Beware Of Chicken の小説・ストーリー

I confirm with Bishop, putting my phone away. The two of us are quiet as we slowly slink to the back of property, as not to spook the fox. When we get closer, we can see him looking, measuring how far it'll be for him to jump so that he can grab onto the fence and make it into the coop. "Right here." Bishop holds out his hand to me, speaking softly. "Just fire in the air. We don't want to hurt 'em. They're good for a lot of things, but chickens are a huge tease."

Janina had asked for his help and company after Lucius and Clyde told her to just leave what she can’t change. "Birds have hollow bones, that’s how they are able to fly.” “Yeah, it's just obvious. They would be too heavy otherwise.” “You could crush one easily in your hand if you wanted to.” “What the—“ Janina sighs confused and a little scared by the serious tone of the younger. “You have to be extra careful with chicks, Harley, they are too fragile." “Yeah. Baby chicks die if you hold them too tight, Janina” Harley finishes. “I’m sorry, I can’t stay,” He apologizes as he leaves a pat on Jana’s shoulder, too many nightmares being revived by the loud muffled misery sipping through the door.

There were screams and a rush to get away, which is hard when you’re sitting on a bench with your knees all jammed together. “Remain calm!” shouted Mayor Nelbum. “The savages were sent here by the One True God.” He was only a small man but he had a bellowing voice. The panic stricken villagers stopped trying to dive into the nearest bush and up any available tree, and looked around nervously. I had my fire going, orange flames licking the length of the wood. Please don’t blame me for perverse thoughts in your mind. It’s your mind, you sicko. I took a large piece of chicken and skewered it on a stick. It was bleached white after what I would imagine was several days simmering in a pot. The sk

he announced, and the whole screen jolted. When it steadied again, my heart legitimately missed a beat. A chicken. A live chicken. In my child’s arms. Ash lifted it like he’d just won an Oscar. “Mami! Look! I’m holding a chicken!” he screamed with the pride of someone showing off a new car. I swallowed. My mouth dried out. My brain played every possible disaster: claws, bacteria, feathers on the Romano family sofa, me dying in Italy not because of the mafia but because of poultry-related tetanus.

Except I'm impatient and put too many pieces in at once. The temperature immediately drops and instead of browning, the chicken starts to steam. "No, no, no," I mutter. "You're supposed to brown, not steam. Come on, chicken. Work with me here. We're supposed to be a team." The chicken ignores me and continues steaming. I quickly remove some pieces and spread out the rest. Finally, they start to get that nice golden color. Crisis averted. For now. I'm so focused on the chicken that I almost forget about the vegetables.

But she doesn't want to take it out yet, for this little thing, it's not worth it. It's not worth it to kill a chicken or use a bull's knife.

Through the fogged glass—the silhouette of the chicken had evolved into something that far exceeded any definition of done. She opened the oven door. Stared. The expression on her face was identical to the day she’d discovered her most trusted informant was a double agent: disbelief, self-directed rage, and very deep resignation. The chicken had chosen an archaeological evolutionary path. Its skin was no longer brown. No longer dark. It had arrived at pure carbon. The smell was no longer food. It was a warning. She had just committed a crime against poultry. Dante’s footsteps sounded from the sitting room.

I have a date with Jack. I don't care to look back when he warns, "Careful with whom you trust."