A chicken short story. (Patreon)

I wrote this for a club. It's pretty stupid, but hey, maybe it'll give you guys a chuckle. Enjoy.

Waves lapped gently against the weathered hull of the Foamskipper and a gentle ocean breeze hung low in the air. A burly sailor sat at the bow of a sloop, a slight frown on his weathered face. The sun was setting over the horizon, and the moon looked sickly behind a growing bed of clouds.

“Looks like we’ll have to enjoy the good weather while we still have it, eh, Gertrude?” the man asked, running a hand over the back of a large chicken that was laying in his lap. The bird craned its head up toward him, displeasure clear in its vindictive eyes.

In the chicken’s opinion, the day was anything but pleasant. The humid ocean was terrible for her feathers, and all the sailors were too preoccupied with work to feed her.

“What are you looking at me like that for?” the sailor asked. “I fed you an hour ago. That was dinner. You are not getting any more.”

That was an hour ago, and this was now. Gertrude was never particularly apt at math – a fact that she was quite apathetic toward. Most things that weren’t food received a similar reaction.

Gertrude fluffed her feathers and hopped out of the sailor’s lap, fluttering her wings and smacking the man in the chin on the way down. He let out a curse and jumped to his feet.

“Damn bird,” the sailor grumbled as Gertrude strutted toward the stairwell that descended to the lower deck. He brushed himself off, then froze when his fingers came back white. He glanced down at his pants, then let out an annoyed groan. “You pooped on me? Really?”

Gertrude accelerated, launching herself down the stairs before the sailor could catch her. The sloop wasn’t particularly large, but there were still more than enough places to hide from an irate sailor. He’d deserved his punishment, of course, but he wouldn’t understand that.

She made for the back of the ship as quickly as her feet could carry her. The sailor’s boots thumped down the deck behind her, but Gertrude was gone by the time he made it down. Her escape route, coincidentally, led her straight to her favorite place on the entire sloop – the kitchen.

Luckily, the door had been left askew. Gertrude squeezed through the crack and fluffed her feathers in distaste. A deep laugh echoed through the small room as a large man wearing a dirty apron waved his cleaver at her.

“I know I saw John feed you,” Cook said, wiping his knife off with a towel. “What are you doing back here, you fat bird?”

Gertrude ignored the man. She strutted between his legs, pecking at a few scraps that had fallen to the ground before looking around to find a better prize. The rich aroma of broth and meat rose up from a large metal pot that was simmering atop a metal contraption.

A quick glance at Cook dismissed that idea. The man was watching her very pointedly, tapping his foot on the ground. “I see that look in your eyes. Don’t even think about it. It’s beyond me why John keeps you as a pet. If it were up to me, I’d have you in this pot. I sure ain’t giving you what’s in it.”

Gertrude clucked indignantly. The cook’s words were wasted on her – not because she couldn’t understand him – but because, even if she could, she was too stupid to care.

She paced around the room, pecking at scraps for a few minutes until a thump caught her attention. Gertrude jerked her head up and stared at a small curtain at the back of the kitchen. Cook followed her gaze and chuckled.

He paced over to the curtain and pulled it back, revealing a large cage. A chicken sat inside it, staring back at her with stupid, unintelligent eyes. Gertrude hopped back.

“He’s your new friend for a little while,” Cook said with a chuckle. “John insisted. A waste, if you ask me. I’ve been thinking about letting the bugger run around the ship, just to see how John likes it.”

Gertrude turned, fluffing her feathers as she indignantly searched for a few more scraps to sate her before she starved to death. They’d brought competition. She couldn’t have that.

The kitchen door swung open and John strode in, still trying to rub the last of the stain out of his pants with a dirty rag. Cook burst into laughter.

“A little gift from your chicken?” Cook asked.

“Don’t start on me,” John said with a sigh. “Stupid thing. I heard you talking to her, though.”

“It’s a notch better than talking to myself,” Cook admitted. “I got Frederick over there, but I don’t really feel like talking with something I’m going to eat.”

“Now you know how I feel about Gertrude.” John glanced down at his pants and grimaced. “Most of the time. I’m telling you, birds are pretty smart. I feel a little bad eating them.”

“They taste good,” Cook said with a shrug. “They shouldn’t have tasted good if they didn’t want to get eaten.”

“We aren’t starting this again,” John said. “You’ve got your food over there. Just keep your eyes off Gertrude.”

“Eh. We’ve got the stew for tomorrow anyway,” Cook said with a shrug. “You think I’m a bad person for eating him?”

“Nah. We all need to eat,” John replied. “Not like other things last very well at sea, and we’re low on food after how little our last expedition made. Life is life.”

“True enough,” Cook agreed. “But now you’ve got me feeling a bit bad about Frederick. I think I’ll let him play a bit. Maybe he’ll have some fun before we – well, you know.”

A peal of thunder rang out. Cook and John exchanged a glance.

“Storm’s on us a lot faster than I thought it would be,” John said. As if to mark his words, heavy rain started to patter down on the deck above them. “If you’re letting Frederick ever do anything, you should do it now. Also, isn’t Frederick a girl?”

“Name’s a name.” Cook strode over to the cage and opened the latch, swinging the door open.

The chicken within it burst into motion, jumping out the cage and dashing for the scrap of food that Gertrude currently had her eyes on. Gertrude was just a second slower than the other bird, who devoured the tiny piece of meat.

Her eyes locked with Fredrick and she let out a threatening cluck. The other chicken matched her gaze, challenging her authority with blatant disregard for life.

“Uh… John? You might want to get your chicken,” Cook suggested, starting toward them. “I think–”

Gertrude burst into motion, fluttering at Frederick and clawing at her rival. The other chicken leaped back, then charged at her. Feathers flew and squacks filled the air as the two large birds attacked each other, hopping and jumping around the kitchen while the two sailors desperately tried to separate them.

Gertrude jumped off Cook’s burly arm as he tried to grab her, bumping into the pot. It nudged it to the side and the large man cried out, diving to catch it. His hand clipped the pot – which was nowhere near falling – and threw it off the stove. It crashed to the deck with a bang, spilling stew everywhere.

That was bad. The tiny speck of self-preservation in Gertrude kicked in and, with one look at Cook’s furious face, she fled the scene. Frederick charged after her, the challenge uncompleted.

The two chickens charged out onto the upper deck of the sloop, where the rain came down in thick sheets. A bolt of lightning crashed down in the distance with a loud bang. Frederick and Gertrude stared at each other, hatred burning in their eyes.

There was only room for one chicken on this boat. Gertrude and Frederick leapt at each other once more, their feathers falling and claws flashing. The fight was brutal but swift. After taking several scratches to the chest, Gertrude used her superior mass to press her opponent back toward the edge of the ship.

Using all the force she could muster, Gertrude slapped Frederick with her wing. The smaller chicken fell back, plummeting into the stormy water below. Gertrude clucked her victory as John and Cook ran up from the bottom deck.

Cook and John exchanged a baffled glance.

“Where’s Frederick?” John asked.

“Feeding the fishes, I think,” Cook said, raising a hand to block the rain and squinting over the edge of the ship. “Gone for sure. I can’t see shit.”

“Did you manage to save any of the stew?”

“Feeding the floorboards.”

The two of them turned to look back at Gertrude, who was strutting back into the warmth of the kitchen.

“What are we having for dinner?” Cook asked.

“I think it just walked itself into the kitchen,” John replied.