Love Struck: A Tale of Fowl Play, by Writing Center Tutors from 2008

It was a lovely day when every chicken in Taylor Stevens’s coop in Patawnee, Wisconsin, died. To this day, nobody quite knows exactly how they died, but the series of strange events leading up to the deaths have been the topic of much discussion these past 56 years.

It was February 14^th, 1952, and the normally dusty earth was covered in a fresh layer of powdery snow. Taylor emerged from his humble cabin to the bright surprise of unfiltered sunlight spilling down from the cloudless sky. He stretched and breathed in deeply, filling his handsome lungs with icy mountain air. To clarify: Few had ever seen his lungs to note that they were handsome, but the rest of him was so finely put together that one could only speculate that his internal organs would also be attractive. 

A flawless specimen, Taylor Stevens had never once in his life experienced any kind of illness, any kind at all. He was an anatomic bomb is what he was. And the one, most coveted organ in all his body lay passionately beating against the most perfect rib cage ever known to humankind.  Taylor had spent decades caring for the chickens and would have done anything for them because of this powerful yet tender heart.

It was also a heart three single women in Patawnee hoped to win and, thus, a tangled love quadrilateral was born.

The first of the women who had plans for Taylor was Myrtle Ethel Beach. She was a tall, thin, beautiful woman with sand-colored hair that cascaded in waves down her shoulders. She had supernatural, water-blue eyes that reflected a startling lack of intellect.

The next hopeful was Penelope Merton, a short, prune-faced woman who had a dastardly habit of peering at people over her horn-rimmed bifocals. She had as much beauty as Myrtle Ethel had wit. Yet, she was a stupendous cook, and she could dance for twelve continuous hours while drinking straight gin.

The final contender was Gwen Heinsmann, a smart and pretty woman with jet black hair whose curls rivaled those of Arnold Schwarzenegger at his workout. Gwen was as devoted to Taylor as he was to his chickens. 

And truly, Taylor’s devotion to those chickens was a little disturbing. In fact, it was the talk of the town (granted, the town didn’t have much else to talk about). Taylor kept a henhouse stocked with two dozen Rhode Island Reds, whose eggs he sold to the grocer in town. Selling the eggs was a bit of a sacrifice, in Taylor’s opinion, because he had developed a close and loving relationship with his two dozen buddies, and he was loathe to part with what could theoretically have become their offspring. (Only the absence of a rooster in the coop consoled him on this point.) Taylor had actually learned to knit in order to make his henFibber McGee and Molly on the radio. In fact, Taylor was so obsessed with his chickens that he failed to notice even the most beautiful young ladies’ admiring glances. Is it any wonder, then, that someone was plotting a bit of chicanery concerning those pampered fowl? But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

s tiny orange sweaters for cold days. (They had insisted on the orange as it complemented their feathers; they were unusually preoccupied with their appearance.) He cooked for the chickens, too—daily batches of his secret recipe gourmet chicken feed. Sometimes he even invited them into his living room so they could listen to

Penelope Merton, the myopic dancing cook, knew that the way to Taylor’s cardiovascular pump was through his intestines. So she invited Taylor over for a home-cooked meal on the evening of Valentine’s Day: She chilled a bottle of bubbly, the kind with the screw-off cap, cooked her new recipe, laid a fire in the fireplace, put on some good, old-fashioned polka music, and waited for Taylor to make all her dreams come true.

Taylor came over after he had fed the chickens, made sure all their little chicken sweaters were securely buttoned, and led them in their nightly yoga routine (Taylor understood the importance of flexibility and balance for poultry). He drove to Penelope’s upstairs apartment, knocked on her door, and was shocked when she answered.

Was he shocked by her apparel? Penelope truly was a sight, with a big red ribbon festively tied at the top of her mousy-colored hair and Valentine-shaped earrings. She wore a long evening gown laden with a plethora of tiny, flashing, multi-colored Valentine-shaped lightbulbs. Her pointy, five-inch heels were so precarious, she feared dancing might be out of the question.

It was out of the question, but that was not the fault of the pointy, five-inch heels. Taylor sniffed the air suspiciously.

“What do I smell?” Taylor asked in a strangled voice, his eyes darting nervously toward the kitchen.

“Why, that’s a recipe Gwen Heinsmann gave me just the other day,” Penelope gushed.

           

“What is the name of this recipe?” Taylor asked in a low, dangerous voice.

Penelope tottered over to the oven, and pulled out a savory chicken, swimming in broth and cut carrots, potatoes, onions and garlic.

“Why, it’s called Love Potion Gone A’Fowl,” she said with a giggle as she placed it on the table.

Taylor covered his mouth with his hand. Penelope was too near-sighted to notice his sudden pallor. He staggered backwards.

“That’s Gertie,” he said, gagging. “I knew I never should have sold her to Farmer Russell. I recognize her by that stretched-out hip muscle. It happened while she was doing the Pigeon Pose,” he said, his voice cracking. “I told her she wasn’t ready for Pigeon Pose.” Sobbing, he ran from Penelope Merton’s upstairs apartment, clattered down the stairs, and drove home to his beloved survivors.

After Penelope’s disastrous failure with her beloved Taylor, the field narrowed to Myrtle and Gwen.

While Taylor was busy mourning (and blaming himself for) the death of Gertie the chicken, the beautiful yet dim-witted Myrtle was busy scheming her way into Taylor’s heart.  For all of her shortcomings in the intellect department, Myrtle was smart enough to realize that a man like Taylor could not resist a beautiful woman like herself. So Myrtle made all of the necessary arrangements, including a trip to the hair salon, a manicure, and a facial.  While she sat under the dryer at Velma’s Hair Emporium, slowly chewing her vibrant pink bubble gum and reading the latest copy of Glamazon magazine, Myrtle paused to look at a picture of a model wearing a beautiful feather boa unlike any she had ever seen before.  The advertisement read: “The Latest from Paris, Beautiful Cream-Colored Feather Boa Made From Only the Most Exotic Ostrich Feathers, a Must-Have for Today’s Fashion-Forward Woman.”

Right then and there, Myrtle was determined to buy this feather boa and wear it for when she “accidentally” ran into Taylor later that evening. If only Myrtle had read the fine print at the bottom of the ad. If she had, she might not have been so keen on buying said boa and the outcome of her meeting with Taylor would have been drastically different. But minor details like these were not Myrtle’s forte, and so she adamantly marched down to the boutique with rollers still in her hair. The sales associate at the Boa Boutique -- who seemed oddly familiar though Myrtle could not place her -- was more than happy to sell Myrtle the boa. The sales associate, who had curly, jet-black hair, smiled sweetly as Myrtle happily walked away with her purchase.

Back at her apartment, Myrtle was busy getting ready.  Her silky, straw-colored hair was curled just so and beautifully framed her face. Myrtle delicately sprayed her favorite perfume on her wrists, which now reeked of gardenias, vanilla, and musk. Lastly, she absently applied her lipstick, an ominous shade of crimson that called attention to her full and voluminous lips.  Myrtle stepped back to check her image in the mirror and sighed as if she was satisfied with the final product. She checked her watch and saw that it was 8:15. Perfect timing, she thought to herself. The radio program Fibber McGee and Molly, which Taylor listened to religiously, had ended 15 minutes ago, and Myrtle knew he’d head into town. She went back to the mirror and practiced the surprised look she would wear on her face when she ran into him. After getting the look just so, Myrtle left her apartment and headed toward the center of town.

Taylor strolled down Clanin Street as Myrtle sidled alongside of him in her brand-spanking-new Nash Ambassador. They were in front of the Mastic feed store when Myrtle drawled, “How do you like my new boa, big fella? It’s made of genuine ostrich feathers.”

Taylor gasped, superficial breaths leaving his attractive lungs starved for oxygen. He thought he was going to faint.

“Those aren’t ostrich feathers,” he said in a strangled voice. “Those feathers belonged to Fritz, one of my favorite hens! I knew I should never have given her to Farmer Boyle. But it was his birthday, and the sweater I had knit him was much too small…”

Sobbing, Taylor ran from the scene. All of Myrtle’s efforts at beautifying herself were for naught. Dejected, she drove home and buried her sorrow in a half gallon of Ben & Jerry’s (which, through the miracle of time travel, had appeared in her freezer). They were the only two men she could truly trust.

That left Gwen Heinsmann, who combined brains with beauty. She was an X-ray technician when she wasn’t moonlighting at the Boa Boutique. In fact, it was the X-rays she once took that led to her great love for Taylor, whose brains—sad to say—did not hold a match to his physical assets. (Taylor had never once been ill, but he had needed X-rays as part of an overall physical to qualify for a health insurance policy.)

It was his lungs that Gwen first noticed. She then became attracted to his liver, intrigued with his pancreas, and downright obsessed with his adrenal glands. Of course, there was no single organ that solely grabbed her attention: It was the whole epic sweep and symmetry of his insides. They were like a perfectly constructed poem, or a superbly balanced landscape, or major and minor chords in sublime harmony. His X-rays were the highest form of art, in Gwen’s humble opinion.

Yes, Taylor had a strange attachment to his chickens. True, he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. Yes, watching the grass grow really was his idea of a good time. But Gwen knew the inner Taylor as few others did. She had even seen his gallbladder.

Gwen understood that she had to take out the competition. Not Penelope or Myrtle—not anymore—but the girls in Taylor’s chicken coop. There would be no room in Taylor’s heart for anyone else until Gwen cooked the chickens’ goose.

Gwen wasn’t cruel, but she was determined. She drove out to Taylor’s farm and parked on the road beyond his driveway. Clad entirely in black, Gwen crept through the snow, up Taylor’s front steps, and peeked into the window. He was parked in front of the television. Gwen felt a pang of guilt and pity for what she was about to do. But he would be grateful to her in the long run, she told herself.

Gwen stealthily walked to the chicken coop and opened the door. The highly fashion-conscious hens were lying snugly in their nests, looking smug in their orange, hand-knitted sweaters. They looked at her expectantly, even haughtily. Gwen knew what they were thinking: “Ha! She’s not even in our league!”

Gwen stood with her hands on her hips, glared at the lot of them, and said—in her most scathing tone of voice—“Those sweaters are so 1951.”

Anyone could have guessed what happened. The chickens died of embarrassment. They may have thought that they’d never be caught dead in last year’s sweater fashions, but in fact they were caught dead in last year’s sweater fashions the very next morning.

The chickens were buried in a mass grave in the church cemetery because Taylor could afford only one headstone. Gwen was there, holding his hand, handing him her lace-edged hanky to dry his tears.

           

“Now that the chickens are gone,” he said in a broken voice, “You’re my only friend, Gwen.” She may have had a twinge of conscience, but Gwen didn’t let that get in the way of romance. Taylor and Gwen were married six months later. Curiously enough, their wedding album included some of Taylor’s early X-rays. They never failed to set Gwen’s heart a-flutter.

Of course, there were children: Ann, Frances, Liz, Stefanie, and Melanie. And there were grandchildren: John, Lindsey, Sara, Katie, Holly, and Josh. Now there are even a few great-grandchildren: Kara, Jeri-Ann, Qolette, Niketa, and Nick. Taylor passed away at the ripe old age of 85, never learning the secret of Gwen’s treachery. She has since remarried the neighbor’s pool boy, and the remaining family is all living happily ever after, except for the glaring absence of poultry on their dinner plates.