| General Flash Fiction posted August 15, 2022 |
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150 word flash fiction
Pop Goes the Weasel
by Jill McCauslin
You tell me Sean found one of his chickens dead, killed by a fox.
But listen to this, you say. I know a guy who found all his chickens dead one morning. No blood, just a coop full of dead chickens with slashed throats. A weasel scratched a hole in the wall, squeezed into the coop, sucked the blood from each chicken and left the carcasses behind.
And you laugh.
Now I'm in bed staring in the dark, unable to sleep. I imagine a chicken's terror when the night creature slithers into the coop and begins to kill.
The chickens surely fought, screeching, flapping their wings, pecking at their death.
Did the last one continue to fight, locked inside, knowing there was no escape? Just panic and despair.
The next day I tell you that the story about the weasel and chickens disturbed me.
"Really?" you ask.
And you laugh.
Flash Fiction contest entry
You tell me Sean found one of his chickens dead, killed by a fox.
But listen to this, you say. I know a guy who found all his chickens dead one morning. No blood, just a coop full of dead chickens with slashed throats. A weasel scratched a hole in the wall, squeezed into the coop, sucked the blood from each chicken and left the carcasses behind.
And you laugh.
Now I'm in bed staring in the dark, unable to sleep. I imagine a chicken's terror when the night creature slithers into the coop and begins to kill.
The chickens surely fought, screeching, flapping their wings, pecking at their death.
Did the last one continue to fight, locked inside, knowing there was no escape? Just panic and despair.
The next day I tell you that the story about the weasel and chickens disturbed me.
"Really?" you ask.
And you laugh.
But listen to this, you say. I know a guy who found all his chickens dead one morning. No blood, just a coop full of dead chickens with slashed throats. A weasel scratched a hole in the wall, squeezed into the coop, sucked the blood from each chicken and left the carcasses behind.
And you laugh.
Now I'm in bed staring in the dark, unable to sleep. I imagine a chicken's terror when the night creature slithers into the coop and begins to kill.
The chickens surely fought, screeching, flapping their wings, pecking at their death.
Did the last one continue to fight, locked inside, knowing there was no escape? Just panic and despair.
The next day I tell you that the story about the weasel and chickens disturbed me.
"Really?" you ask.
And you laugh.
Photo by ArtHouse Studio: https://www.pexels.com/photo/white-feather-on-black-beach-sand-surface-4344320/
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