Words for Wednesday June 7, 2023 & IWSG

It is Wednesday. And this means time for Words for Wednesday!

Endnu engang undskyld til danske læsere. Der skal nok komme mere på dansk snart.

This challenge was started by Delores a long time ago. Troubles led her to bow out, but the challenge was too much fun to let go, and now the Words for Wednesday is provided by a number of people and has become a movable feast with Elephant's Child as our coordinator.

The general idea of this challenge is to make us write. Poems, stories, subtitles, tales, jokes, haiku, crosswords, puns, ... you're the boss. Use all Words, some Words or even none of them if that makes your creative juices flow. Anything goes, only please nothing rude or vulgar.

 It is also a challenge, where the old saying "The more the merrier" holds true.

So Please, remember to follow the links, go back and read other peoples' stories. And please leave a comment after reading. Challenges like this one thrives on interaction, feedback and encouragement. And we ALL need encouragement. 

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All Wednesdays in June the Words are provided by Hilary Melton-Butcher but they are made public at Elephant's Child's blog.

For today we were given:

Eyebrow                       
Roiling                            
Refuse                          
Gratifying                        
Newsreel                        
     And/or
Knead
Air
Journey
Port
Crime

I continue the story of Susan and the hatching of the chickens. Still only low-key magic. And I only used the first set of Words, but as usual in the order they were given. The story is long enough, but it will possibly continue later with the last batch.

Later today I will update with the monthly IWSG-question.

Susan dared not even twitch an eyebrow as the tiny chicken lying in her hand raised his head and looked around. His feathers were still wet, glued to his body with the moisture, and she could see the roiling movement of his intestines through the skin. The chicken felt so small, so defenceless, that Susan started doubting she had chosen wisely. The head was almost too heavy for the small creature to raise, but he refused to give up.

Slowly he dried in the sun and warmth from Susan's hand fluffing up nicely, finally looking how a chicken ought to in Susan's mind.
Granny came over an put a small amount of what she called grit, barley finely ground in a contraption on a nearby swine farm in Susan's empty hand. Susan held the hands together as Granny showed her and with gratifying vigour the small chicken began pecking at the feed.

When Susan's rooster chick had eaten its fill, it simply lay down and fell asleep in her hand. She shook the remaining grit from her hand and cupped both around the fluffy ball. She watched her cousins. Lena's chicken had already hatched, and now lay drying in her hands, Myrtle, the oldest, sat still, wool-gathering, while her chicken chirped helplessly inside the shell. Helen coaxed it on, at the same time keeping an eye on her own vigorously rocking and chirping egg. Susan was suddenly reminded of a newsreel. It had been a part of their career planning in school, and shown a midwife assisting at a birth. Helen reminded Susan of that midwife. She looked up at Granny, who put a finger to her lips. Myrtle's chicken broke free, and Helen caught it and placed it in Myrtle's hands. "Keep her warm, now, Myrtle," she spoke softly. Myrtle looked as if she returned from far away and  looked down at the wet, not very charming creature in her hands.
"I always forget they start out so disgusting," she said. "But it will fluff up soon." Now that the chicken was there, Myrtle took good care of it, and soon Granny placed a small mound of grit in Myrtle's hand as well.
Helen spoke and cooed to the tiny creature inside her egg. An when finally it emerged, she pulled off her woollen scarf, dried the chicken ever so gently warmed it with hands and scarf.
Granny walked off and returned with a lamp and a long extension cord.
"You can't stay her all day and night with these chicken," she said. "Myrtle give your chicken over to Helen and help me hang this lamp."
Myrtle had done this together with Granny before, and soon a small enclosure inside the coop was bathed in warming, red light. 

"This will help mama hen," Granny explained. "She has too many chicken for them all to fit under her wings, but the lamp will keep them warm, and she will soon enough take care of them all. Let's see how they are doing, and if more of them need our help."

Granny helped the girls place the stuffed, sleeping chicken in the straw beneath the heat lamp and then she slowly opened the other door into the hatching place. The black and white hen looked at Granny with her beady eye and some chicken popped their heads out from under her wings. Granny clucked and cooed and mama hen arose and walked over to granny, who lifted her up and over the barrier into the heated compartment. In the straw lay at least ten chicken, that rose up, fell over their legs and generally tumbled around.

Susan stretched out her hand, then looked up at Granny.

Granny nodded. "Yes those small ones need to go into the heated compartment as well." Susan picked up one fluffy chicken in each hand, gently placing them next to mama hen. She clucked satisfied with having her babies back and Susan and the three cousins picked up chicken after chicken until the stall was empty.

"There's still some eggs here in the corner," Helen said. "Will they hatch?"

"Pick them up, but carefully,"Granny said, "and give them to me, one at a time." The girls did as instructed, and Granny held each egg up to the sun and looked at it. Some she placed at the ground, close to the coop, but most of them she handed to the girls, Each ended up with two eggs. "The chicken inside those eggs are still alive," she explained. "If you can warm and turn them well enough, they might survive and hatch."

The girls did their best, Helen and Susan each taking over one of Myrtle's eggs as she had to leave for an appointment later. It became boring, sitting there, turning the eggs at intervals. Auntie G joined them, bringing a guitar, and softly they sang long ballads, the Riddle song, tear provoking folk songs and mirthful lays until finally all eggs were hatched and Granny came out and told them to put them under the heat lamp with mama hen.

"Don't we ned to feed them?" Susan asked.

"No," Granny answered, "that was a special treat for the special chicken to give them a headstart. Chicken do not need to eat for their first 24 ours. They are hatched with the remains of the yolk inside their tummy. This is also why you can send newly hatched chicken to breeders."

"Oh!" Susan said.


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June 7 question - If you ever did stop writing, what would you replace it with?

My answer - I truly do not know. I have been writing stories since before I began school, and in school I once ended an essay with these or similar words: "If I didn't have no books to read, I would write me some books. Just to have something to read."

Really, I think I only stop writing when I grow very old. Old enough to not see the keyboard or hold onto a pencil.