"The Runaway Rooster"

On a small, sunny farm nestled in the rolling hills of Greenleaf Valley, there lived a rooster named Rusty. Rusty wasn’t your average rooster. Sure, he crowed every morning at sunrise, fluffed his feathers, and strutted around the henhouse like a feathery king. But deep down, Rusty dreamed of more than farm life. He longed for adventure, wide open spaces, and to see what lay beyond the wooden fence that caged his world.

Every day, he watched the horizon as the sun rose and fell. He’d see birds flying freely above and whisper to himself, “There’s got to be more than this coop.”

Rusty's chance came one summer morning when Farmer Joe forgot to properly latch the coop gate. The old man had been distracted by a stubborn goat who refused to leave the barn. Rusty, sharp-eyed and always alert, noticed the gap.

“This is it,” he whispered to Henrietta, the wise old hen beside him.

“You’ll get eaten by a fox,” she clucked. “Or worse—end up in someone’s stew.”

But Rusty fluffed his feathers, puffed out his chest, and said, “I was born to explore, not just crow.”

With a bold step and a heart full of dreams, Rusty slipped out of the coop and ran—yes, ran—toward the wild unknown. He darted past the vegetable patch, dodged the sleepy cat on the porch, and burst through the open gate that led to the woods.

Freedom. It smelled like pine needles, wildflowers, and a hint of danger.

Rusty strutted proudly down a dirt path, marveling at the towering trees and strange noises. A squirrel chattered at him from a branch. A raccoon peeked from behind a log. Even a deer stopped to stare.

“Who’s the fancy feather-duster?” asked a crow from above.

“I’m Rusty,” he called out, “the rooster of the wild!”

But as the sun dipped low, Rusty’s excitement began to fade. The forest was darker than he expected. Shadows stretched across the path. Strange howls echoed in the distance.

“I should’ve brought a flashlight,” he muttered.

Rusty found a hollow log and decided to spend the night there. It was cold and uncomfortable, but he wrapped his wings around himself and closed his eyes, dreaming of far-off places and skies full of stars.

Morning came, but there was no comforting smell of feed, no warm sunlit coop, no familiar clucking. Rusty’s stomach rumbled. He hadn’t thought about food. He pecked at a few bugs, but they weren’t as tasty as the corn Farmer Joe used to give.

Suddenly, a sharp growl froze him in place.

From behind the bushes came a pair of glowing yellow eyes—and out stepped a fox, lean and hungry.

“Well, well,” the fox said, licking his lips. “Breakfast delivered itself today.”

Rusty backed away slowly, feathers trembling.

But just as the fox lunged, something swooped down from the trees. It was the crow!

With loud caws and wild flapping, the crow distracted the fox just long enough for Rusty to escape. He ran faster than he ever had, wings flapping, legs pumping, heart pounding.

Eventually, he found a familiar fence—the farm! He’d made a full circle. He leapt over a pile of hay and dashed into the coop just as the sun began to rise.

Henrietta blinked in surprise. “You’re alive?”

“Barely,” Rusty panted, collapsing into the straw.

A few minutes later, Farmer Joe walked over with a bucket of feed, chuckling to himself. “There you are, you silly bird. Bet you won’t run off again.”

Rusty didn’t respond. He was too busy eating, resting, and soaking in the comfort of home.

From that day on, Rusty still dreamed of adventure—but he was wiser. He’d sneak out every now and then, but only as far as the garden, maybe to the edge of the woods. And every time he looked at the sky, he remembered that freedom was sweet—but coming home was even sweeter.

And so, the rooster who once ran away became the storyteller of the coop. He’d tell the chicks tales of foxes and forests, of danger and daring, all while perched proudly on his favorite fencepost—right where he belonged.