Elizabeth Rosen ~ The Great Chicken Panic

There was out­right pan­ic when chil­dren began cough­ing up tiny chick­ens. On play­grounds from Ankara to Accra, Uppsala to Utica, chil­dren paused what they were doing, opened their mouths and coughed out minia­ture plumed Brabanters, speck­led Houdans, or snowy-toed Sultans. Clouds of feath­ers burst from their lit­tle mouths, fol­lowed by the squawks of chick­ens hav­ing to use their wings for the first time.

This did not scare the chil­dren. After they spit out the stray feath­ers, they found it fun­ny, like a hilar­i­ous par­ty trick. The chick­en expul­sions looked a bit like the speech bub­bles of com­ic books. One girl doing her braids in Ghana coughed out a Leghorn that hit the ground strut­ting. In Palermo, a boy on a scoot­er wait­ing for the traf­fic sig­nal to turn green hacked up a Rhode Island Red the col­or of bloody satin. A girl from Ville Platte, Louisiana, bare­ly out of her tod­dler years, coughed twice hard, and expelled a Buff Orpington with a loud squawk and in a shade of yel­low only ever seen in illus­tra­tions of pots of gold in fairy tales. Even the her­itage breeds were rep­re­sent­ed. A boy in Estonia coughed up a glossy, black Ayam Cemani who land­ed grace­ful­ly, its cockscomb like a piece of burnt leather glued to its head. The friends of one lit­tle boy sell­ing tea on the street in Bali had to smack him on the back sev­er­al times to help him clear the long, dra­mat­ic black-and-teal feath­ers of a Onagadori, and a lit­tle girl in Albania man­aged to clear a stun­ning Dong Tao despite its tumor­ous-look­ing legs and Ankylosaurus head. The chil­dren found it hilar­i­ous. Magical.

It was the par­ents who freaked out. At first, every­one thought it must be some tox­ic expo­sure, some­thing that had turned the chil­dren into incu­ba­tors for barn­yard fowl. Doctor’s appoint­ments became impos­si­ble to book as moth­ers of chick­en-expellers com­pet­ed for time slots with the moth­ers of chil­dren who had reg­u­lar old flu. The strick­en par­ents need­ed to have their chil­dren exam­ined, they said. Take throat cul­tures, they told the con­found­ed pedi­a­tri­cians. Do blood tests, they insisted.

But there was noth­ing med­ical­ly wrong with the chil­dren who, each morn­ing, brushed their teeth and drew on their lit­tle mit­tens or san­dals, eager to get out­side and see what sort of chick­en they and their friends coughed up that day. Their par­ents watched with wor­ry from the win­dows, half-lis­ten­ing as the morn­ing talk show hosts blath­ered in the back­ground about what it could pos­si­bly mean if a child expelled a Pita Pinta as opposed to a Sicilian Buttercup. A well-known TV evan­ge­list assured his flock that they’d be okay so long as no Deathlayer was expelled, but then a lit­tle girl in Cuba coughed one up and seemed no worse the wear for it; the world kept going as usu­al, except for the sud­den mul­ti­tude of tiny chick­ens, and that was that.

There were some who posit­ed that it was a sign of supe­ri­or­i­ty to hatch a Dorking ver­sus, say, a Scots Dumpy. They sug­gest­ed the chil­dren should be sep­a­rat­ed out to be genet­i­cal­ly stud­ied. But since no one knew what it actu­al­ly meant to exhale a Barnvelder or Ixworth, and since there was no appar­ent tie between the ori­gin of chick­en breed and the sort of chil­dren who hatched them, the push to clas­si­fy, to make lists, and to sep­a­rate into groups faltered.

Meanwhile, as the adults argued and wor­ried about the impli­ca­tions for get­ting their child into the col­lege of their choice and whether this meant there was a greater risk of avian flu, the chil­dren, delight­ed with this new trick of theirs, con­tin­ued to sit criss-cross-apple-sauce in their tree­hous­es, cud­dling their tiny chick­ens between their legs, mak­ing col­or­ful friend­ship bracelets with the feath­ers of their hatchlings.

~

Elizabeth Rosen’s sto­ries have appeared in jour­nals such as the North American Review, Baltimore Review, Gargoyle, and Pithead Chapel, and been nom­i­nat­ed for the Pushcart, Best Small Fictions, and Best of the Net awards. Her sto­ry “Maw Maw’s Cheese Balls” is the 2026 win­ner of the Raleigh Review Flash Fiction con­test. Colorwise, Elizabeth is an autumn. She mourns the loss of Tab and still wants her MTV.