Hi friends. I am Herbert, the chicken. Though, I doubt I will be for long. This morning, Farmer MacGregor passed by with an evil glint in his eye. Maybe that was just his glass eye but one can never be too sure. Also, we are one chicken less than yesterday. Little, we called him. Chicken Little. He entertained us with his falling sky antics many a time.

There goes the farmer again. This time, with a knife. It gleams like his glass eye. I think I know where Little is.


Another day, another chicken gone. Eminently, another meal served. Not any of us had a minute of sleep last night as we were fearfully watching a silhouette in MacGregor's kitchen raise a large, glistening butcher knife and slam it down. One. Two. Three times.
The unfortunate fowl was known as the chicken who crossed the road. Time and time again, he would flee this small hell and dart across the hi-way. And somehow, he always made it. Though, I suspect he was a tad stupid, as he always came back. Now that I think of it, I wonder why did the chicken cross the road?


A fox. That's what farmer MacGregor reminds me of. He pokes his head through the door of the pen and smiles his crafty smile that can only mean one thing: death. His evasive eyes scout for his next victim, eying chicken after chicken. Slowly, he makes his way over to a hen named Louise. The rest of us scatter but she is cornered. He picks her up and hobbles out of the pen, his grin even wider.

We are all done for.


We are now down to a lowly group of eleven. To think, there were twenty of us to begin with. Is there no justice?

MacGregor has a cat, now. Johanna, he calls her. She shares the same crafty smile. The smile of death! She paces around the pen day and night on her bowl legs, her tail twitching to a non-existent beat. Every so often she pauses and attempts to shove her head through the wire fencing. Of course, she only ends up with angry red lines across her stout face.
She passes again, her one-usable eye watching each of us. She smacks her lips and I am sure I hear her say the all-too familiar phrase, Chicken tonight!.

From now on, I plan to sleep with one eye open.


The news has spread all over the pen. Farmer MacGregor has ties with the ruthless Kentucky Fried Chicken fast-food franchise. I never thought that it would come to this.
Posters and ads of the dreaded Colonel Saunders have been tacked up everywhere. I've even seen one plastered to the side of a chicken. I swear I heard his voice calling me in my sleep. Delicious, Triple Crunch® Zinger Sandwich, he called me.

Last time I counted, there were eight of us. Johanna had a feather stuck to her chin. Foul creature.


Five. There is a total of five chickens in this pen. Exactly enough to fill a large bucket of KFC chicken pieces in the family pack. How are you going to get out of this one, brain?

The farmer returns. The cat comes back. My brain contemplates escape. All that remains, until the farmer begins to limp over to me. His glass eye gleams as he smiles his crafty smile.