Madeline loved to feed the chickens. She stood in the yard with the bag clutched to her chest with her left arm and stuck her right fist deep into it. Out her hand came and with as much grace as she could muster she flung the grain out in an arc.

“Chick-chick-chick!” she cried, and pushed her fist back into the sack. She had figured out how to drop her fingers one at a time, letting the grain fly out in a shower of gold—well, brown anyway—rain. She was good at it, she knew, and that’s why grandma picked her to feed the chickens over her sister Sue.

“Chick-chick-chick” she cried again, and the shower flew out again. Suddenly Madeline noticed that the chickens were walking away from her.

“Hey, wait a minute, there’s some more,” she cried, flinging another fistful in their direction. The chickens scattered, squawking, and Madeline, confused, began chasing them. One of the chickens hopped up onto the running board of her father’s beaten-up 1949 Chevy truck, and then onto the edge of the flat bed. The chicken turned her head and skewered Madeline with one dark bead of an eye and said, “It’s only chickenfeed.”

And with that, Madeline awoke with a start.

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Created by KKris. Last Modification: Saturday 06 of March, 2004 08:54:23 EST by KKris.