"Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?"

In other news.
I also write!
Here is a story that I wrote today: I hope you guys like it!

Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?

Once upon a time, there was an old turtle. He lived in the grassy meadow where he spent his days feasting on steamed vegetables with his beautiful Tortuga, Heidi. This older turtle was crawling across a road. What happens next doesn’t really matter, since this story isn’t really about this turtle anyways. This story is about a chicken.

Once upon that same time, there was also an elderly chicken. Her better days were behind her, when she could turn out those Grade A, large, organic, cage free, hormone free, grain fed, chicken eggs made without artificial colors or flavors faster than any other hen in the world. But that was a long time ago. Now she wanted to get away from it all. She wanted to go to the grassy meadow, home of the friendly turtles with quaint little townhomes, all in a rural setting and only two blocks down from the new J. C. Penny’s. Only one problem: she had to cross the road.

At first, it seemed like no biggie to this chickie. However, she then surmised that if the cars were traveling at about 60 miles per hour, and if the average car weighed about 800 pounds, the amounts of kinetic energy that would be applied to her delicate hourglass figure by a collision would be immense, according to Newton’s law of inertia and the fact that force is mass times acceleration.

Many of her chicken pals urged her not to go. Many weren’t even sure why she was going across the road.

“I just want to at least see what it is like over there, okay? I have been just a plain old hen for so long and I have never really been satisfied with that,” said Jonathan, the heroine of this story.

“Oh please, Jonathan. You just think the grass is always greener on the other side, don’t you?”

“Of course it is. The grass is yellow here!” Jonathan retorted. All the hens looked down. The grass was indeed yellow, almost gold. They all agreed this was a very undesirable grass color.

“Alright. Do what you want, Jonathan. Stay safe! And look both ways before you cross the street!”

“It’s just a road, not a street…”she mumbled to herself as she galloped towards the crosswalk with her wings flapping up and down. She made her way into the forest, because she was told the road would be just past the clearing of the trees. As Jonathan began to tire and start waddling, she began to contemplate morality, the role of man in the infinite, and various hot-button political topics. Once she finally made her way to the road, she saw, surprisingly, another chicken trying to cross the road with a turtle shell on his back.

“Excuse me, what are you doing?” Jonathan asked.

“I’m trying to cross the road!” he replied loudly.

“But why?”

“To prove I’m not a chicken,” he said.

“Actually, you are a chicken.”

“No I’m not. I’m a turtle! See the shell?” he asked, irritated at Jonathan’s remarks.

“So what is your strategy?”

“I have studied the road crossing strategies of the turtles, and it’s quite remarkable. Apparently, all I have to do is wait in the middle of the road and someone will carry me across the road!”

“Hm,” she replied, “fascinating. Is that it?”

“Well first, I’m going to wait for the human crossing sign on the crosswalk to change to the chicken crossing sign.” he leaned forward and tried to motion to the lamppost with his wing, but the weight of the turtle shell made him fall flat of his face.

“I think that sign means don’t walk.”

“No it doesn’t! See the chicken wing?”

“That’s a human hand…” Jonathan said, pointing to the now-glowing orange hand.

“No it’s not! I’ll prove it to you! Watch this!” the turtle disguised chicken exclaimed, running full force into the oncoming traffic. He was a quarter of the way there. Then he was halfway there. And then he was three quarters of the way there. Sadly, he got evidence of no longer being a chicken in in an unexpected way. Even greater than his unexpected taste of success was his unexpected taste of gravel, asphalt and rubber as his fragile frame crunched under the heavy weight of the trailer like a jelly filled donut with a side of salted ruffle cut potato chips. Jonathan looked upon the scene in horror as her new friend became a two-dimensional object in a matter of two seconds.

“OH NO!!!” she thought loudly to herself. “How will I cross the road?”

She came up with a plan. Jonathan decided that she would cross the road like the humans did.

The human walking light illuminated once more, and Jonathan began her trek across the road. She was a quarter of the way there. Then she was halfway there. And then she was three quarters of the way there. Then she twisted her ankle.

“What?” she howled in pain, “I thought chickens didn’t have ankles!”

Whether or not chickens really have ankles, she was stuck injured in the middle of the road nonetheless, as the so called “chicken crossing” sign lit up with its sinister orange glow.

The cars whooshed past her, one after the other. After starting to tire from avoiding about three cars with a twisted ankle, she realized that she wasn’t quite the typical hero of an action movie that could keep dodging cars forever while also being in a sword fight with a mob of goons armed with AK-47s led by a psychotic killing mastermind who has a henchman with a special attribute or ability, such as having an arm made of titanium-steel alloys.

She thought fast, at least fast for an aging old chicken, and thought of his friend’s turtle shell. It was relatively undamaged and laid beside her. She grabbed it and hid inside. Suddenly, she heard the squealing of tires. As she looked up, she saw the rubber death rolls of a pickup truck inches away from the shell and saw a boy reaching for the shell.

“Maybe he will help me!” she thought. The little boy picked up the shell and looked inside.

“Well are you gonna help the turtle cross the road or not, Jimmy?” the mom asked.

“It’s a chicken!” the boy exclaimed, shaking the shell and watching Jonathan’s nearly lifeless body fall out and flop on the pavement.

“Well then leave it alone if it’s not a turtle to help across the road, Jimmy! That chicken doesn’t look fit for eatin’, but we can do something with that empty turtle shell; let’s go!”

The boy, looking at the poor chicken, shed a small tear in compassion for the chicken and reluctantly hopped back into the pickup with shell in hand, and the truck sped off, leaving poor Jonathan alone once again in the rush of rural highway traffic. Worn out and beat up, she barely opened her eyes enough to see an eighteen wheeler speeding directly at her delicate hourglass figure. She wondered many things: “Is the grass really greener on that side of the road? If so, is it worth the price of crossing the road? Will I become a jelly-filled donut like the other chicken? Will anyone save me?” She clucked one final cluck of desperation as the semi grew ever closer to Jonathan.

She closed her eyes.

All of the sudden all eighteen tires squealed to a halt.

A bearded, sweaty old man opened the truck door and looked in Jonathan’s direction.

“Oh my gosh! I nearly hit that poor turtle!” the man exclaimed. Jonathan opened her eyes in disbelief as she saw that a turtle with a small, but aged shell had curled up right beside her.

“Oh, let me just help you, Mister Turtle!” the man said affectionately, picking up the turtle the moment just after the turtle stuck its neck out and took hold of Jonathan with its delicate but strong mouth as the trucker carried both Jonathan and the turtle to the safety of the other side of the road. The trucker slowly drove off, leaving a hen in shock and a turtle on the side of the road.

“Why did you do that? You could have gotten yourself killed just to save a chicken!” Jonathan exclaimed.

“I saw the bumper sticker,” the turtle said, motioning over to the vanishing truck’s “I Brake For Turtles” sign.

“Ah. I see,” said the distressed little hen, still in shock. “So what side of the road are we on?”

“You are on the grassy meadow side, home of us friendly turtles and quaint little townhomes, all in a rural setting and only two blocks down from the new J. C. Penny’s,” the turtle said.

“Oh! Can I see the townhomes?”

“Sure. Right this way!” The friendly turtle took Jonathan to see all of the townhomes. Each was indeed quaint and in a rural setting; some were even closer to the J. C. Penny’s than the earlier estimate.

“So do you like it here?” the turtle asked, as other turtles gathered around to see the newcomer.

“Oh yes! I love the townhomes and all you friendly turtles! So what is your name?” Jonathan

asked.

“My name is Clarissa,” he said.

“Wow, I think that we will get along just fine!”

“So why did you even cross that road anyways? We rarely have any chickens visit us these days because of the recent highway closure that drives lots of thru traffic this way,” Clarissa remarked.

“I’m not sure really. The whole idea of townhomes didn’t even seem that appealing to me at first. I guess I crossed the road just because I wanted to get to the other side,” she mused. “But I’ll tell you what: the grass is really greener on this side.”

“No it’s not. The grass is blue!” Clarissa retorted. All the turtles as well as Jonathan looked down. The grass was indeed blue, almost navy. They all agreed this was a very desirable grass color.