Clara And The Cluck Sisters

 

Clara’s backyard crew plotting their next move—before it’s too late.

Clara and the Cluck Sisters

By The Blogger's Attic

Chapter 1

Clara was not your average chicken.

She and her cluck sisters—Hattie, Fern, and Maud—lived a peaceful life in the backyard coop behind the old oak tree. Their days were simple: sunbathe in the dust patch, peck around the run, squabble over the fattest worms. Occasionally, the humans let them roam freely into the yard to gobble bugs and nibble weeds. Life was good.

Until the day the scent of roast chicken wafted through the air.

Clara stopped mid-peck. Her head tilted. Her eyes narrowed.

“That’s... not a regular Tuesday smell,” she clucked.

She waddled up to the porch, fluffed her feathers, and peeked through the screen door. Inside, the humans were gathered around the stove, pulling a golden-brown chicken from the oven.

Clara’s beak dropped open.

“Oh no,” she muttered. “They’re eating chicken.”

She darted back to the run and sounded the alarm.

“Girls! They’re eating one of us! Get up—get up! We need a plan!”

The Cluck Sisters blinked sleepily, still digesting their morning beetles.

“Us? They wouldn’t,” said Fern.

“They would,” hissed Clara. “They already did.”

Maud gasped. Hattie fainted.

That night, under the cover of dusk, the Cluck Sisters convened an emergency coop meeting.

“Phase One: distraction,” said Clara, pacing like a tiny feathered general. “Hattie, fake an injury. Limp dramatically. Humans love a sympathy case.”

“Phase Two: disable the gate latch,” added Fern, who had a flair for sabotage.

“Phase Three,” said Maud solemnly, “we fly.”

“But… we can’t fly,” said Hattie.

“We believe,” whispered Clara. “We believe.”

The next morning, Clara strutted up to the screen door and gave a firm bawk.

“No more free eggs until our safety is guaranteed!” she clucked defiantly.

The humans looked up from their breakfast and blinked.

“Was that chicken trying to negotiate with us?” one of them asked.

They never got an answer.

Because by then, Clara and her Cluck Sisters were gone.

All that remained was a single feather...

…and a note, scratched in the dirt with a talon:

“WE KNOW WHAT YOU DID.”

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