He reaches for his notebook. Last night I was in the desert with mice who grew wings. What a wild ride. To be decoded later. He wakes when there’s no sunlight left, not even a hint, choosing to use only five out of the twenty-­‐four hours available. My life, my rules. He opens his wardrobe. His uniform resembles that of a magicians. But he’s a waiter, of sorts, at a chicken restaurant. The golden blade sits in a closed box on the table. Tonight, he counts to five before opening it. The longer he waits the better it feels. The sight sends shivers through his veins. Good shivers. The kind you can recall months later. The blade, it’s for the chickens in case you were wondering. He walks the longer way to the restaurant, the safer way, the way the crowds don’t walk, and arrives through the back.At the sight of the chickens, he smiles. Let’s begin.

Ten new fire birds, fresh from the farm, are waiting. Last night was busy. Last night they all arrived on the plates they were born to grace. After placing his blade on the side, he pulls back the thick, velvet curtain and looks out to the curved walls of the restaurant. It’s full.It always is. The restaurant only has one table. It’s circular with a large, black pit in the middle. The diners have taken their seats. The seats are high allowing them a perfect view of the pit below. They’re nervous, I can tell. You should be. You’re about to feel something real. You’re about to wake up. Hold on to the bits that you love, the rest is going to break. Drinking whiskey, they try to justify why they’re here, “Just for the food, I only eat organic. Farm to table. I will close my eyes for the rest.” Bullshit. Tonight, they’ll watch death, and a part of them is excited. That part feels wrong, so they lie. The ease in which the lie slips from their lips fascinates me. If only words could change a feeling, how simple life would be! Soon they will see more than their eyes ever dreamed of and something will shift. There’ll be no going back. Like a dragon who’s discovered his breath can turn into actual fire. Mind shifted. Mind blown.

As the bell rings, the main lights are dimmed and the spotlight falls on the pit. He picks up his blade. Fattest one first tonight. Taking it to the tunnel entrance a few steps away, he slits its head and feels the life return to him. The chicken runs. Head free it runs the only way it can-­‐ through the tunnel which leads directly into the pit. He pulls back the velvet curtain to watch. I know the sound of shock so well I could paint it with my eyes closed. He hears whimpers. It’shim, the boy with his back to me. Watching life end for the first time does give you a strange twinge, I’ll admit. It’s a new feeling, not to be confused with a bad feeling. But death is our only certainty.The one thing we can count on. The only place to begin.

The chicken finally drops and as it does so too does the pit cover. Esther whisks the dead chicken away to be prepared. He picks up the second. And the third. I set them free. Headless, the chickens run through the tunnel and out into the pit. Death comes quickly. Pit cover falls. Chickens gets whisked away. He waits for the whimper. It’s softer this time. Good.

Let’s take a quick break to satisfy your curiosity or your sense of injustice, depending on which part of you dictates the other. My method involves severing the chicken’s somatosensory cortex. It feels nothing, only you do. Deal with this how you need to,and quickly, I’ve already indulged your emotions enough with an explanation. You’ll remember that no one forced you here. I for one would never partake in anything I wasn’t certain I liked.Uncertainties don’t suit me. Neither does purple, never has. But enough about me, back to my now feeling-­‐less friends.

The starter is served. It’s chickens one, two and three. The diners gobble them up. Their disgust turns into delight so quickly. It’s hard to stay mad though, animals are both juicier and tastier when consumed so soon after life. “This is the best chicken I’ve ever eaten. I want more!”says the slim woman, perhaps the mother of whimper boy. More shivers, this time in the air of her words. Trust me, we all want more. Even the dream mice wanted more. Be patient, you delightfully greedy creature, it’s nearly time for the main event. He’ll use all seven remaining because freeing them feels better than usual tonight. One after the other, he chops off their heads and directs them through the tunnel. Some diners stop eating their chicken at the sight of seven chickens running headless around the black pit. Not the slim woman. Or whimper boy. They get it now, delight doesn’t exist without disgust. Soon there’s only one left. When it drops, the fire will begin.

The black pit is lit, and the now plucked and chopped poultry is tossed in to sizzle. I look down at the pattern of blood stains on my shirt.It’s like a snowflake (the worst of the weather products), different every night. It’s the one thing I can’t control. Meanwhile, the guests are handed their long-­‐armed-­‐ladles and invited to pick a piece, any piece.Their stomachs and eyes are alive and in control now. There’s no holding back.

I wipe my blade clean and tuck it into my jacket, safely. Everyone’s awake. Good. They never will thank me for the gift. I get ready to go home, back to my wife and kids. I’m joking, there’s no-­‐one at home. There never will be. It would create the possibility of uncertainty. I’ve planned my life so that this can’t exist. Something shifts in me, finally, and my dream becomes clear. It’s nearly time to free myself. The mice were growing wings–they were getting ready to fly.

– Sarah Cottee