Smoked Chicken

caroline anthony

The grown-ups called them indecent.

You could catch them in dimly lit alleyways and watch as the trails of their smoke floated upwards as it dissipated, winding slowly and snagging on the vaguely illuminated brick walls. They were a quiet bunch, and though they usually moved in flocks of five or six, they were elusive, much like the smoke that curled ever upward from their crooked yellow beaks. 

Their feathers were a mottled brown and black, their red combs usually faded and torn, their discolored yellow feet scraggly and dragging. No one knew where they got their cigarettes, but each flock had a single stick hanging lazily out of their mouths, the ends of each igniting briefly a few times a minute as they inhaled. From far away in the dark they looked like fireflies.

And again similar to the smoke that lazily wove its way through their feathers and the fleeting flashes of deep red and bright orange from the ends of their sticks, the chickens were hard to catch.

The older kids in my neighborhood used to place bets on who would be first to catch one—who knew whether this desire stemmed from a general want to please the adults, or perhaps, and most likely, from the simple the animalistic need of any child to hold a creature that they’d never been able to—and over time the bet had devolved into who could manage to wrap their hands around one for a full ten seconds. See, despite the fact that the chickens hobbled up and down the street, getting close to one was like trying to light a candle in an increasing wind. Over time a designated group of them formed, each member tried and chosen to be an asset worthy of the challenge. I’d watched them coordinate numerous decently well thought out attack plans involving bait, ambushes, and even sacrifice (one of the kids had volunteered his younger sister), and yet the closest I’d seen anyone get was one hand brushed lightly against one particularly scrawny chicken’s tail as it streaked away.

That kid, whose fingertips were stained with ash and stench, lived a few doors down from me, and ever since he has been hailed as a god among men by younger and older kids alike, and I was certainly one of them.

From what I’d seen from my front steps, the kids had managed to surround a flock of four under a streetlight down the road. It was just after dusk—prime time for the chickens to come out of wherever they hid during the day to move about in the half-darkness that covered the wearied streets like the soft glow of a nightlight from underneath a thin blanket—and the group was silhouetted with the fading golden sunlight and the sharper, warmer streetlamp light as each member slowly tiptoed inward. I could barely see the animals themselves, only the soft cursive lines of smoke that drifted above the group, and occasionally the flicker of burning tobacco between scrubby barefoot legs coupled with a blur of dappled murky feathers and the rusty flash of a mangy claw. Everything felt like it was holding its breath; I swear not even the night bugs were whirring; the only sounds I could hear were the soft gargling puffs of the chickens, the quiet winds over the grass, and the bated breath of the kids.

Each member moved with an almost exaggerated precision, with each child’s arms held out for balance as they inched their way forward. I remember thinking how odd of a sight it was; how strange to look outside your window and see a group of seven or eight six-to-eleven-year-olds all standing in a circle under a streetlamp at sunset, not to mention that they are all moving towards a group of chickens with cigarettes in their mouths. Foreseeably, I was not the only kid spectating; there were a few heads hanging out the windows. And, interestingly, I noticed with a quick glance, and not nearly all of them were kids; the adults found the “phenomena” (the name they’d given to the creatures, though the kids never bothered with specific nomenclature) unsavory, saying that they were “corrupting the youth” with their chain smoking agenda, even going so far as to organize their own campaigns to knock the flocks out, though they were about as successful as the kids were. I supposed it was the pure intrigue of whether these things could even be caught that drew their attention, though it very well could have been simple as the childlike curiosity as to whether the kids would be successful that held their gaze as the circle ever-so-slowly tightened.

The chickens themselves did not seem at all bothered until the group was about three feet away. I remember watching the children freeze, the younger ones more out of fear rather than of cautiousness as the sound of buffeting feathers steadily filled the air. The flickers of red and orange from the ends of the cigarettes grew faster; what before looked as peaceful as a swarm of friendly bugs now became something more daunting, like a small pile of silent firecrackers,  as the brave children stepped inward once again, the soft crunch of their feet on the gravel road now drowned out by the soft rustling and occasional increasingly distressed throaty-sounding clucks. The smoke rose faster, cursive lines curling in on themselves and becoming jagged. The surrounding group stepped closer, now about two feet away from the chickens; if one kicked out with their leg it would surely be engulfed by blotchy brown feathers and cigarette ash. I now couldn’t see the chickens besides a frantic feather every once in a while, sometimes accompanied by a sharp flash of light, too brilliant to be natural, and instead was left to construct the scene in my mind, the nonexistent visuals complemented by the now scraping staccato trills and rumbling of feet and feathers of the chickens as they and their smoke whirled within the group of children. 

Then, the kids made their biggest mistake; they converged. 

The effect was similar to sweeping a spoon through a drop of dye that had slowly been dissipating through a cup of water; the chickens almost seem to disintegrate, seeping through the cracks between lean arms and legs in a way that could not have been natural, and anyone who witnessed it would say the same. The chickens appeared to blur, ever so slightly, as they passed through the rifts in the so-close-to-foolproof circle, shrinking away from frantically waving arms as if they were smoke itself being shooed by a mindless flourish.

It all seemed to happen in slow motion: the tensing of the shins as each child’s weight was shifted forward, the cry from all children as they each lept inward, the final raspy screech from the chickens and a swoosh of feathers or perhaps something more, the twirl of golden smoke in the illumination of the street lamp, and in a blink it was over, with seven out of the eight children standing defeated with their hands to their sides, looking blankly at each other as if each had known that it wouldn’t work from the start. All except one turned to look down sheepishly at the scratched-up ground that they had stood carefully around for so long, claw marks now almost overridden by dirty footprints. One of the younger ones stomped her foot in frustration.

Then, another sound arose from the weighted silence; one that contrasted so strongly from the low rumble of feathers and scratch of claws and smoke-stained chicken clucks that I almost did a double-take. It was a clear sound, as light and unwavering as a candle in a still room, one that attracted everyone’s attention like moths to a flame. It started as a low hum, then grew to a joyous howl as the last child, one of the older boys, lifted his hand into the air triumphantly, waving his closed fist in the air like a flare. In his hand, backlit elegantly by the street lamp, was a single mottled brown feather with a thin stream of smoke pirouetting delicately off the top.

As each child realized what it was, the boy’s victorious wail was joined by many others, and the group circled around the boy, each child brimming with excitement and pride, some reaching for the feather while others simply jumped for the joy of it. 

From behind me, I heard the soft hums of approval and the rustle of closing shutters and front doors from the adults that had been standing outside watching the peculiar yet uplifting scene take place. As I turned around to catch another glance, I noticed that it seemed the crowd of spectators had grown over the course of the scene, and for that I felt myself grinning a little bit. 

When I turned back around, the boy with the feather was handing it to the younger girl who had been frustrated earlier, who held it up to the light with awe. As she brought it to her face, the feather seemed to waver with the movement, as if it weren’t fully corporeal, and the tiny plume of smoke continued to flow incessantly from the top of it. Slowly, one by one, the feather was passed around the group of children, each one holding with the most care that each could muster, and I was once again struck by how strange and beautiful it was to watch a group of kids pass around a feather barefoot in the middle of the road, each with a warm halo given by the streetlamp and the now rising moon.

When the feather made it back to the older boy, he lifted it to the light one last time and tucked it neatly away into his pocket, patting it softly with his now slightly gray-stained palm. Then, he leaned down and grinned at the rest of the group, saying something that I couldn’t quite catch, though the tone of his voice seemed playful and triumphant.

A few of the children scowled in response, though light-heartedly, and soon, as the night became more and more sure of itself and the light from the streetlamp was truly the only thing illuminating the group, they dispersed slowly down the streets and into their houses. And, as the sounds of their bare feet dissipated into the night air, the night bugs once again began to whir, and the quiet wind brushed its way through the grass once more.

Caroline Anthony is a junior at Kinder High School for the Performing and Visual Arts in Houston, TX. She enjoys writing short stories and poetry, along with traditional colored pencil drawing.