riverrun Vol. 47

Fowl by Anthony T. S. Guerra
The crashes of thunder on this rainy Thursday morning were no match for the
boy’s blood curdling screams. The chickens in their coops spectated the house.
Suddenly, in the distance, the door on the small rundown home thrusted open
with such force it was shocking that the hinges could even hold on. The chickens
looked in awe at the house; after days of no food, the time for their meal had finally
arrived. The hens scuttled excitedly in their place, while the roosters led in
a choir of lion-like roars.
Finally, after a long moment, their master appeared in the door frame. He was a
fat, ugly man. At only five foot nine, he was a tower in comparison to the young
boy. Hair in hand, the man pulled with all of his might to get the young boy to
release the door handle from his clutches, yet the boy did hang on: his life did depend
on it. The man pulled with all his might, his eyes bulged out of his head;
however, in the eyes themselves no soul could be found. The boy, still latched onto
the doorframe, screamed and wept. Finally, the boy’s grip gave out, sending him
flying backwards. His father pulled him up by the hair on his scalp and struck
him square on the nose, causing two streams of blood to flow from his nostrils.
The man dragged his son down the stairs leading up to the door and started making
his way to the barn. The boy's feet dragged along the soil as he tried to dig
into the ground; furiously, he scratched at his father’s hands. The father, unfazed,
continued to drag the boy forward. The boy did everything in his power to free
himself. He kicked, he punched, he bit, but nothing could break the inhuman grip
his father had on him.
From the house a curtain moved, revealing his mother. Her blank face had the
benefit of having the companionship of a single tear that rolled slowly down her
face. It was too late now, there was nothing stopping what had started. She witnessed
the boy’s energy drain, and he went limp like a ragdoll. The mother’s eyes,
like her husband’s, were absent of soul as she watched the two silhouettes
approach the barn.
The barn seemed out of place in the situation at hand. The fresh paint caused the
barn to glow angelically, yet not even an angel could bless this place. The man
trudged to the side of the structure and pulled a lever that released the chickens
from their cages and into the barn. The poultry danced and sang in their home.
They were ecstatic; their feast was coming. The dark interior filled with light as
the large doors swung open. The father flung his son forward, leaving him standing
alone, his shadow a monster of epic proportions. He closed the barn with a
mighty slam and, as if nothing had occurred, walked casually back to the house.
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