Wally was happy to have a new rooster in the yard, until he became

Storyworks
Original
Fiction
Leghorn
Wally was happy to have
a new rooster in the yard,
until he became convinced that
the rooster wanted to kill him.
BY W A T T KEY • ART BY STEPHEN GILPIN
was 6 when my mother told me she was buying five hens and
a rooster for our backyard. She had always liked chickens, she
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said, und wanted to raise some haby chicks. I didn't know much
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about chickens, but I never would bave imagined the terror
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they would bring.
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My father and I built the hen house and the wire chicken yard
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in a weekend. The five hens and the rooster arrived the following
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Tuesday. When I returned from school that afternoon, they were
strutting about the pen and pecking through the grass. Not caring
much for hens, or any females at that age, I took to the rooster and
named him Leghorn. Leghorn was the meanest-looking animal I'd
ever laid eyes on. He was about half as tall as myself, rust-colored,
and probably would have been a crime boss had he been a person.
Leghorn had a way of standing up next to the chicken wire and
staring sideways, never blinking, as still as if he were stuffed. He stayed
like that until you put your face up close to the wire mesh, and then it
might be a second, it might be a minute, he snapped like a steel trap
and jabbed his beak at you. You never knew when it was coming,
rd jump back three feet with my heart stopped.
1 lay in the safety of my bed that first night and laughed at thoughts
of his efforts to jab me. Little did I know that only as soon as the next
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S T O R Y W O R K S
morning, my feelings for Leghorn would harden.
Over breakfast, my mother informed me
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tn that feeding chickens had been added to my list
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of morning chores. My jaw dropped. I already
6 considered myself overworked with trash duty
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•S and making up my bed and raking the yard every
u two weeks. Now, 1 had to be a chicken servant
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on top of all that! Leghorn and his antics were
no longer amusing. He was now my enemy.
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DI
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ver the next few weeks, I made up
insulting chicken songs and sang them
to Leghorn and his harem as I threw
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M them feed.
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Chickens stink;
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Chickens are red;
They're good to cat when they're dead.
I also found that it helped for me to think
of Leghorn as my prisoner—a prisoner I could
choose when and when not to feed. I'd walk by
the coop two or three times with a handful of
corn, chin up, whistling, and pretending to have
completely ft-)rgotten about chickens. After the
third or fourth pass, I would nonchalantly toss
the cracked corn through the wire and stroll
away.
"Momma?"
"Yes, Wally?"
"Leghorn's the meanest thing I've ever met."
"Don't be silly. He's just a chicken."
"I think he wants to kill me."
"I'd imagine so, taunting him like you do."
"I don't taunt him!"
She put her hands on her hips and stared
down at me, "Wally."
Despite my display of resentment, Leghorn
remained cool. He seemed to bounce back from
whatever 1 dealt him. Sometimes, I worried that
he was even becoming stronger—like a prisoner
who lifts weights and conditions his mind for
survival. Not only did he still try to jab me
through the fence, but he began charging and
feinting like a boxer.
At night I began to have strange dreams
of fighting Leghorns that had grown smart and
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escaped. I'd wake with my hands flailing in the
air before realizing it was all a dream. Eventually,
I'd remember that Leghorn was out there in the
darkness behind the chicken wire and that 1
didn't ever have to go in there with him.
Little did I understand Leghorn's ingenuity.
My crime boss prisoner of war had already taken
several wives. I think he must have known that,
as soon as my mother discovered eggs in the
chicken house, she was going to make me check
for baby chicks each morning. Which meant I
had to enter the coop with the dreaded Leghorn.
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he first morning after the eggs were
discovered, he wore a look of confidence
that rd never seen. As I walked to the
door of the hen house, he strutted tall and proud
around the corner to his entrance. I heard his
sharp talons scratch across the wood threshhold
and imagined his stopping just on the other
side of the door that I had to open. I remained
outside for several minutes, hands resting on
the latch, envisioning Leghorn crouched like a
runner, waiting for the gunshot. As the minutes
passed, I thought that maybe I even heard him
breathing in there. Mayhe smelled him.
"Leghorn?"! called.
There was no answer.
"Leghorn, get away from that door."
Still no answer.
"I'm the boss of you, and you know it."
I heard a scratching sound inside. I imagined
his feet pawing at the dirt like an angry bull's. I
pulled my hand away from the door and walked
around the chicken yard. From there, 1 was able
to see into the back of the hen house where
Leghorn's entrance was. As 1 was walking,
Leghorn strolled out into the yard, shadowing
me. 1 stopped. He stopped. I took two steps.
He took two steps.
"That's it, Leghorn. You've had it!"
The first thing 1 thought of was throwing a
net over him. But then 1 worried he might get
tangled and hurt himself and I'd have to face my
mother over that. After some more thinking.
I came up with the perfect plan. I took a piece
of plywood paneling up onto the roof of the
hen house and dropped it in front of Leghorn's
entrance. I would leave it there until I was
finished checking for chicks, then climb back
up and remove it.
The plywood trick made Leghorn crazy.
While I inspected the eggs, he ran about the
chicken yard, flapping his wings and bouncing
off the ground, neck stretched out and crowing
one long crow—like a chicken howling. When
I was finished, I climbed onto the roof again,
pulled away the plywood, and watched Leghorn
throw a temper tantrum below.
L
eghorn eventually became disillusioned
with his role as a rooster. He had never
successfully stabbed anyone through the
fence, and boarding his entrance robbed him of
a chance to go one-on-one with me. He began to
crow all day long like an insane person who yells
at inappropriate moments. I invited my friends
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over to hear. The more he went off, the more
we laughed. The more we laughed, the crazier
he got. He rubbed his head in the dirt until
he was mostly bald, with a few black feather
stems sticking up. 1 began to think of him as my
prisoner of war, who 1 was slowly breaking.
"You better not forget who's boss, Leghorn,"
1 said every morning. He'd rub his head around
in the dirt, then look up and crow at me. I'd
begrudgingly toss some com into the chicken
yard and make up more chicken songs.
There is an aspect of chicken-raising that the
farmer she bought them from forgot to mention
to my mother. If you don't clip their wings on
a regular basis, they are able to fly. Only in my
nightmares could chickens reallyfly.Yet, one
Saturday morning, 1 walked out of the house and
saw one of the hens sitting on top of the azalea
bush. The first thing I did was squint my eyes in
confusion and stare at it.
"How'd you get—"
Then, I froze like someone who has realized
he's in a mine field. I started to slowly tum and
look around. There he was, perched on the
bottom limb of the camellia bush near our tool
shed. He was staring sideways at me, what head
feathers he had cow-licked into a Mohawk,
scales shining on his legs, leaves and pine straw
hanging from his wings. The camellia bush
was situated close enough to the ht>use so that
Leghorn would be able to cover the distance to
my front door before 1 could. There was only one
option. 1 covered my head and ran for the hen
house, hoping my plywood cover was handy.
"Leeeeeghooooom's loooooooose!" I yelled.
I heard the camellia bush shake and then
the whop'whop i)f his wings as he launched after
me. I expected him to land on my head at any
moment. I swiped the latch on the door and fell
inside, kicking it shut behind me. 1 immediately
looked at the back entrance. It was wide open,
and the hens were squawking and bouncing
out of it. I leaped up and reached outside for
the cover, searing with adrenaline. 1 pulled it
across the opening and sat in the loose hay that
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S T O R Y W O R K S
covered the floor, listening for Leghorn.
Later that morning, I heard my mother
calling for me.
"I'm in here!" I yelled back.
There was a long silence, then the door
opened and sunlight fell across my lap.
"Wally, what are you doing?"
"Leghorn's loose. He wants to kill me."
She backed out and looked into the chicken
yard at the twcï hens there. "There's a hen that's
missing too," she said.
"I know. They can fly now."
We didn't find Leghorn. I spent a month
creeping about the yard, expecting him
to ambush me at every hedge. My friends
soon learned about the escape. With my
embellishments, the threat of Leghorn's
attacking us in the night overshadowed even
the stories about the loose convict with long
fingernails. That rooster had us all terrified.
A
fter a few more weeks, the threat of
Leghorn eventually faded, and I began
to think of him in an entirely different
way. When I learned about Captain John Paul
Jones in school, I thought of Leghorn yelling,
"We have not yet begun to fight!" When I read
about Jeremiah Dentón as a prisoner of war
in Vietnam, I imagined Leghorn gripping the
bamboo bars and staring at me with a look of
defiance. When the President of the United
States made a speech on television, it was a
slicked-up Leghorn standing there. When 1
went to Disney World and rode The Pirates of
rbe Caribbean, every pirate was just another
swashbuckling Leghorn. Somehow, he had
come to embody the spirit and independence
and perseverance of everyone I admired.
I don't miss our old rooster, but I guess he
should be proud of himself. Leghorn. •
Write to Win!
What happened next to
Leghorn? Did he and Wally
ever meet again? Write
an epilogue to the story,
and send it to "Leghorn
Contest" by March 15,
2009. We'll choose 10 winning entries
and send their writers Watt Key's
magnificent and award-winning novel,
Alabama Moon. See page 2 for details.
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