The Tuesday Chicken

Fictional Story

The chicken appeared on Evelyn’s porch at 9:12 on a Tuesday morning.

Evelyn knew the exact time because she had been watching the clock instead of doing any of the fourteen things written on the list beside it.

The chicken was white, round, and staring through the glass door with the confidence of someone who had scheduled an appointment.

Evelyn stared back.

“I don’t have chickens.”

The chicken pecked the glass.

“I also don’t have corn.”

Peck.

“Or emotional availability.”

Peck.

Evelyn opened the door just far enough to investigate. The chicken immediately squeezed through the gap and marched into the living room.

“No.”

It continued toward the kitchen.

“Absolutely not.”

By the time Evelyn caught up, the chicken had inspected the table, rejected the fruit bowl, and stationed itself beneath the clock. It looked at Evelyn’s untouched list.

Evelyn folded her arms. “Don’t judge me.”

The chicken made a noise that sounded remarkably judgmental.

There was no tag around its leg, assuming chickens wore tags. Evelyn checked the neighborhood page on her phone.

No missing chickens.

She posted a picture.

Does anyone recognize this bird? It has entered my home and appears dissatisfied with the management.

Three people reacted with laughing faces. One suggested naming it Nugget. Another offered a recipe.

The chicken pecked Evelyn’s shoe.

“You’re not helping.”

Evelyn carried it outside.

The chicken followed her back in.

She carried it farther into the yard.

It ran around the house and waited at the front door.

On the third attempt, Evelyn put it into a laundry basket and began walking down the road, asking every neighbor whether they had misplaced poultry.

No one had.

At the corner, an elderly man examined the chicken and said, “That’s either a White Plymouth Rock or a small goose.”

“It is not a goose.”

“I did say small.”

Two houses later, a little girl shouted, “Marshmallow!”

The laundry basket erupted.

The chicken flapped. Evelyn yelped. The elderly man yelled, “Goose!” from down the street.

The girl’s father hurried from the backyard, apologizing between breaths. A section of their fence had fallen during the night, and Marshmallow had escaped before breakfast.

The little girl hugged the chicken.

Marshmallow tolerated this with the weary expression of a celebrity greeting an enthusiastic fan.

“I’ve been looking everywhere,” the father said. “Where did you find her?”

“In my kitchen. Criticizing my life choices.”

The little girl looked up solemnly. “She does that.”

Evelyn laughed before she could stop herself.

The father repaired the fence while Evelyn held the hammer, although she mostly handed him the wrong tools. The little girl explained that Marshmallow disliked worms, lawn mowers, and a rooster named Kevin.

“No one likes Kevin,” she added.

Marshmallow clucked in agreement.

By the time Evelyn walked home, it was nearly noon.

Her list still waited beside the clock. All fourteen tasks remained undone.

But beside it sat one white feather, and on her phone was a new message:

Thank you for rescuing Marshmallow. Sophie has been smiling all morning. Also, we’re having too much pizza tonight if you’d like to help with that emergency.

Evelyn looked at the list.

Then she looked at the feather.

She crossed out the first item, although she had not completed it. Then the second. Then all fourteen.

At the bottom of the page, she wrote:

Successfully returned one rude chicken.

It was the only thing she accomplished that day.

It was also, she decided, enough.