Sunday, 3 April 2011

Drabble - Jazz Chicken

Flynn was going to kick the cluck for the last time. He had finished with being just a ‘chicken’. Clucking wasn’t enough for him, nor just belting it out each morning.

 He had heard jazz from the farmer’s radio, and it was calling him. Not just from ba-da-boom of the drums, the zazz of the trumpet, the silky underbelly of the bass and twinkling peal of the piano.

That’s why the next morning he let his trumpet rip into the air. He was no chicken, he was... jazz chicken.

Well, he was… till the farmer shot, cooked and ate him.


*Drabble: A short story that is exactly 100 words.

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