Chicken Coop

Basil Payne, Second Place

Sometime in the early 80s, my

father, Robert, burnt down a chicken coop. It was a cheap chicken coop--a homemade one, in fact. Built up with cheap, scratchy plywood, rusty chicken wire, and black fruit-leatheresque roof shingles. His father built it with his giant, yet gentle hands. His intimidating stature was what people saw first; it was what his chickens always saw first. People and chickens alike would scatter when they saw him--a large, lumbering man. Neither people nor chickens had anything to fear. This man cared for his chickens like he cared for his family--with all his heart.

Robert’s parents decided to get chickens when he was a young child. I can imagine they got them for a myriad of reasons: to save money, to be self-sufficient, and to give my grandpa some feathery little friends. He never told me what type of chickens they had. The part of the story that always brought a smile to his face was when he started the fire, not when he told me he had chickens. Frustration would bubble up in my chest when he glossed over the chickens. They were the most important part of the story. I would just have to imagine what types of chickens his family would’ve had. A stripey one, a black and white one, maybe a rainbow one? My imagination wasn’t the most realistic.

The most important part of the story, Robert claims, is how he set the chicken coop on fire. I wanted to know about the chickens and if they were safe after the fire. He conveniently left out what happened to the chickens every time he would recite the story to me. The whole time I imagined them while tucked away in my bunk bed.

I imagine that my grandparents would have a Welsummer. Welsummer are a breed of chicken that have a wonderful list of positive attributes. One positive attribute is that they look cool. Their bodies are covered in mocha brown feathers that bleed into a dark, earthy color near the tail, and their heads are covered in a lovely burnt orange speckled with brown, red, and white on the inner parts of the feathers. This breed is known to be very kind. They would’ve gotten along well with my grandfather. He could hold them and pet them to his heart’s content. Maybe he would muse about the things he loved with them. Cluck about mechanics or airplanes with him. Welsummer are known to be intelligent, after all.

Robert loved to talk about how he burnt ants

to a crisp as a child; his preferred method of killing was with a magnifying glass. He justified his righteous wrath because the ants liked to snack on leftover chicken feed spilled onto the dusty ground. They were taking up space.

Maybe they would have an Easter Egger. This type of chicken--although not a particular breed--can lay eggs in a rainbow of colors (but only if the rainbow includes blues and greens.) Easter Egger chickens can’t be determined by their appearance–that has nothing to do with their unique eggs. They can look like any other breed of chicken, but their eggs would always give them away. On the inside, they are fundamentally different from the others.

Robert always got excited when it was time to recount the coop bursting into flames. This part had a habit of gripping onto my heart through my ribcage. After scorching a couple insolent ants, Robert accidently set the bag of chicken feed on fire. He smacked it a couple times in an attempt to put the flame out, but the chicken feed tipped over onto the coop, and it immediately burst into flames. Dry plywood swiftly gripped onto the fire, and tar dripped from the shingles like tears. Robert ran to his room once the fire got out of control, leaving the door to the chicken coop closed.

They could’ve had an Isbar. This beautiful breed of chicken is coated in silvery blue feathers. The silver and blue would contrast well with fiery tones of red and orange. Red and orange would singe away silver and blue, melting the soft feather vane, leaving just the boney backbone, the rachis, of the feather. Would these colors kill the chickens?

His mother only knew about the fire because she smelled smoke on his shirt. She ran outside and tried her best to put the fire out. Robert told me that his mother scolded him, but he never told me what his dad did. I imagine his father would be out there digging through the rubble. Looking for claws, beaks, bones, anything from his little chickens. I also imagine he would find nothing. Nothing was left.

After he left, I would lay there in bed and stare up at the bed slats of the bunk bed. Uneasiness would burn in my chest as I would brood about the story. Wondering why he killed the ants, why he didn’t tell his parents about the fire, and why he was smiling.

Someday I want chickens. Their fresh eggs would be great for baking and I could get some feathery little friends. I want to hold them, pet them, give them a happy life. Get them a fancy chicken coop with heating installed, insulated enough to keep them comfortable during the winter. Maybe something with hatches so it could be opened during the summer and they could let their feathers rustle in the breeze.

I would have an Isbar. We could all lay in the grass outside and watch the horizon. Watch the sunset reflect on their bodies and smile at the warmth together. This warmth would be comfortable and inviting. It wouldn’t singe or burn.

I would get an Easter Egger. Marvel over their colorful eggs in their own pastel tones. Admire their uniqueness and smile at their oddities.

I would take care of a Wellsummer. Hold it in my lap near the fireplace, stroking it like a cat. It would patiently tolerate me, and I would talk its poor little ears off. We could muse about some of the things I love. Cluck together about a novel I read or about the cute girl I saw at the farmer’s market earlier.

I would go outside every morning and open the door to the coop, smiling at all my little friends. They would be spoiled beyond belief--getting fresh produce and grain for breakfast, or whatever they’d like. A section of the yard would be fenced off and dedicated to them, safe from animals who would hurt them. Robert and his fire would never be welcome there.