Home | Contest | Write A Book | Write Ebooks For Cash | Be A Travel Writer | Write Children's Books Write For Newspapers | Write An Ezine | Write A Blog | Writing Skills & Tips | Novel Writing Software Please take a moment to bookmark this site and join our free hot tips list. Read & Rate Our Writing Contest Entries! See what other people have written, and rate them on a scale of 1 to 5. This is an opportunity to view a wide variety of short stories and see what kind of original material is being submitted to us on a daily basis. After you rate an entry, you will be randomly redirected to another entry to rate. You may read and rate as many entries as you wish! The user-rating system is simply a fun way for writers to receive a public opinion of their work, and does not affect the judging for the cash prizes. If you wish to enter the contest, you may enter for free here. Rate This Contest Entry: Contest: June 30th, 2005 Author: Angela Richmond July, 1984, I am nine yeears old. I awake to the sound of a rooster crowing, open my eyes, and try to stretch myself awake. The sunshine streams through a crack in the curtains. I jump up; it looks like a superb day. A few minutes later, in the kitchen I scan the breakfast spread: sausage, bacon, eggs, hash browns, creamy milk gravy, and golden-grown homemade biscuits. No onw cooks like my Mamaw. Mamaw's cooking is only one of the reasons why I love to be at my grandparent's farm. I love tho visit the farm because there is always something interesting and different to do. After gorging myself with breakfast,I am off to help Papa feed the animals. First, we feed my pony, Charlie. Next, we feed the goats. Finally, we head to the chicken coop. On the way, I look at Papa and ask, "So you think the rooster is in a good mood today?" He grins at me with a wait-and-see smile. As we approach the gate, I carfully inspect the yard, trying to pinpoint Snow Ball, the meanest rooster that has ever lived. Snow Ball is unlike any other rooster we have ever had. He has long white feathers, but they do not look like feathers. They look more like hair. Three multi-colored feathers stick up and out on the top of his head like a punk rock haircut. His legs are a blue gray color, and his spurs look as if they are newly sharpened razor blades. I am petrified of Snow Ball. He has never actually flogged me, but he always does his little side-step dance when he sees me, ruffling out his feathers and spreading out one of his wings. I always run and hide behind P apa, who stamps his foot, scaring the rooster away. Papa says, "Only city girls are afraid of chickens." This morning is going to be different. I am determined not to run. I am going to show this rooster that I am boss. I take a deep breath. My back stiffens. I walk into the coop " I am not a city girl," I keep telling myself. Snow Ball spots me. His feathers puff, and he befins the sidestepping. I stamp my foot at him, and he backs away. I am feeling so brave that I turn and stroll through the yard, throwing feed out onto the ground. As I walk over and pick up the water bowl, a white blur flashes at me. I feel a horrible stabbing in my leg. Papa runs over, swooping me up and rushing me to the house. My Mamaw takes me and cleans my wounds. I have one three-inch gash and three small scratches. My leg throbs, but I don't cr;y. I'm too angry to cry. I hear Pap say, "We're having chicken for supper." I interrupt, "Papa, I want to shoot him." He laughs. "You want to shoot him?" he asks, still laughing. " All right, you can shoot him." We walks to the back of the house and returns with the pellet gun that I often use to shoot at targets. As we walk out the back door, Papa hands me the gun and says, "If you can hit him from here, you can shoot him." Snow Ball is about 100 yards away, inside a fence. I take aim, I have him in my sight, and I fire: I see snow Ball kicking around, performing his last dacnne. I jump up and down, yelling, "Papa, I hit him! I got him!" I scream. With an amazed look, P ap turns to me and says, "I want you to try taht again. See OLD Red over there? Shoot him." I lean forward, take my aim and - bam - Old Red flops around on the ground, "I got him!" I scream. Within forty-five minutes, I have taken out four of the seven roosters on the farm. after the carnage is over, Papa says, "Come on. Let's go and get them." I follow along, thinking we're going to put the chickens in the burn barrel. We walk over, gather up the carcasses, and then return to the outside kitchen, where Papa pulls out a huge cooking pot. He fills it with water and puts it on the stove to boil. Then, he goes to his shed and returns with his axe. I look at Papa and say, "They're already dead. What are you doing?" He replies, "If you kill it, you have to clean it." "I don't know how to clean a chicken," I reply. "Good time to learn," he answers. As the axe strikes the chicken's neck, I wonder if revenge is really so sweet. After decapitating all four roosters, we pick them up from the bloody mess and take them outside by the old oak tree. Papa brings out the big pot of boiling water and sets it under the tree. He grabs the first carcass, dipping it in and out of the water, submerging all but the chicken's feet. The smell is atrocious, like aburning hair. "Your turn," he says. I pick up the next bird, wrinkle my forehead, grab hold of my nose with my other hand, and thrust the chicken into the water. I pull him out and begin to pull feathers. I have never realized until now how many feathers a chicken has and how deeply they are embedded. Rour hours later, by mid-afternoon, I have killed, plucked, and memorized all of the anatomy of a chicken. We take the ckickens to Mamaw, and she tells me to go out and play for a while. I return outside and entertain yself until suppertime. Upon entering the kitchen, I am greeted with, "Wash up for supper." I rush through washing up and hurry to the table, anxious to see what we're having - chicken! There si an abundance of chicken: baked chicken, fried chicken, barbeque chicken, and chicken and dumplings. I have never seen so much chicken. I look at Mamaw and say "I want to be a country girl, but I can't eat food that I named." Roars of laughter erup across the table. My Mamaw turns to me and smiles. With a little snicker she says, " Me, either. Let's get smoe Pizza." I learned a lot of things today: I am a pretty good shot. I can dress out a chicken. I kill it, I clean it; but most of all, I learned taht I am pretty happy being a city girl. 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