stood frozen beside me, unable to speak. I didn’t blame her. Neither of us was prepared for what came next.

The judge slowly approached, his footsteps echoing across the showgrounds. Time felt as though it had stood still.

Then he handed me...

a second-place ribbon.

...and I haven’t been the same since.

Chapter 3

A Murder of Misunderstandings

I was halfway through reliving the darkest day of my life when a shadow swept over the road. Then another.

When I looked up, I realised there were more and more crows gathering above me. There were far too many eyes on me.

“Stay calm, Kip,” I muttered. “Play it cool.”

Easier said than done. You could spot me from a mile away with this voluptuous, luscious tail. I was a Phoenix rooster, after all. My long, flowing tail feathers were the pride and joy of my entire existence. As the crows came soaring down, I kept my head low and my feathers tucked as best I could.

“Good afternoon, Kip.”

I didn’t even need to look up to know who was calling me. It was Vincent. His voice had a way of piercing through the air like a church bell on a quiet Sunday.

Vincent wasn’t the sort of crow you wanted to be in debt to. He was calm and patient, which somehow made him far more intimidating than the loud, squawking types. He never raised his voice, never made empty threats, and never forgot a single kernel he was owed.

Unfortunately, I still owed his cousin twelve bags of premium cracked corn after an investment opportunity that had gone spectacularly wrong.

I maintain that it wasn’t a scam. It was merely an ambitious business venture that suffered from a complete lack of success.

Now, ordinary cracked corn is perfectly respectable in the industry, but my premium cracked corn was an entirely different concept. It began with Harold’s finest maize. I harvested only the very best cobs, naturally.

Stealing? Certainly not.

I considered it compensation for years of emotional distress and relentless character assassination. If anything, Harold was getting off lightly.

The kernels were carefully dried, milled into a fine golden powder, then blended with my own closely guarded seasoning recipe. The result was rich, savoury, faintly smoky, and worth its weight in feathers.

One sniff was enough to make a pigeon forget its own name.

I was, if I may say so myself, one of the most respected suppliers in the district. My business was flourishing.

Poor Harold never suspected a thing. Every few weeks, he’d march into his maize fields, discover yet another patch stripped clean, and mutter something about “those blasted crows.”

For a man who spent all day on a farm, he had remarkably little idea what was happening on it.

That man put up scarecrows one by one, each uglier than the last. I must admit that a few bore an uncanny resemblance to Harold himself.

Then again... perhaps that’s rather unfair.

To the scarecrows.

I always found it quite amusing watching him hammer them into the ground, absolutely convinced they’d frighten away the culprit. Instead, they kept me company during my nightly cob collections.

I rather enjoyed the company, actually. They were far less moany than Harold. Honestly, I don’t know what fool would find a scarecrow frightening.

Unfortunately, every great business empire has its rainy season.

Mine arrived quite literally.

I had been storing twelve carefully prepared bags of premium cracked corn in Harold’s old shed for a very important client, Vincent’s cousin. In hindsight, entrusting my inventory to a building with more holes than a block of Swiss cheese may not have been one of my best ideas.

That evening, the heavens opened.

By morning, my beautiful golden powder had transformed into twelve soggy sacks of miserable corn paste.

If Harold had invested in a hammer and a few roof tiles instead of an army of useless scarecrows, my corn powder wouldn’t have dissolved into porridge overnight.

Some people simply have no regard for small businesses.

The loss left me unable to repay Vincent’s cousin the twelve bags.

Now Vincent was standing here before me, his glossy black feathers gleaming in the afternoon sun. His head tilted ever so slightly, and the faintest smile crept across his beak.

“You’re a long way from home, Kip.” Vincent tilted his head. “Business or pleasure?”

“Business,” I said nervously.

Vincent tilted his head again, his piercing black eyes studying me. He looked genuinely puzzled by what business a rooster could possibly be conducting in the middle of nowhere.

“Well, little rooster, I hope you’re not forgetting your debts. It would be very unfortunate if something were to happen to those prized tail feathers of yours.”

I gulped. My talon traced little circles into the sand. It was a dreadful habit of mine whenever I found myself in professionally awkward situations.

I forced a laugh.

“No, of course not, Vincent! I’m a rooster of my word. Matter of fact, I was just about to deliver those twelve bags of premium cracked corn when the worst luck imaginable struck me.”

I needed a story. Preferably one that explained why there were, regrettably, not twelve bags of premium cracked corn sitting beside me.

I puffed out my chest, smoothed a ruffled feather, and prepared the performance of a lifetime. If there were awards for tragic storytelling, I intended to leave with the trophy.

I told Vincent the tragic tale of my kidnapping, sparing no detail of my unimaginable suffering.

“It was dreadful,” I said solemnly. “The old farmer, Harold, ambushed me, stole twelve perfectly sealed bags of premium cracked corn, tied me up, and drove me straight into the blazing African sun.”

I paused and gave Vincent what I hoped was the face of a traumatised kidnapping survivor.

“Then, without warning, he slammed the brakes of the truck, hurled me into a jackal hole, laughed at my inevitable demise, and drove away.”

“Once he dumped me into the jackal hole, the beasts emerged from the darkness and began circling me, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. There must have been dozens of them.

“Fortunately for me, Harold couldn’t tie a proper knot if his life depended on it. I broke free, broadened my shoulders, and fought those jackals off one by one with my bare feathers.”

Vincent listened in complete silence, his face frozen in confusion and disbelief.

I suppose my tale was a lot to take in. After all, it’s not every day you meet a rooster brave enough to survive a kidnapping.

Vincent stared at me for a moment before finally clearing his throat.

“Ai, shame,” he said at last. “Glad you made it. So, about the twelve bags of corn... I expect my payment now, preferably.”

“You know, Vincent...” I said, lowering my voice as though I was about to reveal a state-guarded secret. “You didn’t hear this from me, but Harold is actually a large-scale distributor of premium cracked corn.”

I glanced over each shoulder before leaning in even closer.

“Every year, he plants hundreds of hectares of the finest yellow maize you’ve ever laid eyes on.”

I smiled and extended a wing.

“I’ll make you an offer you simply can’t refuse. Get me home safely, and I’ll grant you unlimited access to Harold’s maize fields as my debt settlement.”

Vincent lowered his head and let out a slow sigh. His glossy black feathers ruffled gently as he shifted his weight from one talon to the other.

He glanced towards Harold’s estate in the distance before turning back to me.

“Kip, we’ve tried before, but without success. The security is tough and ruthless.”

He lowered his voice.

“That miserable guard stands in the maize fields from sunrise to sunset. He never moves. He never speaks. He just stands there, staring.”

Vincent swallowed.

“I’ve lost good crows to that field. They come back emotionally wrecked. One of them hasn’t landed on a fence post in six months.”

I stared at Vincent in complete disbelief.

This crow cannot be serious.

I blinked at Vincent.

Bird-brained. Absolutely bird-brained.

I was doing everything in my power to keep a straight face through this tragic little tale. Here stood a crow, feared by half the countryside, trembling at the thought of a scarecrow.

Honestly, it was embarrassing for the species.

“I don’t quite know how to tell you this, Vincent, so I’ll just come right out and say it,” I said, doing my absolute best to hide my grin.

“It’s not real. You’re being outsmarted by a pile of straw wearing Harold’s old shirt and a floppy hat.”

Vincent let out a dry scoff, smoothing a ruffled feather across his chest with one wing.

“Impossible. I’ve looked that thing dead in the eyes. It knows things.”

“Vincent...” I sighed. “Have you ever actually seen it move?”

Vincent opened his beak to answer and then stopped.

He frowned. His eyes drifted towards Harold’s estate.

“...No.”

“Exactly! Because it’s stuffed with straw!”

Vincent stood frozen. His beak slowly fell open. One eye twitched. His feathers puffed out until he looked almost twice his size.

He stared towards Harold’s estate in complete silence. His claws slowly curled into the sand.

“...That miserable old farmer.”

“Exactly!” I said, stepping closer. “He’s been playing you like a fiddle for years! Every harvest you’ve flown away, every hatchling you’ve warned, every meal you’ve missed...”

I placed a comforting wing on Vincent’s shoulder.

“All because Harold put a shirt on a pile of straw.”

Vincent flung his wings open so violently that a cloud of dust shot into the air.

“HE MADE A MOCKERY OF US! He humiliated my family!”

“He psychologically terrorised generations of crows,” I declared, pointing dramatically towards Harold’s estate. “You deserve justice, Vincent!”

Vincent drew a long, slow breath, trying to compose himself after hearing this unsettling information.

His expression became eerily calm.

“...We’re paying Harold a little visit.”

Vincent turned towards the farm, spread his glossy black wings, and launched himself into the air with effortless confidence.

Within seconds, he was gliding above the fields, a black shadow of loyal crows following close behind.

Splendid.

Not only had I lost restricted access to Harold’s glorious maize fields, but I’d also just revealed one of the greatest trade secrets in the business. Now every crow in the district knew the scarecrows were nothing more than glorified clothes hangers.

There goes my competitive advantage. This was going to ruin the economy. Stocks would plummet, markets would panic, investors would lose confidence. I could practically hear the financial analysts blaming me already.

To make matters worse, they hadn’t even offered me a lift home.

I suppose I may have... slightly... enraged Vincent.

Poor Harold.

I sincerely wouldn’t want to be him right now. Those crows looked like they meant business.

Hopefully, they’d have finished terrorising him by the time I got back. I’m not one for conflict. I much prefer to arrive after everyone’s had a chance to calm down.

Besides, Harold had brought this upon himself.

Had he simply driven me to my appointments like a sensible man, none of this would’ve happened.

Chapter 4

Birds of a Feather

Why couldn’t chickens fly? I wondered bitterly.

I looked ahead and immediately regretted it. Between us and the farmhouse stood what could only be described as an offensively steep hill, with the weathered farmhouse perched smugly at the very top, as if it had been built there purely to mock flightless birds.

I sighed.

“I’m not big on cardio.”

Vincent was already a distant black silhouette against the afternoon sky, while I was left to tackle the hill one determined step at a time.

As I reluctantly began the climb, my thoughts drifted to my best friend, Lucy the goose. The poor bird wouldn’t have survived this expedition with her weak knees and asthma.

My legs burned, my breathing grew heavier, and every few metres I questioned my life choices. The last time Lucy and I attempted one of our afternoon speed walks, her knee had popped out after what I generously estimated to be thirty-seven steps. We’d spent the next hour sitting beside a termite mound while she announced that her athletic career was over.

Lucy was a peculiar Egyptian goose, very scatterbrained. She lived on the neighbouring farm where, much like me, she spent her weekends travelling the poultry show circuit. That’s how we met.

While the other birds were busy arguing over worms and grain, Lucy and I bonded over championship ribbons, feather care, and the exhausting burden of being surrounded by amateurs.

Convincing her to leave her nest, however, required the sort of negotiation usually reserved for peace treaties. She insisted the outside world was dangerous, unpredictable, and full of social commitments.

Lucy never wanted to leave the farm. She believed every problem in life became significantly more dangerous the further you wandered from home. The farm had everything she needed: her nest, her books, familiar faces, and absolutely no unexpected visitors.

If the poultry judges could have travelled to her instead, she’d have considered it the greatest invention in history.

Her nest usually looked as though a small tornado had settled there permanently. Feathers, shiny bottle caps, half-finished knitting projects, recipe books, and a mysterious collection of pebbles were piled into what I called organised chaos.

Despite her clutter and preference for solitude, there was nowhere I’d rather go to clear my head. Lucy had a remarkable gift for listening. She could sit for hours without interrupting, tilting her head thoughtfully while I explained, in painstaking detail, how I, a champion Phoenix rooster, had been unfairly robbed of first place by Reginald, a Polish rooster with a ridiculous white crest so enormous it completely covered his eyes.

I still couldn’t believe I’d been beaten by a glorified walking feather duster. He probably couldn’t even see where the stage was!

Every so often, after considerable persuasion, I could convince Lucy to emerge from her nest for one of our famous “speed walks.”

They were never particularly speedy. It was more of an agreement to move in the same direction while discussing whether our weekly KFC treats were preventing us from achieving our dream physiques.

Eventually, our conversations would drift to the other birds on the farm. Lucy loved psychologically analysing the geese next door, while I found the chickens in our coop endlessly mundane. They spent every day squabbling over grain, chasing insects, and gossiping about whoever had laid the biggest egg, only to repeat the exact same routine the following day.

“I just don’t understand what they’re living for,” Lucy would say, genuinely perplexed.

“Neither do I,” I’d agree. “No trophies, no ribbons, no judges, no applause.”

To us, life without poultry shows seemed strangely empty, almost directionless. While they spent their days scratching around in the dirt, Lucy and I devoted ourselves to the finer things in life: polished feathers, championship ribbons, and the occasional celebratory KFC bucket.

Chapter 5

A Matter of Reflection

A thorn jabbed sharply into my foot, dragging me back to reality. I understood Lucy’s point now. I’d much rather be curled up in Miriam’s arms watching my soaps than hauling myself up a thorn-covered hill where every bush looked like it carried at least three infectious diseases.

I made it about halfway up the hill when something stopped me dead in my tracks.

There, just beyond the tall reeds, stood the most breathtaking rooster I had ever laid eyes on. He stood with the effortless confidence of someone who knew he belonged on magazine covers.

Calm. Elegant. Mysterious.

I looked at my feathers. I had travel feathers!

How deeply embarrassing.

I fluffed up everything I could fluff and smoothed out my chest.

“Play it cool, Kip,” I whispered. “You’re in the presence of greatness.”

The rooster took a slow, graceful step towards me.

My heart fluttered.

He’s coming over to me!

I took a confident step forward. He did the same.

Bold. I liked that.

I puffed out my chest, and then he puffed out his.

He was trying to impress me already.

I gave him my award-winning pose. He copied it perfectly.

As we slowly approached each other, our eyes remained locked. Neither of us backed down.

I took one final confident step.

My beak gently touched the surface of the crystal-clear stream.

I admired myself for a respectable amount of time. After all, even after being kidnapped and abandoned in the wilderness, I was still Miriam’s pretty little birdie.

No wonder Harold was jealous.

“Do you always s-stare at your reflection like that?”

I froze.

Slowly, I turned around.

Perched upon a broad slab of sun-baked rock, almost invisible against the dusty earth, was a puff adder. He lay coiled so neatly he could have been mistaken for another weathered stone, were it not for the pair of piercing yellow eyes fixed squarely on me.

“Splendid.”

Abandoned. Financially unstable. Sunburnt. And now I was about to become a snack.

I sighed.

“Well,” I muttered, “the least you could do is wine me before you dine on me.”

“I don’t mean to burst your bubble,” the puff adder began cautiously, “but I...”

“If you’re going to eat me,” I interrupted, holding up a wing to his face, “I have one simple request. No, actually, several.”

The snake blinked. He opened his mouth, trying to complete his sentence.

“First of all, I’d like to leave this world with my dignity intact. Today is a big day for you. I am an award-winning rooster, and I will be an award-winning meal as well.”

“...I...”

“Now, I’ve heard stress ruins the flavour of meat, so I’m going to need you to keep me calm. Perhaps tell me about your childhood. I want to hear happy things before I go to that big poultry show in the sky. Maybe you could sing me a song?”

The puff adder stared.

“Secondly, I refuse to be swallowed whole. I’m a delicacy, and one does not inhale a delicacy. You need to savour every bite. Oh, and I almost forgot. A light massage beforehand would tenderise the meat nicely. You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had. Focus on the thighs. I carry a lot of tension in those moneymakers.”

I was searching for the perfect place to prepare myself when I noticed the puff adder was sunbathing on a lovely smooth rock.

Perfect.

“Would you mind moving? I need this rock.”

Before he could answer, I slipped both wings beneath him and gently lifted him into the air. He was surprisingly heavier than he looked. I carried him two careful steps to the left and placed him on the ground.

“...You just picked me up.”

I climbed onto the warm stone and stretched each wing as my yoga instructor had taught me, rolling my shoulders until they gave a satisfying little click.

“Would you mind giving me ten minutes? Good food should never be rushed. My instructor always says to start with a downward dog and loosen up from there.”

I plucked a handful of fragrant wild herbs growing beside the stream and gently rubbed them through my feathers. They gave off a lovely earthy aroma. A pinch of coarse sand completed the ensemble, adding what I imagined would be a delightful texture.

“...I’m not going to eat you!” the snake finally interrupted.

I froze mid-herb.

“...You’re not going to eat me?”

The puff adder slowly closed his eyes and drew a long, patient breath through his nose. It looked less like relaxation and more like someone mentally counting to ten.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for the past five minutes.”

“Then why have you been staring at me like that the whole time?”

The snake looked past me for a moment, as though searching for an explanation that wouldn’t sound insulting.

“I’ve never seen a rooster season himself before,” he admitted, staring blankly into the distance. “I feel quite uncomfortable after witnessing all of that. Look, I’m sure you taste wonderful.”

I offered a gracious smile.

“Thank you.”

“And I’m equally certain another snake would be delighted to digest you.”

My smile widened.

“Go on.”

“But... you’re simply not my type.”

My smile evaporated so quickly it might never have existed.

“You’re rather... substantial.”

“Substantial?”

“You are a very large bird.”

I gasped.

“Are... are you body-shaming me?”

“No!” he said quickly, lifting his head. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I promote body positivity,” I declared. “I’ll have you know I go on regular speed walks in the afternoons.”

The puff adder’s eyes slowly travelled from the tip of my comb to the end of my spectacular tail.

“You do?”

“Well, it’s not particularly speedy because my friend has a knee problem, but we try our best given our harsh circumstances.”

“You’ve also got quite a large number of feathers,” the puff adder stated, looking at my tail.

I instinctively covered my magnificent tail.

“Excuse me? This tail has won awards.”

“It’s nothing personal. I just struggle to digest the feathers. Honestly,” said the snake, “I’d much rather eat something small, like a little barn chicken, perhaps.”

I stared at him in utter horror.

“You’re choosing... a regular chicken... over me? I can’t believe this. This somehow feels more insulting than being eaten.”

The puff adder studied me for a long moment before letting out a quiet sigh.

“You know,” he said, “you spend an awful lot of time worrying about what everyone else thinks of you.”

The snake slithered back to his warm rock and stretched lazily across it before continuing.

“Most creatures are far too busy thinking about themselves to spend all day thinking about you.”

I opened my beak to argue.

Nothing came out.

“I suppose...” I muttered. “...that’s statistically possible.”

The snake nodded.

“It’ll save you a lot of worrying one day.”

“One last thing,” said the snake.

He glanced towards the tyre tracks disappearing down the road.

“You’re trying to get back home, aren’t you?”

“Obviously,” I said. “Miriam will be beside herself without me.”

The puff adder followed the tracks with his eyes.

“Then you’re going the long way.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“If you keep following this road, it’ll take you another two days.”

He lifted his head towards the dense forest stretching across the valley.

“There is another route. A game trail runs straight through the old forest. It’ll save you a great deal of time.”

Hope fluttered in my chest.

“Splendid.”

The puff adder’s expression grew more serious.

“I should warn you... there’s a jackal that patrols those woods.”

My feathers prickled.

“...And?”

“Unlike me,” he said, “he isn’t nearly as selective about his dinner.”

He glanced towards the trees.

“He particularly notices the creatures that insist on announcing themselves.”

I frowned.

“Meaning?”

“The loud ones. The ones convinced every pair of eyes is already watching them.”

He looked back at me.

“Move quietly, and you’ll be just another shadow passing through the forest.”

“Well,” I said, “thank you for not eating me... and for the shortcut.”

I took a few steps before stopping. I looked at the winding path disappearing into the old forest.

It certainly had the welcoming charm of a funeral procession.

With one final glance back at the puff adder, I straightened my posture, fluffed my tail, and marched towards what felt like my inevitable demise.

If I was going to be eaten today, I refused to arrive looking anything less than spectacular.

Chapter 6

Everything Is Completely Fine

As I walked towards the forest, the singing of the birds grew distant. I hadn’t noticed when they stopped. One moment, the forest was alive with cheerful chirps. The next...

Silence.

I looked up. Thick branches twisted overhead, tangling together until they blocked out the afternoon sun. Only thin strips of light slipped through, painting strange shapes across the ground.

Dry leaves crunched beneath my claws as I walked. Ferns brushed against my feathers. Long vines hung from ancient trees like ropes waiting to trip an unlucky traveller.

I didn’t like this place at all.

Every snapped branch looked ready to slither away. Every crooked stump resembled a crouching animal. The shadows shifted whenever the wind sighed through the trees, and each time they moved, I was certain something had moved with them.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone... or something... was watching me.

I stopped.

My heart hammered against my chest, each beat feeling louder than the forest itself. These woods looked deserted. Surely, I wasn’t the only feathered creature foolish enough to be in here.

Where were the robins? The finches? Even an annoying pigeon would have been comforting.

I took another step.

Crunch.

Another.

Crunch.

The sound of dry leaves followed me wherever I went. There was no escaping it. I tried walking slower.

Crunch.

I froze.

Had I heard another crunch?

I held my breath and listened.

Nothing.

Just the whisper of wind weaving through the branches high above.

I let out a slow sigh.

Then...

Crunch.

My head snapped around.

“Hello?” I called.

No answer. Only rows of towering trees staring back at me.

I swallowed hard.

Don’t be ridiculous, Kip. Forests make strange sounds all the time. I mean, there’s an entire ecosystem in here.

I kept walking, but now I couldn’t stop looking over my shoulder. Every few steps, I’d spin around, convinced I’d catch whoever was following me.

Every time...

Nothing.

Yet the feeling wouldn’t leave. It clung to me like a shadow.

Someone was back there.

I may spend more time having my feathers polished than scratching around a barnyard, but every feather on my body was telling me the same thing.

I am not alone.

A twig snapped behind me.

I couldn’t turn around this time. Every muscle in my body locked into place.

Slowly, I turned my head.

Nothing.

Just trees. Bushes. Shadows.

I let out a shaky breath.

Then I saw it.

A shadow.

A shadow that didn’t belong.

It was moving, but as I blinked, it was gone.

My heart skipped a beat.

Had I imagined it?

I rubbed my eyes and looked again.

Nothing.

Only trees for miles.

I picked up the pace. The quicker I got out of this forest, the better. Either something was going to eat me, or I was going to drop dead from sheer panic. Neither was how I’d pictured my final moments.

My claws crunched through the leaves as I hurried along the narrow forest path.

“Don’t panic,” I told myself.

But I was, indeed, panicking.

My breathing grew quicker. Every figure caught my eye. Every rustle made me flinch. I couldn’t stop glancing over my shoulder, expecting to find eyes staring back at me.

Nothing.

Keep walking. Don’t run. Running would make me look like prey.

I tried to swallow, but my throat had gone dry.

“It’s just your imagination, Kip,” I said, trying to steady my increasingly loud breathing.

I forced myself to look ahead instead of over my shoulder.

And that was when I saw them.

Two amber eyes slowly appeared beneath the dark hollows in the distance.

Watching me.

Without blinking once.

They simply stared, unflinching, as though they’d been waiting for far too long.

The figure took one shallow step forward.

Then another.

The darkness clung to it, refusing to let go.

Two pointy ears appeared.

Then a long, narrow snout.

Its body emerged piece by piece. Lean and unnaturally thin, every rib shifting beneath a coat of coarse, patchy fur. Long, spindly legs carried it forward with eerie silence.

The jackal.

Chapter 7

A Very Unpleasant Fellow

A row of yellowed teeth peeked from beneath its curled lips as its smile slowly widened.

There was something deeply wrong about its eyes. It was as if they were looking straight into my soul.

The jackal tilted its head ever so slightly, its smile never fading. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The silence wrapped around the forest.

Then, in a low, gravelly voice that barely rose above a whisper, it said, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

My heart stopped.

“Waiting for... me?” I croaked, my voice barely louder than a whisper.

The jackal didn’t answer straight away. Instead, it began circling me. Its paws barely made a sound against the forest floor, yet I could feel it closing in with every lap.

As I turned to keep it in sight, my heart pounded so hard I thought it might leap out of my chest.

“What do you want?”

It took one slow step towards me.

“You.”

The word settled over the forest like a heavy fog.

“You are going to come with me.”

“I... I’m not going anywhere with you.”

The jackal tilted its head.

“I wasn’t asking. You will go with me, or I’ll leave your bones here for the vultures.”

The jackal turned without another word and disappeared down a narrow path that seemed to swallow every trace of light and hope.

I hesitated.

The trail twisted between towering trees, leaving the ground below cloaked in permanent twilight.

An unfamiliar, cold stench drifted towards me. At first, it was faint, but it grew stronger with every step I took. It was indescribable, almost like a sickly mixture of damp earth, wet fur... and old meat.

The scent settled in the back of my throat, making it difficult to breathe.

I saw the den come into focus.

It was carved into the side of a rocky hillside, its jagged entrance gaping open like the mouth of some enormous beast waiting to swallow anything foolish enough to wander inside.

The ground around it was stained a dark, rusty brown. Bones lay scattered everywhere. Some were cracked clean in half. Bleached skulls rested among the stones, their empty eye sockets staring silently into the forest.

Tufts of fur clung to tangled brambles, and long scratch marks scarred the earth, as though desperate animals had fought with everything they had before the forest finally fell quiet again.

The strange smell was almost unbearable now.

Fresh.

Rotting.

Hungry.

The jackal glanced back at me and smiled.

“Welcome home,” he said.

The jackal settled onto his haunches as though we were simply two old friends having a conversation. His amber eyes drifted over my feathers.

“So...”

He tilted his head.

“You’re the famous one.”

I frowned.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The little prize rooster of Miriam.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “The polished feathers. The shiny ribbons. The little shows where humans clap because you can stand still and look pretty.”

His laugh was quiet.

“You call that impressive?”

“It takes discipline.”

“It takes vanity.”

He laughed.

“Tell me, Kip. What exactly do you do that’s useful?”

I opened my beak to speak, but nothing came out.

“I imagine Miriam enjoys your little shows. They give her something to do.”

His eyes locked onto mine.

“But don’t mistake your amusement for importance.”

He tilted his head.

“You’re a hobby.”

“You’re wrong,” I snapped. “Miriam loves me. She’s probably searching for me right this minute.”

The jackal’s expression didn’t change.

“How touching. But you are just another one of her little show roosters. You aren’t special.”

A lump formed in my throat.

“She raised me from a chick.”

I took a shaky breath.

“And if I ever disappeared, she would search every field, every forest, every road, calling my name until her voice gave out. I’m not just a hobby. I’m her family.”

The jackal watched me in silence for a long moment.

“I don’t doubt she loves you, but love doesn’t make you irreplaceable.”

I frowned.

“You don’t know Miriam.”

“No,” he replied. “But I knew the rooster before you.”

My heart lurched.

“He stood exactly where you’re standing now, and he told me the very same story. He even put up a little fight, to his best efforts. It was quite entertaining.”

His smile widened.

A chill ran through me.

“What... happened to him?”

The jackal held my gaze.

“I ate him.”

The words echoed through the den.

My legs turned to jelly.

“Miriam searched for a while, but she found another prize rooster, and not long afterwards, the old one was nothing more than a forgotten memory.”

He leaned in until I could feel his warm breath.

“Miriam never came for him.”

His voice was barely above a whisper.

“And she won’t be coming for you.”

The jackal wandered to the back of the den as though he had all the time in the world. He sniffed at a pile of old bones, nudged one aside with his paw, then glanced back at me.

A hard knot tightened in my stomach.

Without a word, he lowered his head and picked something up.

A faded blue ribbon.

Its once-vibrant colour had long since dulled beneath layers of dust. One edge was torn, the satin hanging by a few loose threads.

He let it dangle from his teeth for a moment before dropping it at my feet.

I stared at it.

A million thoughts rushed through my mind, each one more frightening than the last. But no matter how hard I tried to think of a way out, my thoughts kept circling back to the same terrible questions.

Was the jackal, right?

Did I mean nothing to Miriam after all?

Was she even searching for me?

The jackal’s smile slowly faded. His expression changed to a cold stare.

“Well,” he said quietly, “I suppose we’ve talked long enough.”

He took a slow step towards me.

The den suddenly felt incredibly small.

I backed away until my tail feathers brushed against the cold stone wall.

There was nowhere left for me to go.

The jackal lowered himself into a crouch. I could see the muscles beneath his patchy fur rippling, tightening one by one beneath his skin.

His ears flattened.

His tail became perfectly still.

Even his breathing slowed.

The den fell silent.

Every instinct I had screamed the same thing.

Run.

But my legs wouldn’t move.

The jackal’s amber eyes locked onto mine.

Then...

He lunged.

His jaws flew open, revealing rows of long, yellowed teeth, each one stained from countless meals before me. Strings of saliva stretched between them as they snapped towards my neck.

His hot breath hit my face. It carried a sickening stench of stale blood.

For a moment, I saw nothing but those jaws racing towards me. I could hear them closing. I could hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

Jaws slammed shut with a crack that echoed through the den.

Pain shot through my tail.

A handful of emerald feathers drifted to the cave floor.

I crashed shoulder-first into the stone wall, bounced off it, and scrambled across the uneven ground, my claws slipping on the loose rocks.

I need to run. Now!

That was the only thought left in my head.

Behind me came a sound I had been dreading.

The jackal surged forward. His paws pounded against the stone.

I didn’t dare look back.

If I stumbled...

It was over.

One wrong move could cost me everything.

I burst from the mouth of the den and plunged into the forest.

Branches whipped across my beak. Roots tried grabbing at my ankles. The trees closed in all around me like towering prison bars, swallowing what little light remained.

I ran blindly as leaves exploded beneath my claws.

The forest, once silent, had awakened.

Behind me came the steady rhythm of pounding paws.

My lungs burned. Every breath scraped against my throat.

The forest became a blur of twisted trunks, grasping branches, and endless shadows.

Something snagged my tail feathers. I yanked free without looking.

A low branch swept past my head.

Another scraped across my back.

Every tree seemed determined to stop me.

My claw caught on a thick root hidden beneath the leaves.

“No!”

The ground disappeared beneath me.

I crashed hard against the forest floor, rolling through damp leaves and loose stones until I slammed into the base of a tree.

Pain shot through my body.

Everything spun.

I scrambled to my feet.

My legs buckled.

A shadow swept over me.

The jackal crashed into me, pinning me to the ground with frightening ease. His weight crushed the air from my lungs, his claws digging into the earth on either side of me.

He lowered his face until it was hovering mere inches from mine.

“It’s a shame that you were taught to parade around like a fool... but no one ever taught you how to survive.”

His jaws opened.

Chapter 8

A Friend in Need Is a Goose Indeed

KRAAAANK!

The sound exploded through the trees. All that could be heard for miles was the harsh, guttural, metallic shriek that ripped through the silence like rusted steel being dragged across stone.

KRAAANK! KRAAAAANK!

The jackal recoiled so violently that he stumbled backwards, his ears snapping flat against his skull. Every hair along his spine stood on end. The shriek tore through the forest like a cracked trumpet possessed by a ghost.

He sprang backwards so violently that his paws slipped in the loose soil.

“What... what was that?” he whispered, taking an uneasy step backwards.

I blinked.

I’d know that melodramatic screaming anywhere.

I looked past the jackal into the darkness. A slow smile spread across my beak.

The jackal noticed.

“...You know what made that sound.”

I let out a slow breath.

“You’ve never heard it before?”

His eyes snapped back to mine.

“Heard what before?”

I let the silence linger.

“They say,” I whispered, “that if you hear it... you’ve already been found.”

KRAAAAAAAAAANK!

The second cry exploded through the woods.

Closer.

Much closer.

The jackal flinched so hard his shoulders nearly touched his ears. His amber eyes darted wildly from tree to tree, searching every shadow.

KRAAAAAAAAAANK!

The branches trembled.

The jackal’s tail sank lower.

I let out a quiet sigh.

“You’re too late.”

His eyes snapped towards me.

“Too late for what?”

I shook my head.

“For running.”

The jackal laughed, but it came out strained.

“Stop trying to frighten me.”

“I’m not trying to frighten you.”

I kept my eyes fixed on the darkness.

“I’m trying to decide whether I should feel sorry for you. She doesn’t hunt pathetic little chickens like me. She prefers predators.”

The jackal’s grin faded.

“They say she only calls like that when she’s caught a scent. Once she chooses her prey...”

I lowered my voice.

“...she never chooses another.”

The jackal swallowed.

“I’ve heard stories from every corner of the valley.”

I lowered my voice even further.

“They say she cracks the bones while they’re still warm because she likes the sounds.”

The jackal instinctively shifted his paws.

“And when she’s finished...”

I paused long enough for the silence to settle.

“...she keeps a souvenir.”

The jackal stared at me.

“What kind of souvenir?”

I looked slowly at his thick golden coat.

“They become rugs.”

The jackal’s tail disappeared beneath him.

“I heard she stretched the hide of a wild dog across a hollow log once.”

I frowned, as though trying to remember.

“No... perhaps it was a jackal. You’ll have to excuse my memory. You hear so many stories, it’s difficult to remember which predator became what.”

Another shriek exploded through the forest.

KRAAAAAAAAAAAAAANK!

This one sounded impossibly close.

The jackal spun around.

The darkness between the trees seemed deeper than before. As we stared into the woods, all we could see was a wall of tangled branches and blackness.

Then the shadows stirred.

Two blood-red embers kindled deep within the undergrowth. They burned unnaturally bright, fixed upon the jackal without the slightest flicker.

The crimson gaze drifted forward.

They fixed themselves upon the jackal with such terrible intensity that his legs refused to move.

For the first time in his life, the hunter knew exactly how prey felt.

The jackal’s courage shattered.

With a strangled yelp, he sprang to his heels and bolted. He spun around so fast that his paws slipped beneath him. Scrambling to regain his footing, he launched himself into the trees, crashing through bushes with all the grace of a frightened sheep.

Somewhere in the darkness came the unmistakable thud of a jackal colliding with a tree, followed by an indignant yelp before his frantic escape continued.

The bushes exploded apart.

A flurry of grey feathers burst from the darkness.

“WELL, THAT was unnecessarily dramatic!”

Lucy stormed into the clearing, wings half-spread and feathers puffed up with indignation. She marched straight past me, glared in the direction the jackal had fled, then spun so sharply that a few feathers floated lazily to the ground.

“And what, exactly,” she demanded with an irritated hiss, fixing me with a look that could sour fresh milk, “possessed you to follow a jackal into his den?”

“I didn’t follow him,” I protested.

Lucy folded her wings.

“...You didn’t?”

“No.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“He told me to.”

Lucy stared at me in silence.

I smiled weakly, trying to think of ways to change the topic.

“Kip...”

“Yes?”

“The jackal...”

“Yes?”

“...told you to follow him.”

“That’s right.”

“And you did.”

“Well...” I shuffled awkwardly. “He was very persuasive.”

Lucy closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her beak with the edge of her wing.

“I have never met anyone,” she muttered, “with survival instincts quite so spectacularly absent.”

“I didn’t want to be rude.”

Her eyes snapped open.

“RUDE?”

“He threatened to leave my bones for the vultures.”

“And your response was, ‘Lead the way’?”

“When you say it like that, I sound a bit stupid.”

Lucy let out a long sigh and shook her head.

“Oh, my little idiot friend,” she said, her voice softening despite herself. “Let’s get you home before you follow another predator home.”

Chapter 9

The Bird Beneath the Feathers

The forest slowly gave way to rolling grasslands as we followed the narrow path uphill. The evening breeze carried the scent of wildflowers, and for the first time all day, I could feel the warmth of the setting sun against my feathers.

Lucy trudged beside me, her breathing sounding remarkably like Harold’s old Chevy whenever it refused to start. Every few steps, her bad knee gave a stubborn click, followed by a quiet grumble under her breath.

She hated leaving the comfort of her nest.

Neither of us spoke.

The only sounds were the rustle of grass, the distant chirping of crickets, and the steady click of Lucy’s knee.

She glanced sideways at me.

Normally, I would have been talking. Boasting about how I had outwitted a jackal. Complaining about my missing tail feathers. Admiring how magnificently I’d survived such an ordeal.

Instead, my head hung low.

Lucy watched me for another few moments. She’d known me long enough to recognise the difference between silence and the sort that came from me when my mind was full of thoughts.

“What is it?” she asked softly.

I forced a shrug.

“It’s nothing.”

She studied me for a moment, unconvinced. She knew every one of my tells. The way my tail drooped. The way I avoided eye contact. The way I absentmindedly scuffed at the dirt whenever something was eating away at me.

She let out a quiet sigh.

“Kip...”

I kept walking, my eyes fixed on the winding path ahead. Eventually, I let out a long breath.

“...Do you think...” My voice barely carried above the breeze. “...the jackal was right?”

Lucy slowed until we were walking side by side.

“What did the jackal say to you?”

For a while, I didn’t answer. The hill seemed much steeper than before.

“He...” I swallowed. “He said I wasn’t special. I was just a hobby.”

Lucy kept her eyes on the path.

“He said I was just another prize rooster.”

The words tasted bitter as they left my beak. My cheeks burned beneath my feathers. I couldn’t bring myself to look at Lucy.

With every word, I felt smaller somehow, as though I were shrinking into the path beneath my claws. Part of me wished the ground would simply open and spare me the humiliation of saying the rest aloud.

“He basically said Miriam only loved me because I won ribbons.”

The breeze rustled through the long grass.

I stared at the ground.

“He said...” My voice caught. “He said there was another rooster before me.”

Lucy looked over.

“He said Miriam loved him too.”

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

“The jackal...” I swallowed. “He ate him.”

I felt my stomach tighten.

“Then he picked up the poor rooster’s old blue ribbon and dropped it right in front of me.”

“He said she searched for a while...” I stopped walking. “...and then she stopped.”

The words hung between us.

I couldn’t bring myself to look at Lucy.

“What if...” I whispered. “What if I’m not as important as I think I am?”

My chest tightened.

“What if I’m just as easily replaceable as the first rooster?”

I laughed quietly, but there wasn’t anything funny about it.

“I’ve always thought I was the most important thing on the farm.”

I looked down at my muddy claws.

“...What if I’ve only been fooling myself?”

Lucy stopped so suddenly that I nearly walked straight into her.

“What?”

She threw her wings into the air.

“Have you completely lost your mind?”

I blinked cluelessly at her.

“Kip, have you actually looked at yourself?”

She let out an exasperated hiss.

“You are kind. You’d give your last grain of corn to someone who needed it. You somehow manage to make an entire farm laugh before breakfast.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Yes, you’re a bit vain.”

“I prefer exceptionally handsome.”

She ignored me.

“But you’re also loyal. Brave when it matters. And do you know what else?”

I shook my head.

“Nobody could replace you even if they tried.”

She stepped closer.

“Certainly not to Miriam.”

My beak trembled.

“The jackal doesn’t know the first thing about you. He only saw the feathers, the ribbons and the trophies. He never bothered to see the bird beneath them.”

A low hiss escaped her beak.

“Don’t you dare let that miserable old jackal rent space in your head.”

She shook her head.

“Kip, have you seen the state of him?”

“He lives in a damp hole in the ground surrounded by bones.”

She threw a wing back towards the forest.

“He’s all patchy fur, bad manners and terrible breath.”

I couldn’t help smiling.

“And somehow...” she continued, “...he has convinced you that you’re the problem?”

She let out another irritated hiss.

She looked back towards the forest.

“Do you know why I left my nest today?”

I frowned.

“You hate leaving your nest.”

“I do, but Miriam...” Lucy’s voice softened. “...has been everywhere.”

I looked up.

“She searched every field. Every dirt road. She walked through the forest calling your name until her voice was hoarse. The whole farm was in a panic. Neighbours were searching. Even I started worrying.”

She smiled gently.

“That’s why I came looking.”

She rested the tip of her wing against my shoulder.

“Kip, there isn’t another rooster in this world who could take your place. Not in that house, and certainly not in Miriam’s heart.”

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

Something tightened in my chest.

Before I could stop myself, I took one awkward step forward and draped a wing around Lucy.

She looked down at it, then back up at me.

“...Well,” she said with a small laugh. “That might just be the most awkward hug I’ve ever received.”

She gently patted me on the head.

I quickly stepped back, smoothing a few ruffled feathers that hadn’t needed smoothing.

“I don’t like being touched,” I muttered.

Lucy’s smile softened.

“I know.”

Chapter 10

My Triumphant Return

Together, we climbed the last stretch of the winding path. The hill grew gentler beneath our feet. Wild grass swayed lazily in the evening breeze, glowing gold beneath the fading sunlight. With every step, the world felt a little lighter.

Then I saw it.

Just beyond the crest of the hill, the old farmhouse roof peeked above the grass.

Home.

My heart skipped. I started climbing faster. More of the farmhouse came into view. The weathered chimney. The old windmill. The wraparound porch.

Miriam sat quietly on the front steps, her elbows resting on her knees as she watched the sun sink behind the fields. Even from the hill, I could see that her eyes were swollen. Her shoulders sagged with exhaustion.

As Miriam came into clearer view, I completely forgot about my carefully planned imaginary limp. I couldn't find the energy to care about Harold anymore or what he had put me through. I couldn't find the energy to take the jackal's cruel words into consideration.

All I saw...

was Miriam.

Before I knew it, my legs were running in her direction. Every aching muscle protested, but I barely felt them. I ran with the unrestrained excitement of a little chick seeing home after far too long.

When Miriam saw me, she sprang to her feet. The distance between us melted away in seconds. Without thinking, I leaped into her arms, burying my beak deep into the crook of her neck. Her familiar perfume wrapped around me, carrying the comforting scent of home that I’d thought I might never smell again.

Every frightened thought. Every horrible word the jackal had planted inside my head. Every doubt simply disappeared.

I was home.

Miriam held me so tightly I could feel her trembling. Her gentle hands stroked through my feathers repeatedly, as though reassuring herself that I was really there.

A quiet sob escaped her.

“Oh...” she whispered, her voice breaking. “My handsome boy.”

She held me even tighter.

“I knew you'd come home to me.”

The following morning, I was back where I belonged.

Curled comfortably on Miriam's lap, I flipped through the morning comic strips in the newspaper while she absentmindedly scratched the feathers behind my neck.

Harold stood on the porch, sipping his dreadful excuse for coffee. Everything was peaceful once again.

Harold frowned.

"...Miriam?"

"Hm?"

"Do you see that?"

A tiny black speck drifted across the morning sky. Then another. And another. Within seconds, the specks multiplied until they merged into one enormous black cloud.

Harold squinted, trying to make sense of what was happening.

"...Birds?"

The cloud drew closer. Much closer. Perfect rows formed across the sky like squadrons of military aircraft slicing through the sky.

At their head flew one recognisable crow.

Vincent.

My eyes widened.

Uh-oh...

I knew that formation.

KAAAAAAAAAWWW!

The flock swept over the farm.

SPLAT.

A perfect white streak landed across Harold's beloved Chevy.

SPLAT!

Another struck the windscreen.

SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT!

The first squadron banked left. The second peeled away to the right. A third dove straight down the middle, releasing its payload with breathtaking accuracy.

"They're aiming!" Harold shrieked.

The crows wheeled through the air with military precision, each formation breaking away before the next swooped in to continue the assault.

Harold sprinted toward his truck, waving his fists furiously.

"You feathered hooligans!"

Another squadron descended.

SPLAT!

His hat disappeared beneath a fresh layer of white.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me!" he yelled.

KAAAAAAAAAWWWW!

Vincent barked a command from above. The formations scattered.

For one glorious second, the sky fell silent.

Harold blinked, too scared to look up.

"...Is it over?"

Every crow turned at once.

They folded their wings.

And dived.

"AAAAAAAHHH!"

The black swarm engulfed Harold in a whirlwind of flapping wings, furious caws and indignant pecks. Arms flailed. Boots flew. His coffee sailed majestically through the air before disappearing into the chaos.

Harold burst free for half a second.

"This is Kip's fault!" he screamed, pointing wildly at me. "He's behind this! I know he is! Look how he's smiling at me, Miriam! He's enjoying this!"

I did my very best to look innocent. I really did, but I couldn't help finding Harold's downfall entertaining. Part of me wanted to feel sorry for Harold. It was an incredibly small part.

I tried hiding my smile.

On the inside, however... I was awarding the crows perfect tens for their choreography.

Miriam glanced from Harold... to the swirling tornado of crows... then down at me, still sitting comfortably on her lap.

She sighed, scooped me into her arms and headed inside.

"Honestly, Harold..."

She rolled her eyes.

"He's just a little chicken."

The End.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar celebrates the diversity and creativity of writers worldwide. This prestigious event invites participants to share their unique voices and stories, fostering a global community of literary talent. Participants engage in various categories, showcasing their skills and perspectives, contributing to a vibrant tapestry of contemporary literature.

Thank you, Jenine Kruger, for sharing your captivating short story, "Fowl Play," with us as part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Your tale of Kip the rooster brings humor and warmth, reminding us of the significance of self-worth and belonging. We are grateful for your contribution and look forward to more of your creative endeavors.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.