Isaac strikes the axe head into the stump we’re using for the beheadings. The bit stays wedged into the hardwood. He holds the wiggling carcass. It’s weird how chickens do that after they’re dead. I’m still plucking the bird he gave me before. My fingers are slippery in rubber gloves, too smooth to pinch the last pinfeathers.
“Hurry up,” my little brother says impatiently, “don’t be a chickenshit.” The carcass dangles limply in one of his hands. Blood is scattered all over the green grass and our shoes that we’ll need for school in a few weeks.
“You could help me,” I reply, holding out what was once my prized Wyandotte. She won me a blue ribbon at the county fair last summer, back when I still cared about 4-H. Isaac ignores me, hands over one of my Easter Eggers, and walks off to the house to bring Dad what’s left of the bird I used to call Winnie.
I want to stop and rest my arms, which feel as brittle as toothpicks, but this isn’t the kind of work for breaks. I dunk the next bird into the speckled blue and white enamelware pot Mom used for canning. I’m surprised she left it behind. She didn’t leave much. Steam radiates off the boiled feathers, and the heat makes me blink. I don’t rub my eyes. I begin plucking. My old nose plugs from swimming lessons pinch too tight, but I’d rather keep them on. The pain is better than the smell of iron and chickenshit. The word won’t quit bouncing around in my brain. We just learned it last week. After Dad had a lady friend out to the house, he rushed back in and said, “Clean that chickenshit off the deck.”
He won’t have to worry anymore. There will be no chickenshit here.
Beth Vigoren was born and raised in rural Northwestern Minnesota. She is a graduate student in the PhD English program at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. Her work has been published in The Broadkill Review. She lives in Milwaukee with her son and beagles, Roxy and Buddy.
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