Chicken’s Midnight Poetry Mayhem

The night glowed honey warm over the little French town. From the hill, Chicken's chateau flickered with candlelight, its windows like lanterns guiding moths.

Inside, everything was ready: lavender tea in chipped cups, her poems stacked neatly in order. But the centerpiece, her triumph, was the podium.

Four wine crates stacked precariously, draped in lace stolen from Nana's attic trunk, topped with a chipped teacup full of pens. To Chicken, it looked scholarly, cathedral-worthy. To everyone else, it seemed as though it might collapse if someone sneezed.

"Official," Chicken whispered, smoothing her feathers. "Tonight will be special."

Guests seeped in with the draft. Caroline first sketchbook under her arm, green eyes sweeping the room like searchlights.

Diane followed, inhaling deeply as if the chateau were already her yoga studio.

Winnie tiptoed next, a floral scarf wrapped high around her neck.

Walter the emu creaked into a corner, tripod legs unfolding, red recording light already blinking.

And Rufus, derpy, disheveled, feathers jutting like punctuation, staggered in last, lugging a dented tray of brownies that smelled faintly of burnt earth.

"I brought courage!" he declares, thumping it down with a puff of crumbs.

"Courage?" Chicken frowns, her voice thin with suspicion.

"Herbal courage," he winked, which clarified nothing.

They each take a square. Winnie chews hers as though it might detonate in her mouth. "Mmm," she managed. "It tastes like… dirt. But um…unique dirt."

Caroline didn't hesitate. Bite, chew, verdict: "Tastes like shit."

Chicken's feathers flared. She threw Caroline a sharp glare across the table. Caroline only shrugged, as if to say, What? I'm not lying.

Rufus puffed. “Good! It’s supposed to taste like that,” announced with the authority of someone who has eaten his own experiments for years.

Diane closed her eyes as she chewed, as if meditating.

Walter zoomed in on her serene face. “Unfiltered truth,” he breathed into his mic. “The lens craves this.”

They sank into Chicken’s plush French sectional—its cashmere cushions so deep they swallowed you whole, a set piece Walter’s camera would later describe as “cinematic opulence.”

Firelight flickered across their faces as the lace-draped podium loomed nearby, noble and ridiculous.

Chicken took her place behind it, notebook open. “Would anyone like to begin?”

Silence. Winnie tugged her scarf. Caroline sketched furiously. Diane stared into the flames as if they were giving a lecture.

“No volunteers?”

Rufus, mouth full: “I’ll go last. Mine’s memorized.” He tapped his temple, dusting it with crumbs.

Chicken smoothed a feather and began. “I’ve called this poem On Friendship.”

Her voice trembled: “Friendship is the hearth, its flame spilling warmth into the darkest rooms—”

The words slid sideways. “Friend… shiiiip,” she said, syllables dragging like her beak was stuck in glue. “Is the… heeeaaaarth.”

She blinked hard. “Frrr—iiieeend—ship.” By the last syllable, she sounded like a dying record player.

The fire popped.

Winnie stared.

Caroline muttered, “Is she buffering?”

Rufus honked so hard the cushions bounced.

Winnie squealed into her scarf.

Diane murmured, “Buffering… yes, I can channel that.”

Chicken snapped the notebook shut and fled to the sectional, feathers blazing.

Walter whispered into his mic: “Collapse of the poet. Pure cinema.”

From there, things unraveled.

“Winnie,” Chicken croaked, eyes squeezed shut. “Please.”

Winnie approached the podium like it might bite, laying down a flour-smudged recipe card.

“My poem is called… Ode to Baking,” she whispered. “Flour on my nose, sugar on my sleeve, I stir and stir, and hope, and believe. When muffins rise, the world feels right; warm bread in the morning is my favorite light.”

Not profound, not polished, just very Winnie: shy, lopsided, and sweet enough to make the room smile.

Rufus honked in approval.

Caroline smirked into her sketchbook.

Diane murmured, “Rising dough, rising breath… It’s all one.”

Walter whispers behind the lens, “Ah, the poetry of yeast.”

Before Winnie could sit, Chicken hopped up, feathers fluffed with pride. She clapped enthusiastically, wings beating together, and pulled Winnie into a hug. “That was lovely,” Chicken said warmly. “Short and sweet, just like you.”

Winnie’s cheeks blazed brighter than the fire. She ducked her head, mumbling, “Thank you,” as she folded herself back into the cushion.

Then Chicken tilted her head. “Winnie… your eyes are red. Are they okay?”

Winnie froze. “My eyes are red? Your eyes are red.”

Chicken clutched her face. “No, they’re not!”

“They are!”

Panic fluffed Chicken’s chest. She turned to Caroline, whose green eyes were steady and calm. Caroline rested a paw on Chicken’s wing. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “Everything’s okay.”

The words slipped into Chicken like cool water. For a moment, the laughter of Rufus honking, Winnie squealing, and Diane muttering became muffled, distant. All she felt was Caroline’s calm weight and steady voice.

Then, faintly, from the rug by the fire, came Diane’s voice, almost a whisper, nearly a chant. “Breathe… just breathe. Breathe… just breathe.”

At first, it sounded like she was calming herself. But the repetition grew stranger, heavier, her big body rocking slightly as though she were fighting invisible waves.

Winnie peeked over her scarf.

Rufus paused mid-brownie, crumbs stuck to his beak.

Chicken stiffened, eyes darting.

Caroline was the first to mutter it aloud: “Oh shit.”

“I’ll get water,” she announced, and padded into the kitchen, tail flicking. The old faucet croaked awake. She glanced up at the broad window. Beyond it stretched Chicken’s field, silvered by moonlight. Stars clung to the sky like coins sprinkled on velvet. And then they shifted.

Chicken hovered, feathers puffed, unsure what to do. Winnie peeked nervously over her scarf, her eyes wide.

Caroline’s paw tightened around the glass. Constellations spiraled, lines connecting into impossible images. Wheat rippled as if tugged by invisible tides. For a heartbeat, galaxies seemed to bloom like flowers beyond the fence.

Her breath snagged. “Oh… oh, shit.”

“What is it?” Rufus called, brownie in cheek.

“The stars,” Caroline whispered, eyes brilliant. “They’re rearranging.”

Chicken, already on the verge of a mental breakdown, looks back at Caroline standing at the sink. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Caroline snaps, “SILENCE! They’re speaking to me.”

Winnie, now sweating on the couch, squeals, “Oh gods.”

Water spilled over the rim of the glass, ribboning back into the sink drain.

Walter noticed. Of course he did. Slowly, he aimed his camera at Caroline’s silhouette: the spill catching firelight like liquid silver. “The cup overflows,” he murmured. “Metaphor writes itself.”

“Caroline?” Chicken called. “Are you okay?”

Caroline whirled, fur glistening at the edges. “The constellations are scratching the sky like claws. They’re spelling things out.” The glass clattered into the sink. She bounded back, tail lashing. “Quick! Palms! Let me see your palms!”

She grabbed Chicken’s wing, tracing lines as if mapping a storm. “Here, a meteor streak. Disaster is coming!”

“OH NO,” Chicken bocked. “I have to put my poems in the safe.”

Caroline seized Rufus’s webbed foot next. “And you, your thumb is Saturn. You’re a planet walking among us.”

Rufus puffed proudly. “Knew it.”

Winnie tried to hide her hoof in her scarf. “Not mine!”

Caroline snatched it anyway. Her eyes flared. “Winnie, the stars are telling me about your lemon bars.”

Winnie blinked. “My… lemon bars?”

“They taste like floor cleaner with ambition,” Caroline intoned, “and require more powdered sugar.”

Winnie squealed. “Not the lemon bars!”

Water gurgled from the kitchen faucet, still running. Walter whispered, “Galaxies in her eyes, deluge at her feet. Chaos as poetry.”

Caroline pivoted to Diane, still rocking on the rug. She traced Diane’s hoof like reading a map. Her face drained. “Oh no. Tonight is not going to be a good night for any of us.”

“Don’t say that,” Chicken begged.

Winnie muffled a cry into her scarf.

Rufus, crumbs on his chest, spread his wings. “If disaster’s coming, I’ll sing us through it!”

“Breathe… just breathe,” Diane murmured, swaying harder.

That was it. Chicken shot to her feet, feathers bristling, eyes blazing. She cried out, her voice cracking into the firelight, “Disasters already fucking here, Rufus! WHAT DID YOU PUT IN THOSE BROWNIES?”

Rufus froze mid-bite, brownie dangling. Blink. Shrug. Grin. “The good kind?”

Walter panned to him, dramatic zoom.

Chicken’s feathers sticking out in every direction, tried to march across the rug but ended up waddling unsteadily, nearly toppling into the sectional. She jabbed a trembling feather at Rufus, her eyes wild. “RUFUS, TELL ME RIGHT NOW OR…”

She swayed, nearly losing her balance, but caught herself on the arm of the sofa and puffed out her chest. “OR… or so help me I’ll...”

Her words dangled in the firelight. She blinked. “Well, I don’t know what I’ll do, but I’ll do something!”

Rufus honk-laughed so hard the teacup rattled on the podium.

Walter swung his camera toward Chicken, whispering into his mic: “The ultimatum without an ending. Pure theater.”

Rufus swallowed the last bite of brownie, wiped his beak on his wing, and threw back his head with a honk. “You want to know what I put in them?” he boomed, feathers puffing. “I’ll show you what I put in them…talent!”

Caroline looks over at Rufus, “Fantastic. I survived the brownies just to die by goose-opera.”

Before Chicken could stop him, he waddled to the podium in a clumsy strut, crumbs trailing behind him. He clambered onto the lace-draped cartons like a conquering hero, wings spread wide, chest heaving with dramatic pride.

“The brownies,” he bellowed, “have unlocked my true voice!” And with that, Rufus launched into goose-opera, honks and warbles echoing through the chateau like some unholy cathedral choir. He stomped the podium in rhythm, the lace slipping, the cartons creaking under his weight.

Chicken flailed her wings. “RUFUS, GET DOWN FROM THERE!”

Caroline’s eyes widened as the cartons groaned. “Christ almighty”

Diane swayed harder, whispering to herself, “Breathe… just breathe…”

Winnie peeked out from her scarf, squeaked, and dove back in.

And then, with a great splintering crack, the entire podium gave way. The cartons buckled, the lace ripped, the teacup of pens exploded across the rug. Rufus tumbled into the rubble, honking triumphantly even as he hit the floor.

Walter, camera perfectly trained on the wreckage, whispered, “The collapse of structure. The birth of chaos. Cinema.”

The podium lay in ruins, Rufus sprawled in the wreckage with feathers puffed and a triumphant grin. He drew in a massive breath, clearly about to burst into another operatic honk.

On the rug, Caroline crouched beside Diane, steadying her swaying shoulders. “Breathe, Diane… breathe.” Her eyes flicked up, narrowing dangerously at Rufus.

Chicken stands frozen at the edge of the chaos, feathers wilted, her eyes on the broken stack of crates. All the lace, the teacup, the hours she spent arranging, it’s nothing but rubble now. She whispers, almost to herself: “My podium…”

Her beak trembles. “It was supposed to be special.”

The room buzzes with Walter’s lens whirring, Rufus wheezing laughter, Diane muttering her mantra. But Chicken stares at the wreckage, sadness rising in her chest like smoke.

Caroline, enraged by Chicken’s sadness, didn’t even miss a beat. “Rufus,” she snapped, her paw still resting firmly on Diane’s hoof, “if you so much as open your beak to sing, I will snatch the stars right out of the sky and hurl them straight at your feathery ass.”

Winnie clutched her scarf, cheeks ballooning, moaning, “Oh my god, I’m gonna puke!”

Rufus froze mid-inhale, eyes wide. “…noted,” he honked weakly.

Walter swung his camera toward Caroline, zooming in as if it were a war documentary.

“Threats of cosmic violence,” he whispered, awestruck. “Raw power. Unstaged.”

She hisses, “Keep filming, Walter, and I’ll read your destiny in broken lenses.”

Winnie suddenly lurched to her hooves, scarf slipping crookedly around her neck.

“Bathroom,” she squeaked. “I…I need the bathroom.”

Her tiny piglet legs scurried across the rug, but the room tilted sideways. She wobbled once, twice, and then, thud! She went down on the carpet with a squeal. There was a terrible pause. Then, “BLAHHHH.”

“OH MY GOD,” Winnie wailed, scarf now half-soaked, “SOMEONE CALL 911!!”

Caroline jerked her head up from Diane, eyes wide. “Winnie, you're fine!”

“911!!” Winnie shrieked again, flailing on the rug. “I’m dying! I’m dying!”

Diane, still rocking, blinked. “...911?” She tilted her head slowly, utterly baffled.

Chicken slapped her wings over her face. “This is a disaster.”

Rufus coughed through his honks. “She’s not dying, she’s just… leaking!”

Walter zoomed in mercilessly, whispering into his mic: “Collapse of the piglet. Helpless calls to invisible gods. The lens drinks it in.”

Winnie lay sprawled on the rug, scarf damp, wailing, “I’m dying! Tell my bakery I loved it! SOMEONE CALL 911!!”

Caroline pressed her paw to her forehead. “She’s not dying, she just—”

But before she could finish, Diane suddenly sat up, her eyes wild. “911,” she echoed, her voice trembling. “Yes. Yes, of course! Emergency response! I am the responder!”

She fumbled under her belly and, to everyone’s shock, pulled out her cellphone. Her hooves shook as she poked at the screen.

Chicken’s feathers shot up. “Diane, no!”

“911!!!” Diane bellowed, pressing the phone to her ear. “I’m calling them!”

Caroline leapt to her paws, eyes wide in horror. “Diane, hang up, HANG UP!” But Diane was already moo-breathing into the receiver.

“Bonjour, oui, it’s an EMERGENCY! There are stars in the kitchen, and a pig has collapsed!”

Caroline wrestled the phone from her. “Non! Non, désolée! Wrong number!” she shouted into the receiver before slamming it shut.

The room froze. The fire crackled, throwing shadows across the ruined podium.

Everyone stared at Caroline, chest heaving, phone clutched like a weapon.

Then Rufus coughed. “So… more brownies?”

Chicken let out a strangled squawk. Her feathers bristled, her eyes darting around the room. “This… this wasn’t supposed to happen,” she whispered. Her voice dragged out, slower with each word, as if the weight of the night was pulling her under. “Wasn’t… supposed… to…”

She wobbled, blinked twice, then toppled sideways into the sectional. The last thing she saw was Walter’s camera light flashing like a tiny red star.

…

When Chicken opens her eyes, the fire is down to glowing embers. The candles have guttered out, and the only sound is the faint drip of water from the kitchen sink.

Her friends are strewn across the living room in absurd poses. Winnie lies face down beside a small puddle of her own vomit, scarf half-unwound, her butt sticking straight up like a fallen flag. Diane sits upright but asleep, hooves pressed together in perfect prayer, rocking faintly even in her dreams. Caroline is draped over the arm of the sectional, sketchbook clutched tight to her chest, the pages scribbled with frantic star constellations.

Rufus sprawls on his back, wings splayed, a half-eaten brownie still wedged in his beak.

And Walter, the only one who didn't take a brownie, ever composed, stands in the corner, calmly folding his tripod, camera already packed. He flicks the switch on his mic, sighs in satisfaction, and says, “Pure cinema. I can’t wait to show the town at movie night in the park next week.”

At “movie night,” they all spring to life, heads shooting up together, eyes wide, as though Walter’s voice just shook them awake from a communal, pot-laced hibernation.

“NO!!!” They all scream together.

Walter doesn’t flinch. He slings the camera bag over his shoulder, gives a dignified nod toward Chicken, and says, “See you all next week. Thanks, Chicken!”

The door clicks shut behind him.

Chicken exhales, eyes narrowed at the ruined room, and then glares at the door. “See you next week? Over my dead podium!”

Poem for this Episode

The Noble Beginning, the Chaotic End

We lit the candles, 

we poured the cups, 

the night began noble, 

and promptly blew up.

The stars rearranged, 

the brownies betrayed, 

but laughter still lingered 

in the ruins we made.

CHK