Leghorn. Ïwas 6 when my mother told me she was buying five hens and

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1 S t o r y w o r k s O r i g i n a l F i c t i o n Leghorn Wally was happy to have a new rooster in the yard, until he became convinced that the rooster wanted to kill him. BY WATT KEY ART BY STEPHEN GILPIN in X fi O s h» o Ïwas 6 when my mother told me she was buying five hens and a rooster for our backyard. She had always liked chickens, she said, und wanted to raise some haby chicks. I didn't know much about chickens, but I never would bave imagined the terror they would bring. My father and I built the hen house and the wire chicken yard in a weekend. The five hens and the rooster arrived the following 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 S T O R Y W O R K S

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3 0) DI O» tn pa 6 O S uo I S M eo morning, my feelings for Leghorn would harden. Over breakfast, my mother informed me that feeding chickens had been added to my list of morning chores. My jaw dropped. I already considered myself overworked with trash duty and making up my bed and raking the yard every two weeks. Now, 1 had to be a chicken servant on top of all that! Leghorn and his antics were no longer amusing. He was now my enemy. Over the next few weeks, I made up insulting chicken songs and sang them to Leghorn and his harem as I threw them feed. Chickens stink; 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 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. The 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. S T O R Y W O R K S

4 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. Leghorn 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 '^1 ^^WB^^hi^L-

5 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 os 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

6 the stories about the loose convict with long fingernails. That rooster had us all terrified. After 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, 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. F E B R U A R Y / M A R C H O

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