George and the magic wish chicken

Our publishing division held a writers’ workshop earlier this year, where we sat in on lectures and did lots of different writing exercises. Here’s something I did in a 10-minute free writing class – that’s where you simply put pen to paper and write whatever comes to mind, based on a prompt. Mine was a pic of a wishbone sitting on a greasy plate) …

By Leigh Andrews

George loved to eat chicken wishbone soup. The trick was to leave the wishbone for last, when it had absorbed all the juices – soft on the inside, crunchy on the outside. Yum! The forks he favoured were stainless steel with four tines – the whole idea of eating soup with a fork had come to him from the nursery rhyme his momma used to sing while cooking the evening meal: “I eat my peas with honey so they don’t slip off the fork.” Shaking his head to clear the memories, George crumpled his beige napkin and broke the bread – quite literally pulling the thick slices of wholewheat apart, so as to sop up the last of the sauce. With bits and bobs now glued to his Movember moustache, George patted his belly, let off a big burp and staggered off to the fridge for a glass of milk. Nothing better than a tall glass of moo juice to wash down chicken wishbone soup! He looked around his messy kitchen and said to himself, “No dishes to wash – that’s one of my wishes.” Unbeknown to George, the chicken from whence the juicy wishbone came was a lucky wish chicken, the type usually carted off to the kitchen with others to lick(en). Having crunched through the marrow and sucked till it was dry, George didn’t realise he had summonsed the magic wish chicken’s spirit – the magic wish chicken was dead, of course, but unfortunately, the spirit of the magic wish chicken Magee was a little bit scary. Still transparent in places, as he had just the day before had his head on the chopping block, he was wearing a fedora hat to hide his featherless bald spot and sucking on a fat Cuban cigar…


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