Wanna Know How I Got My Wings?

Ellie Scott
Jun 19 · 3 min read
Photo by John Towner on Unsplash

Well there I was, hanging out with my friends after school, all of us bored out of our minds, when some bright spark decided we should play Chicken.

You know what Chicken is? It’s this dumb game where you run out into a road in front of a car and try to get to the other side without getting hit. Stupid, right?

What’s stupider is that I didn’t know how to play. Never heard of the so-called ‘game’ before in my entire 16-year-long life. But I didn’t tell the guys that, did I?

“You go first,” they said, since I was the new kid in town.

And I was all like, “Yeah, sure, cool, awesome,” without actually clarifying the rules of the game. I just wanted to fit in with the idiots, okay? In hindsight I did a pretty good job.

So I go first, with no idea what the hell Chicken is, and I improvise. I head out into the road, head bobbing, arms flapping, feet scratching at the ground. Yes — I pretended to be a chicken.

And the guys all start laughing which makes me think I’m playing the game right, so I go all in and start clucking and squawking and pecking at imaginary worms. They’re all clutching their sides, cackling away, and I’m so proud of myself for being so fucking awesome at Chicken that I don’t see the car coming.

Next thing I know, I’m in Hell. Turns out that the woman driving the car got a bit of whiplash when she hit me, and apparently that’s grounds to send me to Hell. You’d have thought my being dead would be dues enough, right?

So there I am, in Hell, fucking fuming at this ridiculous turn of events, when I learn that it’s about to get so much worse.

See, when you get to hell, you’re assigned an eternal punishment that fits your Earthly wrongdoings. If, for example, you had a penchant for farting in enclosed public spaces during your life on Earth, your eternity in Hell would be spent in a small room surrounded by demons with endlessly gassy bowels I know this because I’ve met the poor bastard in this exact scenario. Gross. Kinda funny, I have to admit, but gross.

The punishment deemed appropriate for my wrongdoing? I was turned into a chicken. An actual chicken. Feathers and beak and scaly feet and all. And that’s how I got my wings.

It’s not all bad. A little humiliating, I guess. The demons find it hilarious; they’re forever making jokes about rotisserie chicken… at least I think they’re jokes. But I can’t complain — it’s way better than whiling away eternity in a fart room. Trust me, you never get that smell out of your clothes. And on the plus side I get to eat fresh eggs every day.

Don’t pull that face at me! Food is scarce in Hell. And they’re my eggs, from my own feathery butt. If anyone deserves to enjoy them it ought to be me — squeezing them out isn’t fun, you know. I don’t understand why everyone makes such a fuss about it. It’s only like eating your own bogies and everyone does that. Right?

Anyway. That’s my story. Don’t feel bad for me, just learn from my mistakes. If you’re gonna play in traffic, clarify the rules of the game first. Otherwise it could go terribly wrong.

Ellie Scott

Written by

Writer of speculative fiction. Shortlisted for 2018 Bridport Prize. Author of ‘Merry Bloody Christmas and ‘Come What May Day’. https://www.elliescott.co.uk/