Start with a live adult chicken. You've been relishing this moment, so go to the rooftop where your hens reside in their cages. Feel the luscious night air sweep around your body and raise your arms delightedly for you are the priest of tonight's ceremony, and the stars are your witnesses. Release one of the hens from its cage, and pursue this mindless fowl across the rooftop with mock fury and ersatz bloodlust. If by chance this bird is too sanguine and does not have fear bulging from its eyes, then replace it and find another. Find one that will race frenetically away from you. You want its blood to pulse through its veins, enriching the meat of its thighs, its legs, its breast. Snarl and growl at it as you chase it back and forth across this rooftop underneath the moonless night. Imagine the rich, thick fluid coursing through this little beast. It thrills you, doesn't it? Corner the hen at the edge of the high-rise, and watch it flapping its wings desperately as if heaven could save it.

      Wipe the sweat from your brow as you consider your prey.

      What would you do in its place, trapped on a ledge, fleeing from a predator? Would you leap to the next building, knowing with animal instinct that you could not make it, that you would sooner sprout a vulture's wings than fly to safety? Or would you plunge intentionally to your demise below, a fall of a dozen stories, tumbling into the sweet dark night. But no, suicide is a human choice, not a beast's. We are the ones with the curse of free will, we are the ones who may choose good over evil, and we are the ones who are damned for our choices.

      Enough of this contemplation.

      Snatch the hen into your arms. Hold it firmly by the neck, but do not choke off its air, not yet. If you've done your job well, then the eyes of the bird will dart in all directions from abject fear, looking at everything and anything that could come to its rescue. Does it understand even now that death is imminent? Fear is all it knows. Fear is good. It may scratch your bare arms with its claws. Relish the small pain that it gives you. This, too, is good. You two share this moment, like lovers intertwined beneath a starlit gazebo.

      Bring the chicken back to your kitchen, dimming the lights because your irises are still wide like an innocent child's. Stand tall in front of the sink, solemn and sincere. You should still be grasping the bird's neck. Do not make the mistake of strangling your prey, though you may imagine its twitching death by your hands will tickle you like dark bubbles from unseen depths, a slow death is not ideal here. Kill it suddenly. With one hand hold it gently but firmly by the neck. Never mind the pecking or squawking. With your other hand, scoop up its feet and turn the hen upside down. This is more than ritual, this is how to keep the cleaning of your fowl efficient. Ignore the fluttering of its wings, the last beats of its life gasping into history. Prepare to twist and snap with your strong hand using all your might. NOW! The violence of the act is a surprise, is it not? The muscles in your forearms will have clenched in a spasm, like the climax during lovemaking, if you've broken its neck correctly. The hen's muscles have been paralyzed by the sudden death so its feathers will pluck easily from its body, like the shedding of gray skin off a wondrous serpent.

      Do not be distracted by the magic of death. You still have work to do, and need to be done quickly. Keeping the corpse held aloft by its feet, take a sharp knife and insert the tip into the mouth. Pierce the back of its throat, and twist left and right. Let the blood flow generously and gloriously into the sink, none for you today. Then pluck the feathers-–they should come off as easily as a fly's wings.

      Today's chicken soup will be a lean and healthy meal, so carve off the skin and fat. As you remove the skin, exposing the healthy white meat underneath, you might gaze at your own arms, wondering at the exquisite pain of skin flayed from your own flesh. Steel your thoughts and do not let them wander. Once you have skinned the hen, take the chopping blade from its holy spot in the kitchen and cut the bird into breast, wing, leg, and thigh. Do not chop recklessly, do not mangle needlessly. Restrain yourself in the use of this axe.

      Wash your hands of the blood and gore. Human hands can never be truly clean, but let it suffice to cleanse away the superficial. Boil a cauldron of purifying water. The roiling of its depths will echo the chaos of your thoughts. Into the cauldron go the pieces of flesh. As it boils, scum will rise to the top. Remove the scum. Add what you will, carrots, diced potatoes, parsley, or pasta. When the ingredients have cooked, and evidence of past sins have been boiled into a mere meal, eat your creation.

      If you do not have a live adult chicken, then raise one from a little chick. Select a tender, golden-haired chick that cheeps gratefully when you stroke her hair. Give her a name, perhaps the name of a blonde beauty from your younger years who would not return your affections. Feed her a bit of grain from your hand and laugh as she hops onto your palm to eat from it. Keep her warm and raise her gently. Love her while she is with you, for she, like each of us, is merely mortal.

About the author:

CP Chang received his M.F.A. in Fiction Writing from Columbia College Chicago in 2007. His fiction and poetry have appeared in Hair Trigger, Upstairs at Duroc, Atlanta Review, on Nerve.com, on wordriot.org, and in the anthology My Angels and Demons at War. He writes a column for the Evanston Sentinel newspaper and is part of the 2nd Story storytelling group. He loves to travel, he likes to shoot pool, and he relishes a good bowl of good chicken soup.