Idea by randomraspberries: My name is Mariel *insert generic last name here* and you should write a story about the time i stumbled upon the secret leader of the monster Mafia who lives at my chicken raising neighbor’s house
IN WHICH I COMMIT HEN MURDER
by Kaleb Nation
Oh the clucking. Oh the abysmal, never ending clucking.
It permeated the night, echoing across the eleven feet and four inches that separated my bedroom window from the one next door. Cluck. Cluck. Bawk. Bawk. BAWWWWWWWWW-KAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.
Not a creaky bed or all eighteen tires of an eighteen-wheeler screeching to a halt, but the combination of both, over and over again as I lay staring at the ceiling, trying in vain to sleep. Do chickens never rest? Was that hen awake just to spite me?
I’d thought that by begging my parents to move my bedroom upstairs, I’d get further from her ceaseless clucking. But alas, the hen lived indoors, and only had to scurry up the stairs and pace in the bedroom window to continue its torture of my nights. Such spite.
“It’s just a hen, Mariel,” my tired father had said the evening before, his voice muffled from his home under the kitchen sink. “Be thankful you don’t have real problems. Like losing your animator’s pencil supply business when Disney switched to 3D animation. Or having a debilitating fear of living anywhere but under a kitchen sink.”
But was it really me? Who in their right mind owns a chicken in the city? Who looks at the shingled roofs and the carefully-cut lawns and the energy efficient cars parked in our cement driveways and thinks “I like this place. It is peaceful and quiet, and therefore it is in great need of my pet hen.”
The clucking continued. My eyes traced patterns in the bumps in my ceiling, the shapes forming pictured like clouds sometimes do. I saw a spork, the Popeye’s restaurant logo, a portrait of Colonel Sanders, mashed potatoes, sunny-side up eggs, a pot-pie.
Didn’t they make hen-muzzles? How could my neighbors sleep with that creature even closer to them than it was to me? How was it not driving them mad – a madness I could feel overcoming me even then…
I’d had enough. That hen had to go.
Perhaps it was my exhaustion from many nights of no sleep. Or desperation to steal my life back and eradicate the blue circles beneath my eyes. There was simply no hesitation as I considered my options. I could find a gun and send the bullet through the two windows, shattering both until it finally came to rest in that chickeny skull. I could mix some rat poison in to the hen-food, and it’d be lying with its tongue out and its feet in the air within minutes.
But no. I had to do this right, I had to do this now. That hen had to go.
In a dreary blur, I fetched the largest carving knife from our kitchen drawer, careful not to wake my father. I crept out the back door and across the tall grasses that separated our houses, the moon my only light and the shadow my only observer. I tossed the knife over and hopped the fence. Their back door was unlocked – how foolish – and I entered the kitchen without so much as a creaking floorboard.
I stopped to listen.
The clucks had grown quieter. Brk. Brk. Maybe she heard me coming. I froze. The pause gave me a second to look at my surroundings.
Strange. Nothing was in there… nothing at all. The tiled countertops held no toaster or plates, no dishes, no pots or pans. Not even a towel or a garbage. The dining area was vacant of a table or chairs. It was like no one lived there.
In any other situation, this might have stopped me. But as odd as it was, my murderous rage was too strong for me to be wary. My shoes clicked lightly across the hardwood floor as I crossed the room to the carpet, around another empty corner with no pictures on the walls, and up the stairs. I saw four doors at the top – which belonged to that evil beast?
Cluck cluck? I heard her ask into the quiet, sensing me and wondering who was there — unintentionally leading me to her door. I grinned. My fingers clung to the knife, my bloodshot eyes struggling to keep from closing. Soon I could sleep. Soon that clucking hen would cluck no more.
My free hand wrapped around the door handle, its metal cooling the sweat in my palms.
Clu— the hen stopped mid-cluck. That was my cue.
With the scream of all the thousands of Irish women from generations before me, I burst through the door, letting it slam into the wall on the other side. Fueled by my fury, I dashed in, seeing the curved shape atop spindly, stick-like legs that could only be that accursed creature standing silhouetted in the window, two beady eyes atop that feathered head spinning to look at me.
“Die!” I screamed, diving forward with the long blade out, all mind and body intent on skewering that accursed pet of Satan.
BRK— it began, but was cut off by the crunch of my knife ringing against metal.
Seething and trembling, I shifted my eyes down in surprise. What was this? Gears now poked through a ripped sheet of feathers that covered the now-askew hen. Metal rods spilled out onto the table instead of the bones that I’d hoped for.
I stepped back in alarm. The hen flopped over, giving a metallic resonance against the table.
Like a dead Furby.
A robotic… hen?
What was this madness… I spun around, the surroundings that been ignored in my rage sinking in suddenly.
I was not in a regular bedroom at all – at least, not the bedroom as it had been when the house had been purchased. All the walls separating the upstairs rooms had been torn down so that there was no division between them, only a long single room from one end of the house to the other. The walls were lined with desks, and on the desks were rows upon rows of hens, all standing stiffly in neat lines, wide and blank eyes staring through me as if I didn’t exist. It was like they were simply powered off – like all of them were robots too.
Something shuffled from the far end of the house, past the pipes sticking up where the bathroom had once been. My eyes jerked over to look, far into the dark, down to the giant pile of old clothes sitting in the corner.
There was a huff, and before I could gather the strength to move, it did.
What I’d thought was a pile of clothes was actually the back of a giant creature wrapped in a ragged coat of sewn-together T-shirts, the entire pile moving at once as it spun to face me. He was so tall that his back scraped the ceiling and he had to bend over like a hunchback to fit, skin green and gray and yellow like he’d been bathing in sewer water and it’d stained him. On the top of stalks that poked from the top of his head were two completely black eyes, as large as 8-Balls from a pool table. He was so fat that his arms rested on his girth like they were holding a beach ball, all girth and only inches of legs with long kangaroo-like feet. His mouth was long like a hippopotamus’ with two tusks pointing up.
Stunned silence rested between us. A long, cluck-less silence.
Suddenly, his mouth opened in a wide roar.
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY P-P-P-P-PRECIOUS HEN!” he roared, the power of his voice sending my long hair flying backward like auburn strings in the wind. He took a stumbling step forward, his tiny legs barely seeming able to support him, arms out to grab me. The pounding of his hairy toes against the carpet awoke me, sending me running away from him, dashing off for the door with him only steps behind.
I stumbled over one of the hen’s broken gears, though, falling against the wall. I slammed into it, catching my balance, looking up and seeing two framed items hanging beside my head. One, a portrait of the vile creature pursuing me, made to parody American Gothic. Next to that, a certificate that read in bold type:
THIS CERTIFICATE IS IN RECOGNITION OF:
WHO IS HEREBY BEQUETHED WITH THE TITLE OF
MONSTER MAFIA BOSS
And suddenly – before I could even catch my breath – I was caught by giant arms and swung off my feet.
- TO BE CONTINUED -
**HOW TUMBLR STORY TIME WITH KALEB WORKS**
You give me a story idea. I write it in one draft with no outlining or edits (therefore, these stories should not be used as judgement for my published books).
LIKE if I should continue this story.
REBLOG with your idea of what happens next, and it might.
SEND ME AN ASK with a new story idea and I might write it: http://j.mp/AskKaleb
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- iamloes said: Kaleb - you are, in one word, amazing.
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- trouble-with-magic said: The monster and him need to make a deal. idk what kind, but one involving the kid Not dying.
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