Skipping most stages of poultry production including death, he’d blagged a ride in the delivery truck. He was free-range organic, farm fresh. Howdy Ma’am!
We often danced in the kitchen, a wild whirl we called Rooster Booster. Laughing our heads off. We cried cock-a-doodle-do!
As he was pecking morsels of oat crunch from my lips, enter baldie husband. Shouting ‘Dirty bird!’ he brandished a spatula. RB hit the ceiling in a dusty fluster, I screamed, the patio doors burst open. Is that my neck gripped in a podgy fist, my heart on the lawn, my blood dropping like ripe cherries?
Frances Gapper lives in the Black Country region of the UK with Bear, her life partner. She has published three collections and has flashes and micros in Under the Radar, Fictive Dream, Ellipsis, Meniscus, Cafe Irreal, Wigleaf, the Ilanot Review, the Citron Review, New Flash Fiction Review, Splonk and Spelk.