The aroma of chicken soup teases my nostrils, now red and swollen.
I squinch my eyes from sinus pain. Temples throb. Joints ache.
My pity party halts as I reflect on the chicken’s last day. What it ate. How it died.
Maybe I’ll eat scrambled eggs and buttered toast instead.
Jeff Switt likes to write.
She looked left, then right, then strode purposefully out into the street.
Horns blared as drivers swerved to avoid her.
Oblivious to the mayhem around her, she reached the sidewalk, where she knelt and asked, “No, really, Ms. Chicken. What are you doing on the other side of the road?”
Hamburger Hank took three steps into the restaurant, gasped, spun on his heel, and stormed out.
“What’s wrong?” asked French Fry Felicia.
“They sell chicken as if it’s a hamburger!” cried Hamburger Hank. “It’s a travesty!”
“So what?” asked French Fry Felicia.
“I have a real beef with chicken burgers.”