When Pigs Fly

The Saturday market hummed with chatter and color, stalls spilling peaches and figs, lavender bundled like prayers, honey jars lined in rows, their light a molten amber caught and held by the sun.

Chicken strutted ahead, feathers puffed with pride, while Winnie followed close, a basket of apples tucked against her side. She fiddled with the embroidered edge of her scarf, cheeks warm in the morning air.

They were weighing melons when a sharp laugh carried across the square.

At the olive stand, Fox leaned against a barrel, her russet fur gleaming in the sun, tail swishing slowly and deliberately. Her eyes were a sly gold, constantly darting sideways like she was in on a joke no one else got. She had a way of curling her lip into half a smirk, half a sneer, enough to make everyone in earshot feel suddenly foolish.

She popped an olive into her mouth, chewed, and drawled to the vendor: “Yeah, right. When pigs fly.”

The words landed like sparks in dry grass. Winnie froze. Her knuckles tightened around her basket until the apples squeaked against each other. She tugged her scarf close, eyes darting to the ground, cheeks blazing pink.

Chicken’s head snapped toward her. “Winnie…”

Winnie shook her head quickly. “It’s fine. She wasn’t talking about me.”

But the way Winnie’s voice shrank made Chicken’s feathers bristle.

“No,” Chicken hissed, hopping down from the melon cart. “No, it is not fine.”

Before Winnie could stop her, Chicken stormed across the square, beak sharp, green eyes blazing.

“HEY, FOX!”

Fox turned slowly, her smirk widening like she’d been waiting for this.

The crowd turned. Fox lifted her head, one ear twitching, and that sly smirk crept wider.

“What’s this, barnyard backup?” she drawled, licking a bit of olive brine from her paw.

Chicken planted herself in front of her, feathers flaring. “Say what you want about melons and olives, but you don’t get to insult my friend.”

Fox tilted her head, amused. “Relax, Chicken. It was just an expression.”

Chicken leaned in closer, her beak nearly brushing Fox’s whiskers, voice low and sharp.“Yeah? Well, it's hurtful, so here’s another expression for you: watch your mouth, or I’ll make sure you’re the one eating feathers.”

A hush fell. Even the fruit vendor froze next to the olive cart, holding a peach mid-air. 

Winnie squeaked behind her scarf.

Fox chuckled, flicking her tail. “Cute. Real cute.”

But for the first time, her smirk faltered.

Chicken jabbed her wing toward Winnie, who stood mortified, clutching her scarf. “You think it’s funny? Well, guess what, we’re going to prove you wrong. Just watch.”

The whole square went quiet, the weight of Chicken’s promise hanging in the air. Fox flicked her tail, lips curling in a half-sneer. “Can’t wait.”

Chicken turned on her clawed heel, feathers still bristling, and strutted back toward Winnie like she’d just declared war.

Winnie whispered through her scarf, horrified: “Chicken… what did you just do?”

Chicken evilly grinned from ear to ear. “Started a revolution. Let’s go, Winnie.”

Before Winnie could argue, Chicken swung a wing around her shoulders and marched her away from the market, ignoring the gawking crowd. Winnie clutched her basket of apples like a shield, cheeks burning, scarf knotted tight.

Back at the chateau, Chicken flung open the door with a dramatic kick and stomped straight to the old rotary phone mounted on the wall. She spun the dial furiously, feathers flying.

First, Caroline.

Then Diane. 

Then Rufus.

One by one, their sleepy voices crackled on the line.

Chicken didn’t waste a second. “This is not a drill. We are going to war. Everyone, gather at my place immediately.”

She slammed the receiver down with a satisfying clang. Winnie sat at the kitchen table, wide-eyed, twisting her scarf in knots. “Chicken… I really don’t think—”

Chicken strutted back to her, eyes blazing, feathers puffed like armor. “Don’t think, Winnie. Just trust me. By tonight, you’ll be the first pig in history to fly.”

The chateau’s door banged open one by one as Chicken’s recruits arrived.

Caroline came first, her black fur dusted with flecks of cobalt paint. She had two canvases strapped to her back like shields. “You said emergency?” she asked, green eyes flicking between Chicken’s manic grin and Winnie’s terrified blush.  

“Emergency is right,” Chicken said. “We’re building wings.”

Caroline arched an eyebrow, but without a word, flipped open her sketch pad and began sketching sweeping arcs of feathers and fabric.

Next came Diane, hauling two yoga mats under one arm and balancing a mason jar of “grass juice” in the other. “If this is war, we’ll need flexibility. And hydration,” she mooed serenely, dropping the mats on the floor. Winnie wrinkled her nose as Diane pushed the jar toward her. “For strength.”

Winnie took a polite sip and almost gagged.

Then, with a crash, Rufus stumbled in through the window instead of the door, wings flapping unevenly. “DID SOMEONE SAY WAR?” he bellowed.

He tripped over the mat pile, tumbled into Caroline’s easel, and emerged with a paintbrush stuck behind his ear.“General Rufus reporting for duty,” he slurred proudly.

Chicken clapped her wings together, eyes blazing. “Perfect. The army has arrived.”

She pointed at Winnie, who sat small at the table, scarf twisted between her hooves.

“Our mission is simple: build Winnie wings and shut that smug fox’s mouth once and for all.”

The room went silent. Then Rufus hiccuped. “Hell yeah.”

Caroline sighed, already sketching diagrams of impossible contraptions. Diane unrolled her mats like blueprints. 

Winnie groaned into her scarf. “Chicken… what if I can't fly?” she whispered.

Chicken slammed a feathered wing on the table. “You can and you will.”

Attempt One: Caroline’s Wings

The wings were breathtaking, broomstick frames stretched with old canvases she’d painted herself. Each feather was rendered in shimmering strokes of cobalt, violet, and gold. Ribbons fluttered from the tips, catching the sunlight.

Winnie’s jaw dropped. “Caroline… they’re beautiful.”

Caroline’s green eyes gleamed.“Art must also inspire flight.”

Together, they strapped the contraption onto Winnie’s back. It dwarfed her, spreading wider than she was tall. From the ground, she looked like a parade float preparing for liftoff.

Chicken paced below like a commander. “Alright, Winnie. Show us what you’ve got.”

Winnie stepped nervously to the edge of the roof, scarf trailing. She flapped, or rather, the wings wobbled stiffly behind her, and then she leapt.

For one glorious second, the painted feathers shimmered in the sun. Then the broomsticks cracked like dry twigs, the whole thing folding up neatly like a paper fan. Winnie plummeted.

WHUMP. She bounced on Chicken’s king-sized mattress, which they had put outside for protection.

Caroline clutched her sketchbook, devastated. “Well… aesthetically, it was perfect.”

Attempt Two: Diane’s Yoga Wings

Diane arrived serenely, hauling two yoga mats under one arm and a bundle of vines over her shoulder. She set them down in the garden as if she were about to lead a class.

“Strength comes from balance,” she said in her calm, teacherly voice. “And from breath. Always breath.”

With Chicken’s help, she tied the mats across Winnie’s back using the vines. The result was… less than majestic. The mats drooped on either side of her body like two giant, soggy noodles.

Caroline frowned. “They don’t look like wings.”

Diane shook her head. “They don’t need to look like wings. They need to feel like wings.”

Caroline raised an eyebrow. “Great. So she’s flying on a feeling now?”

Winnie shuffled to the edge of the roof, scarf slipping loose as the floppy mats swayed sadly behind her. She tried flapping, but they just slapped against her sides with a dull fwop fwop.

“Inhale, open your chest, become one with the sky,” Diane called from below, folding her hooves together in a yoga pose.

Winnie screwed her eyes shut, took a deep breath, and stepped off the roof.

The mats immediately folded upward, wrapping around her like deflated sails. She rolled helplessly and plummeted straight onto Chicken’s mattress.

WHUMP. She bounced once, came to rest upside-down, and moaned through her scarf.

Diane tilted her head thoughtfully. “Her alignment was excellent.”

Rufus clapped from the grass. “Textbook dive!”

Winnie groaned louder. “I think I sprained my dignity.”

Winnie, face mashed into the mattress. “I’m never doing yoga again.”

Diane leaned over and patted her shoulder gently. Rufus was already arguing with Caroline about balloons versus kites. Chicken hopped onto the mattress, landing squarely beside Winnie with a fwomp.

She leaned close, feathers still bristling with determination. “Listen to me, Winnie. You can do this. You can do anything you set your mind to.”

Winnie peeked out from behind her scarf, eyes watery and doubtful. “But every time I try, I just… fall.”

Chicken tapped her beak against Winnie’s forehead, firm but kind. “Falling isn’t failing. Failing is giving up. And you, my dear, are not giving up.”

Winnie stared at her for a long moment. Then her shoulders lifted, just slightly, as if she were testing the weight of hope again.

She sat up, scarf crooked. “You’re right,” she whispered, then louder, firmer: “You’re right. I can do this.”

Chicken grinned wickedly. “That’s my girl.”

From the corner, Rufus popped his head out of a pile of balloons. “GOOD. Because I’ve just invented the future of aviation.”

Rufus stumbled out from behind the shed with a crooked grin and a jumble of kites, balloons, and twine hanging off his wings. His feathers were sticking up in every direction, and there was a smear of grass juice across his beak.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and pigs of all sizes, behold! The future of flight!”

Caroline pinched the bridge of her nose.“Oh no.”

Rufus tied the kites to Winnie’s front hooves, fastening the strings with sloppy but determined knots. Then he strapped three balloons to her back for lift. When she lifted her arms experimentally, the kites bobbed upward, flapping awkwardly like giant wings.

“See?” Rufus said, eyes wild. “You pump your hooves up and down, and the kites do the flapping. Balloons handle the lift. Easy.”

Winnie looked at him like he was insane.“I’m going to die.”

Chicken slapped her on the back. “You’re going to fly.”

Winnie shuffled back up to the edge of the roof, scarf trembling in the breeze. She raised her kites, took a deep breath, and jumped.

For the first time all day, she didn’t plummet straight down. The balloons caught her, tugging her upward, while the kites flapped wildly as she pumped her hooves. She bobbed and wobbled, but she was in the air.

“She’s doing it!” Caroline gasped, clutching her sketchbook.

“I told you!” Rufus roared, dancing in circles. “SCIENCE, BABY!”

Winnie squealed with giddy terror, flapping her kites frantically as she drifted over the garden. For a glorious few seconds, she soared.

Then a balloon popped. The whole contraption tilted. Winnie wobbled, flailed, and came tumbling down onto Chicken’s mattress with a WHUMP.

Flat on her back, scarf tangled around one ear, Winnie let out a breathless laugh.“I flew. I actually flew.”

Chicken leaned over her, eyes gleaming with victory. “And today, the whole town will see it.”

Winnie sat up slowly, still dazed, her cheeks flushed pink. She clutched at her scarf, breathless, almost shy about her own joy.

Chicken, meanwhile, was pacing the garden like a general who’d just discovered a new weapon. Her feathers bristled, her eyes gleamed, her grin stretched ear to ear.

She spun toward Rufus, voice sharp with command. “Rufus. We’re ready. We need more balloons.”

Rufus snapped to attention, saluting, “More balloons it is!”

Chaos erupted.

Diane trotted off to barter with the balloon vendors at the market. Caroline painted swirls of blue across the kites “to summon the wind.” Rufus tied balloon after balloon until Winnie, strapped in again, looked like she might lift off before even reaching the roof.

By the afternoon, Winnie stood once more on the chateau roof,  kites tethered to her hooves, balloons bobbing above, scarf fluttering like a banner. She bent her knees, squeezed her eyes shut, and leapt.

The kites snapped open, catching the wind. The balloons strained upward. This time, she rose. Slowly, awkwardly, but undeniably, she rose.

Chicken’s heart nearly burst.“She’s flying!”

Winnie drifted past the rooftop, out over the garden, then toward the town.

Diane gasped. “Where is she going?”

Caroline shouted, “Not into the square!” 

Rufus hiccuped, “Tell her to flap harder!”

But Chicken didn’t hesitate. She bolted down the path, wings pumping at her sides, chasing Winnie’s shadow as it stretched across the cobblestones.

“She’s off to prove the town wrong,” Chicken panted, grinning ear to ear.

Winnie’s hooves pumped furiously, the kites flapping like giant painted fans. Balloons bobbed above her as she drifted into the market square.

At first, no one noticed. Then a baker looked up, eyes bulging as his tray of baguettes clattered to the ground. Shoppers pointed skyward, gasps spreading through the square like wildfire.

And there, right in the middle, stood Fox, tail flicking, smirk fixed, until her gaze followed the crowd’s. She looked up.

Winnie soared above, scarf snapping, balloons bobbing wildly.

“FUCK YOU, FOX!” she bellowed, flipping her hoof for all to see.

The square exploded in gasps and laughter, but Chicken was the only one running beneath her, shadow to shadow, every step matching Winnie’s wobbling flight. She was grinning so wide her cheeks hurt, feathers ruffling with pride.

Fox stood in the middle of the market, eyes wide, smirk broken clean off her face. Her gaze darted from the flying pig overhead to Chicken barreling toward her.

For the first time, Fox looked rattled. “What the hell…” she muttered.

Chicken skidded to a stop just a few feet away, chest heaving, eyes blazing. She grinned wickedly, lifted her wing, and flipped Fox the middle finger.

“Turns out pigs fly. Guess that makes you the only hot air left in town.”

The crowd howled. Fox’s ears flattened, her tail twitching furiously. 

Winnie circled once more above, laughing so hard she nearly lost control of the kites, before drifting back toward the chateau.

Chicken stood tall in the square, smirk sharp as her beak, eyes never leaving Fox’s.

“Better get used to looking up, bitch.”

Poem for this Episode

The Death of Doubt

They said never, their voices were stone,

but the sky has a language that answers its own.

With kites on her hooves and her scarf like a flame,

she rose through the air as the town spoke her name.

The fox lost her smirk, the crowd held its breath;

the word impossible was put to its death.

CHK