Chicken Little spent her life being afraid. First she was afraid of the sky. Then of the big bad wolf she heard tales of from the pigs. Then, well, if it was scary and rumor reached the barnyard, she was afraid of it.
Lately there was always talk of tainted food, and that was keeping Little up at night, and making her afraid of the feed. Logic wasn’t helping, nor was the fact that all the other chickens in the yard were healthy. “They must be getting the good corn” she’d say when pressed.
Lucky, the Roster, tried to get her some help but she wasn’t willing to go. “You’re just lucky,” was all she’d say. And what could he say to that?
It really seemed like there was no help for Chicken Little.
But after a long time and many phobias had come and gone, she found a way forward. She accidentally got past the fence and was exploring between the chicken yard and the back forty, and found something in the ground. At the time she thought it was the first sign of an uprising by the Mole People. But then she recognized it for what it was: a bomb. A bomb that had sat undisturbed near the barn for years. Perhaps as long as two decades, and certainly longer than she’d been alive.
For the first time she was afraid of something that could actually be a problem.
And for just a moment, a wash of calm acceptance passed through her.
She then calmly made her way back to the barnyard and from that day on never panicked about anything else.