Country Bumpkin Goth Chickens

These Goth Chickens of ours, Silky Rooster, Raven Chicken and the twins Desdemona and Ophelia Chicken, they've settled into pastoral country life quite well, I think, considering they're famous rockstar chickens and all. They're used to the bright lights of the city, the fancy cars glinting with chrome, the staccato flashes from the paparazzi, and all the rest of the pyrotechnics that come with living the glamorous life. 

Silkie rooster in the sunshine

I'll bet they never imagined themselves starring prominently in some Kootenay folk art tableau.

Here they live in the sticks, roosting with bumpkin chickens under a plum tree. Their designer clothes, all the leather, latex, and lace, the feathers and their makeup, all of the hairspray and the jewelry, it all looks a bit too, let's say, overdressed for out here in the country. The grubby roosts in the straw-filled coop, the dusty courtyard, the lawns and gardens that wrestle for ground with the wildflowers and the boreal jungle - they're a far cry from the penthouse lofts, the martini bars and dance floors, the concert stadiums and private jets of their previous metropolitan lives. And yet, here they are, strutting their stuff and owning it. 

Silkie hen chicken standing on a fence in the country.

Out in the sunshine, with the dragonflies and the fresh mountain air, they kind of look like drunken revellers that haven't realized the party is over. Everyone else has gone home to bed, and now it's morning, and the normal people have gotten up to start their day. They kind of look like they've found themselves rudely awake in a too real world where they don't quite belong. 

Close-up of silkie chicken cross.

Sure, they could crawl into their cave to sleep off their night of excess, but not our chickens. They're so punk rock that they just order a coffee and set in on the day's chores. And there's no reluctance about it. Silky Rooster takes charge. "You there! Get those bugs. And you, Goldie. I want you on plum patrol. The rest of you form up and start on the lawn. In the meantime, the girls and I are hopping the fence for a smoke. Nobody need us!"

Chickens milling about on two sides of the gate.

And they do. One of the Goths jumps over the fence, and the other three follow. They're their own little rebel clique. 


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