Tigers in India

Tigers in India

Mum bought chickens for special occasions from Monks Butchery. 

“Our hens have laid too many eggs in their lifetime. Thats why they’re tough as old boots,” she said.

“Well, they wouldn’t got their necks wrung if they’da kept layin,” Dad said.

The special occasion this time was Aunty, coming home from India. She’d been there for years, it seemed.

“She’s spreading the good word,” Mum said.

When she arrived us kids had been bathed, so it was Saturday. 

Aunty was staying the night. In my bed.  

The settee in the lounge folded down, and my sister had the side closest to the door.

“So I can hear if she falls outa bed in the night,” Mum said.

“Aunty do you wanna feed the chooks with me in the morning?” I said.

The rooster crowed early. 

“I know, you’re just protecting your hens. Thats what Dad says anyway,” I said. 

Aunty knew how to scoop the poop out of the chook shed too. 

“Lots of eggs today,” she said.

“Yep, if they don’t lay, they get their necks wrung,” I said.

Aunty smiled.

We podded the peas before breakfast. I watched them bounce around in the water while Mum made the gravy.

Dad said grace. Sunday dinner was really lunch. 

The chicken was tender. 

Aunty told true stories of tigers killing village chickens in India.  My sisters eyes bulged, and my little brother put his fingers in his ears. 

“Rhubarb’s done well in the garden this year,” said Mum.

I couldn’t wait for pudding.

The smooth egg custard covered the rhubarb in the bottom of my plate.

“Dad, can I say grace next Sunday dinner? I wanna tell God I don’t care which came first. Chickens or eggs. I just want Him to keep the tigers in India.”

1st runner up in competition - judge said - 'nice pace with sharp sentences that allow the narrators voice to surface.'