Rena had no opening line.
Her brain was a mess of spaghetti and o’s and a hunt for words that wouldn’t come at all.
She played Benny and the Jets over and over in her ears, trying to get the inspiration for something good, something that would get a "oh yeah, that’s a start of a story" out of her.
Instead, the best she came up with was she’s a Rena-gade in denim overalls (get it? renegade into Rena-gade?)
Not even a rhyme or good match to the lyrics.
She heard a tap at the door. Then a tap tap tap tap.
What the heck is making that sound?
A woodpecker did that last year but it was attacking the door handle and sounded metallic when that happened.
This sounded like it was at the base of the door.
She looked out the window. Nothing.
She opened the door cautiously.
A single piece of what looked like animal feed was on her door mat.
She followed it with her eyes and no shit, there was a trail of feed leading down to the farm.
She grabbed her sweater, the rain from the night before made it misty and cool. Sunrise golden hour with clouds lit up in pinks, oranges, purples.
And a single chicken standing on a shed, staring at her.
Rena swore she heard her in the head, took you long enough.
Rena followed the feed.
It ended in the shape of an arrow pointing to a bucket next to the feed bin.
Soft clucks of the chickens as they did their morning routines. Some wing flaps, some legs stretched, many neck extensions to see what was happening on the other side of the gate with Rena and their food.
Rena threw a handful of pellets to them and thought about her opening line.
The thing that would set her story alight and break through all the rejections and clutter. Maybe it was a interview she needed to do should she do a podcast take out an ad call and network at some big flashy thing she’d never get anything done and could she would she why won’t she and swirl and swirl and swirl.
The flapping by her head, the thwack of something hard on her cheek.
Oh! Chickens at the gate!
And that’s what she had. Stacked on top of each other. Looking like they are 10 deep and 20 high. All feathers and chicken butts and beaks and so many clucks.
The chicken from this morning was standing on a fence post. Looking at her. You did this, chicken said. You’ve got chickens at the gate with all your swirling thoughts. Now what are you doing to do about it?
Rena had never faced chickens at the gate like this.
Breathing heavy let’s be honest, she was hyperventilating and being hypercritical at the same time.
She felt the chicken’s eye on her.
She adjusted her denim overalls. She was a Rena-gade dammit - she could do this.
She reached out to the flapping bird by her head. Hand extended, hoping her fingers wouldn’t come off with a beak snip, and brushed the top of its head. Told it about the rain storm the night before and how the rain on the roof sounded like like music bells or something silly.
She told it about walking outside to watch the stars. The chicken nuzzled into her hand and hopped off the fence. Flapped off to get a drink of water.
Chicken by chicken she told each one a story of a happy memory, making up a fairy tale of an egg that walked a river road in search of a bear to be their friend because they heard bears were awesome.
After hours and hours or some kind of time, it was her and the chicken from the shed.
She looked at the chicken; the chicken walked over to her.
Better? Its head tilt asked.
Better.
Rena scooped up her new chicken friend and walked back to the house whispering stories and plot lines of heroes made of feathers.
Cluck cluck, said the chicken.