A Feeling You Get
By Talking Hawk
Author's Note: I've been out of the fanfic loop for quite awhile, so this
story probably isn't that good. Also, just so you know, Rocky will probably
seem really out-of-character in this, and he kind of rambles. . .
Regardless of these factors, I hope that you enjoy what I at least
attempted to show about Rocky's inner-persona and innermost thoughts.
There's something in me that I've never felt before. I'm not quite sure
what it is though. . .
I remember back during my circus days. They feel so far away now. . . I
would go from town to town, shooting myself out of a canon to entertain the
masses. I used to feed off of their excitement, their amazement, but now. .
.now, I find myself wondering if that was me or altogether another rooster.
I remember the hens that I once used to hook up with. Thinking of how I
used to take enjoyment in finding the hen with the spindliest legs, the
most mischievous smile, and - now looking back on it - the lowest I.Q.. .
.I feel dead where I once felt alive. But I feel life breathing into me
where there used to be nothing, save for selfish ambition and self-
exultation (I found those words the other day when I was looking through
Mac's dictionary. . .turns out, she *does* speak English).
I don't understand this feeling inside of me; I tried looking it up in the
dictionary, but I couldn't find it there. It's like, an aching thing that
makes me feel almost sick, but at the same time it makes me feel - I don't
know. . .
. . .*Happy*. . .
That sick-weird-happy feeling came tonight, on the rooftop of one of the
huts. I was sitting there, thinking about what I had to do when *she* came.
The sick part was much stronger when she first came. We both offered to
leave the other alone, and then we both finally decided that both of us
wanted to say something. Ever since before she was taken by the farmer and
his wife, I had wanted to tell her the truth - to just let it out, because
it hurt so much now to keep it inside. She deserved to know the truth, I
thought. It was either now or later.
After she had thanked me - which I still don't think I deserve - she asked
me what I wanted to say. Stammering my throat nervously, I tried to choose
the best way to break to her the news. "It's just that, you know," I said,
hopelessly trying to find a way to tell her this without hurting her,
"*life* - as I've experienced it, you know, out there, Lone Free Ranger-
type stuff. . .it's full of disappointments." In my wings I had hoped to
find the solution to my problem, but as I discovered that there was no
answer to be found there, I gazed up at her who caused me more worry than I
had ever perhaps felt in my entire life.
She took this much more good-humoredly than I had previously expected. "You
mean grass isn't all that it's cracked up to be," she half-laughed.
"Grass!" I repeated, as though I had just received a revelation. "Exactly,
grass - it's always greener on the other side. And then, you get there to
the other side, and it's brown and prickly. . ."
I had double-checked my wings and feathers to see if the answer had arrived
to them while I wasn't looking. It hadn't.
Nervously expectant, I asked, "See what I'm trying to say?" Her smile - her
beautiful smile, which captivated me since the moment I got here - faded
slowly as she shook her head. My beak paralyzed by my own fear, as well as
the disappearance of that smile. "Uh, what I'm trying to say is." I had
sighed, now feeling that there was no way I'd ever be able to work up the
courage to tell the truth; "you're welcome."
Then, the worst part came - "I think tonight that hill seems closer than
it's ever been." Giving me another one of those painful I-would-trust-you-
into-a-fox's-den smiles, she had risen from her seat and prepared to walk
off the roof.
It was then that I began to loath myself.
"Good night, Rocky," she said softly, and made her way down.
That was also when the sick-happy-feeling came.
"Good night. . ." I said, and my heart filled with guilt, as well as
admiration for the girl, I ended, "Ginger."
At least I had done one thing tonight to redeem myself. Ginger - yes, I
know her real name - had always hated it when I called her nicknames -
"Baby Doll," "Angel Face," and, my personal favorite, "Doll Face." She
probably thought that they were degrading, which, I guess, was actually
sort of close to the truth.
Back during my circus names, I always called my lady-interests nicknames;
Ginger was actually the first to ever mind. The hens I used to know liked
being called "Chick," "Blue Eyes," and stuff like that. They liked the
attention, and I liked complimenting their good looks. Then, when I met
Ginger, I began doing the same thing, but I also surprised in myself in
coming up with completely brand-new names. I would like to think that - for
her, at least - they were more terms of *endearment,* but she got offended
And she deserved more than that, I decided earlier tonight. She wasn't an
empty, pretty hen; oh, she was pretty all right, but she was just as good-
looking on the inside as the out.
As I sat on Pop's bunk that he had given to me for the night for my act of
"heroism," I sunk deeper into despair. Glancing briefly over my shoulder, I
got up and looked into the underside of the metal bucket. I saw a handsome
face, but what else was really there? . . .
'A liar,' I thought bitterly to myself. 'All I see is a no-good liar.' She
deserved more than that too.
Turning away from my awful reflection, I looked around the room with a
feeling of panic, as though I had in about three seconds become
claustrophobic. "I've got to get out of here." Taking one of my spare
bandanas, I began filling it with food, and looking around to see if I
forgot anything, I ran my fingers unconsciously over something cool and
smooth on my bandana. Surprised, I looked down.
Pop's medal. . .
I remembered how he wore it with pride, how - in a sense - all of his
worship of honor, truth, and dignity went into the small piece of silver.
'Truth. . .'
Lowering my eyes in shame, I slowly unpinned it, and rolled it around so
that the starlight from the window would make it shine. It was clean and
polished from many years of careful attendance and dedication to it. . .
For some reason, it reminded me of Ginger.
'Oh,' I accused myself in frustration, 'a rock would probably make you
think of Ginger!'
My features softening, I rolled the trinket around once more. It was like
her spirit. . .clean, pure. . .well-taken care of. . . It was as though she
didn't even realize that she had good looks.
'That's the difference between you and her - and everybody here,' I
thought. 'Their qualities are actually redeemable.' Sighing quietly, I
reverently placed the medal on the old bird's pillow.
I moved to pick up the pack that I had made when I felt something rub the
wrong way beneath my wing. . .
Paper. . .
Slowly, I took out the folded piece of paper, and my countenance darkened
again. If only I could burn it, or tear it up to pieces. . .
"No," I told myself quietly, yet sternly. "They deserve to know. . .
Ginger. . ." I couldn't bear to finish the thought.
My wing shaking, I placed the paper beneath the medal. As I walked out, I
silently prayed that Pops would find it first.
* * *
Having "borrowed" a tricycle and a radio, I quickly set out for the open
road. I half-expected to find peace there, as I always did when I traveled
through the countryside, but today. . .had I been pedaling my way into a
burning hut, I would have felt just as bad.
Trying to get my mind off it all, I turned on the radio and found one of my
favorite stations. I recognized the song on it, and as the panging in my
heart persisted, I sang all the louder.
"Oh, I'm the type of guy who likes to roll around. I'm never in a place. I
roll from town to town.
"And when I find myself falling for some girl, I hop right in that car. .
Suddenly, I stopped and backtracked. There, high above me came a
manifestation of my fears that I had tried to forget in my leaving. There,
all of them were summed up in four words:
" 'Mrs. Tweedy's Chicken Pies.' "
I felt nauseated. Sensing the decision I was about to make - the one that
the Lone Free Ranger in me protested - I gazed back at the farm.
"Ooh boy. . ."
* * *
When she was "dead," I felt dead too.
When she came back to life, I felt alive again.
And when she forgave me. . .I felt, perhaps, that I was redeemable.
Everyday, I still feel that sick-happy-feeling for Ginger; except, now, I
finally know what the word is for it.