Harry Gomm’s Meal

Harry Gomm sighed. For six months now, his face showed no trace of joy. He trudged over to his refrigerator, but to his dismay, found his chicken dinner greeting him. Literally. The chicken cleared its throat.

“You need to do something with your life, Mr. Gomm,” the chicken lectured. Harry just stood there with a shocked expression on his face.

Headless, featherless, and ready to be cooked, the chicken’s pale skin glistened with moisture, making the bird look like a slimy, scheming individual. But the way the chicken gestured its wings as it spoke seemed passionate. Unsure of how to react, Harry stared at his guest.

“You come home feeling that something is missing.” The chicken paced around, making small, wet footprints with its stubby, footless legs. The chicken occasionally made pecking motions at the ground. Bewildered, Harry blinked a few times and tried to speak, but nothing came out.

The chicken stopped its pacing and stared with its nonexistent head. “I know you miss them, but they’re gone. Move on.” A pain stabbed through Harry but blind rage soon masked it. He distorted his face into a snarl and shouted at the chicken.

“You don’t understand! I-” Harry babbled, but a rumble from above interrupted.

The chicken shook its invisible head and pointed a wobbly wing at Harry’s heart, ready to explain. Suddenly a giant hand crashed through the roof, picked the chicken up, and “om nom nom” roared through the sky.

Once again, Harry Gomm felt completely alone.

 

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