Flapping My Left Wing by Hannah Fortune

A few short months ago, our heroine, Chicken Little, had tuned in and dropped out, pledging to spend her time shopping and vegging out in front of her new flat screen TV, watching Survivor reruns.
But darn if she didn’t find herself on Monday at 5PM trudging down to the crossroads of her little village to stand with a handful of other women holding peace signs. These women and an occassional man had been on the corner every week for over six months protesting the war in Iraq, in support of the troops, but wanting to end the occupation and bring them home. And impeach Bush and Cheney to boot. To stand with them was the least Chick felt she could do, and she was warmly welcomed, even though she was so short she could barely be seen
‘ She was doing something,’ Chick said to herself, as she held up her Honk For Peace sign. Then, too, she appreciated the camaraderie, since her closest friend, Henny Penny and she had drifted apart. Henny had voted for McCain in the primary and Chick could barely contain her anger. She herself was a staunch supporter of Hillary Clinton. It was high time a woman was in charge of this country. Forty-three men were more than enough. But Chick was worried. If the women in Texas and Ohio didn’t come through on March 4th, well, it would be Barack. Let him be VP, Chick fumed. She considered herself a feminist, and though she’d been married twice, kept her so-called maiden name, which, unfortunately was Sanders. For if there was anyone Chick came close to hating, it was Kernel Sanders.
‘Yes’, she thought in a rare burst of insight, ‘I do hold hate in my heart’. Kernel Sanders, George Bush, Dick Cheney. Bad men. And then there was the list of dictators published in last Sunday’s paper. Kim Jong-Il, King Abdullah, Robert Mugabe, Sayyid Ali Khamenei. All men, of course.
For this was the burning question that kept Chicklit’s eyes wide open at night, haunted her dreams, found her on the computer at 2AM.
“What is the root cause of the propensity for violence in the male of the species, and how can these violent tendencies be subjugated?”
She had her theories, but, unfortunately, no viable solutions. As she perused the daily online headlines, it was only too obvious that it was open season on women. It was open season on chickens, too, sadly enough, and there was a correlation, Chick knew. A lifelong vegetarian, and now a vegan, she was appalled at the insensitivity of other women toward her species.
‘Oh, if only everyone had the heart of Gandhi’, Chick sighed. ‘Now there was a man.’ Try as she would, she fell far short of her aspirations to follow in his footsteps. Footprints, these days. Chick knew her own dear little three-toed carbon footprint was dainty and left barely a mark. She’d never even used a clothes dryer, for heaven’s sake.
‘Was Gandhi a Buddhist?’ Chick chastised herself for her ignorance on this point. Though she looked on organized religion with disdain, finding it overwhelmingly hypocritical, Chick was drawn to Buddhism and had spent a pleasant weekend several years ago at a river retreat with other like-minded gentle souls learning the art of compassion. Chick prided herself on being able to say, Aria Avalokitshevara, a real tongue-twister for a chicken.
In contemplation of her own Buddha nature, Chick felt in tune with the oneness of all life and could see clearly her own role as a mere player on a stage.
All these thoughts and more went through went through Chick’s mind as she stood on the corner holding her sign, which had become quite heavy during the last hour.
As the demonstrators walked across the street to their cars, the women kindly invited Chick to go out for a pizza after their stand next week. “As long as it’s vegetarian, I’d love to”, said Chick, smiling at her new friends.

Next: Chick Quickly Becomes Disenchanted