It was a disgusting thing to watch, all the flailing and flapping. Not as disgusting as the sound, though. Wet gurgles and hacks, sounds that could almost be described as squawks if you knew what you were listening to, if you knew what it was supposed to sound like, what it would sound like if the poor thing still had a beak. Or a head. But he doesn't and there's nothing to be done now. Two years on and John is feeling the strain from all the travel. Sure the money is great and the fame almost better, but he misses his wife and kids and isn't much of a showman anyway. Going to state fairs and circuses seemed like a great idea but now, more than 25 months later, John's tired of the hotel rooms, the truck and that sick gurgling sound. Mike the Amazing Headless Chicken was, in fact, really disgusting and one high maintenance little bastard. He had to be hand fed twice a day with a tiny eye-dropper of puréed corn, at least half of which he hacked up once or twice before he swallowed. He had no eyes of course, so couldn't be relied upon to keep from getting trampled, and only one semi-functional ear, which he only used when he wanted to. Somewhere within what was left of his tiny skull was a tiny part of a brain, which was apparently all a chicken needed to stay alive. It had always made John wonder what the hell the rest of the brain was for if he did so well without it. John had farmed chickens for nearly 30 years now, longer if you count the time he spent working for his parents on their farm, and as far as he could tell, taking into account the lack of sight and hearing, Mike acted the same as any chicken he'd ever seen with a whole brain. He still had that pecking instinct, shoving his blunt and stunted neck toward the ground in a sick parody of eating, never realising even after two years that he had no beak, skull, or even eyes to find the food that he can't eat.

It was initially guilt that sent John out on the state fair and side show circuit. Strange to think, but he felt he owed it to the poor little thing he had disfigured with one poorly aimed swing of his axe. It had been late in the day, rain pouring outside the barn and a sudden clap of thunder had made him jump, shifting his balance and sending the axe off course, taking a swipe at most of the head, but not all. Turns out, the brain of a chicken is mostly at the base of the skull, and while he took off his eyes, face and jaw, he left enough of the brain, there at the base, secured by a veterinarian with a false plastic hood for a skull, for the thing to live, even walk around and bump into things like chickens do.

His wife and kids were amazed and not a little disgusted, but John saw an opportunity and called the local newspaper the day after returning from the vet, proudly holding his feathery, flapping freak show.

And from then on he was famous, Mike the Amazing Headless Chicken, proof positive of the old myth that chickens could live without heads, likely borne from the idea that chickens were so stupid they didn't use them anyway. And so John now knows they use even less than what they have, that most of it is surplus, unnecessary.

Two years on and here he is, flapping and flailing on the floor of this dingy hotel room, and there's nothing John can do. Mike the Amazing Headless Chicken is choking on a pebble he'd managed to suck up from the floor and John has forgotten the all-important eye droppers in the last state, likely still on the bedside table in the hotel room. The sight is pathetic and the sound hideous but John can feel nothing but relieved. The show is over, the little guy is finally passing on and in an oddly appropriate way, here in this cheap room, from something as simple as not being able to chew his food. Seems very Hollywood, John thinks. A star like Mike dying in a place like this, from something so sad. No mourners for Mike though, no fan clubs and no claims of sightings after his death. Just the road home for John, back to his kids and wife, and maybe another call to the local paper, tell them the news. Goodbye, little buddy, John thinks. Sorry it took so long.

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
                                    i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)


- e.e. cummings

she saves herself the trouble and doesn't go back to school.