Today’s celebrations should carry a special flavour, hence I shall post a short story that I wrote for my Creative Writing class in some five minutes. The comical yet sardonic bit about this brief tale is that I did not want it to develop into this shape at all. I commenced my writing session, against my will, and I devised a semi-plot and thought I would see it consummate.

Short-lived were my expectations. I soon forgot what the plot was and about five ideas crowded my head simultaneously. I was frustrated and wishy-washy about which to so proudly pick and claim my own and which to discard.

An eerie feeling of how twisted the whole situation is took over me and I convlused and scratched my head in the process. Then I adjusted my protection glasses that make me look like the nerd that I probably am, and I resolved to let the “ideas” flow with no plot prepared.

Well what do you know! I had my story readily. One last thing remains to be said about the satire at the end of the tale, a word of advice, that is, if you feel the presence of subliminal messages, do not scold yourself. Sometimes those happen, sometimes they don’t. In either case you could be mistaken and self-abasement is usually called for in more crucial issues. Save that for later.

The tale behind my becoming the leading rooster of the chicks and chickens is one not too long to narrate. I was told that when my chicken mother laid me as an egg, alongside my sibling eggs, that I was a bit distinct in color. My egg was more on the yellowish side and its shell was harder.

She settled on us, my chicken mother, until the eggs hatched. The other eggs all opened up with a weak picking from the soft beaks of the other baby birds. Mine was not so easy to unlock, I picked at it endlessly to no avail. My chicken mother gave up on me and altered her attention to the caring of her other babies. So much for motherly love, in retrospect I say. I eventually grew weary after that trial and I heard my beak creaking so I decided to try one last time. Lo and behold! It worked.

Once out, my chicken mother cared for me on equal foot with her more fortunate chicks. I was a weak male chick, really; playing with my peers, picking here and there for seeds and what not but never volunteering for a fight or anything of the sort. My friends came to call me “Rooster” as means of teasing me about my helplessness. I did not even mind that.

There was an ugly old rooster in charge of us, group of chickens. He was known under the name of “Spike”. My chicken mother often told of his unlimited strength and adventures. She even fabricated stories of him defying the farmer and preventing him from taking eggs and such. Those were lies, now I know that for a fact. But at the time when we were entertained and petrified by them they seemed utter reality.

I was playing casually one day with my chicken friends when Spike came up to me and lashed me with his tongue. He spoke ill of my mother and I was enraged by his behavior. I picked a stone and threw it at his arrogant head and the old fellow crumbled to the ground, his limbs shook and twitched. His crown got smeared with dirt and eventually his limbs twitched no more.

My friends and I stood awestruck for a long time. It was a painful pause during which I did not have the slightest clue what to do. Then all of a sudden my friends started laughing in a down right repulsive manner, they dragged me off to the chicken shed where we lived and there they proceeded to telling everyone what I, in a moment of fury, had done.

To my great surprise the chickens did not seem to mind Spike’s death. Ceremonies took place and I was crowned the leading rooster of the company. They still call me Rooster, it’s severely odd when you think of it. I am an ineffectual chick by my own admission and yet they applaud me as a superior rooster. Who ever said that governing the company requires preparation was doubtlessly mistaken.