In the earliest parts of the day, the chicken–girl saw all the possibilities of the pillowcases. Arms behind her, tucked into the slotted openness of the cases where the pillowcase held her arms as one, where they stretch without stinging because youth makes putty out of muscles.
When she runs around with her arms like that, the adults say—Look, there she goes! There goes the little chicken–girl! Let’s look at her fly. Let’s listen to that bark.
At this, the girl sticks out her bottom, wiggles and waggles it playfully. She ruffles her head where shaggy, feathered -bangs shake. When she jumps off stairs and stoops, she lifts a bit more each time.
It’s good to be a chicken–girl, she screams.
It’s wonderful that this is all I’ll ever have to be.
___
In the latest parts of the day, the chicken–lady leaves the possibilities of the pillowcases behind her head. Arms by her sides, tucked into the slotted openness of a blanket where they fold as one over her stomach. When she stretches her body, there is a kind of stinging because ageing makes concrete out of muscles.
When she mopes around with her arms like that, the adultier-adults go—Look, there she goes. There goes the chicken–lady. How often must we not see her fly? We have heard her once-beautiful bark, and now it is a crackly-rasped-wind, and no longer a bright-cheery-chirp.
At this, the lady sticks out her bottom, smacks it hard where it splits the soft sounds of the room in half like an eggshell, and she separates herself away from them. She bonnets her head where frayed -bangs slither and knot underneath. When she jumps back into bed, she thinks about jumping off stairs and stoops again. She thinks about jumping from places where the ground cannot be seen so easily, and if that would be enough to see how much lift she has left.
It’s wonderful to be a chicken–lady, she mumbles.
They told me to make angel wings out of these ‘cases. Told me to inch my way toward being an eagle. But I think I’ll stay here. I think this is all I’ll ever want to be.
Header photograph © Kip Knott.
Exodus Oktavia Brownlow is a Cruger, Mississippi native whose writing aesthetic includes purposeful horror, character-driven fiction, and nonfiction writing that aims to create a healthier world for us all. She is a graduate of Mississippi Valley State University with a B.A in English, and Mississippi University for Women with a MFA in Creative Writing. She is published with Electric-Literature, Rigorous Magazine, Anti-Heroin Chic Magazine, Valley Voices, Luna Luna Magazine, X-Ray-Literary Magazine, Jellyfish Review and more. Exodus has a healthy adoration for the color green.
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