the history of syndicate is being written (we are told)

[Fr. M.]

Once upon a time there was a writer named Chicken Little.
Chicken Little worked very hard and took her job very
seriously. Often, she even wrote. One day, just as Chicken
Little was about to have an idea, she heard something
falling on her roof. ''The sky is falling! The sky is
falling!'' she shrieked, spilling green tea and vodka all
over her work station. This commotion awoke her three
readers, who lived with her in her hut, and all three rushed
outside to see what had happened to the sky. After enduring
several anxious minutes alone, Chicken Little was relieved
to see her readers return. ''Oh, Chicken Little, it was just
the trees dropping their buds on a beautiful spring day,''
they said. Chicken Little tried not to show her
disappointment.
Not long after, as Chicken Little was poring over some back
issues of other writers' material, she felt another idea
about to form in her mind. ''Truth . . . no . . . Lies . . .
no . . . ummm . . . ummm . . . Conspiracy!'' She was just
about to write this down, when a great clattering and
scraping began above her head. Clutching her PC to her
breast, she swung her head wildly to and fro. ''The sky is
falling! This time, the sky is falling! The sky is
falling!'' She meant to alert her readers. She felt very
responsible for them. They played outdoors, mostly, and had
very open minds. The three readers rushed back into the hut,
very concerned, and when they saw the look of dread on
Chicken Little's sweet face and her finger pointing skyward,
trembling, they immediately turned around and rushed back
out to see what was the matter. For a few breathless
moments, they could neither confirm nor deny, then they all
saw the same thing at once. ''Chicken Little,'' said the
readers, ''it's only two squirrels chasing each other in
amorous conquest, skittering over the eave of our
house.'' ''It's quite funny, actually,'' added one of the
readers, ''you should come and see.'' But Chicken Little was
annoyed. ''I have work to do!'' she fumed. ''Besides, I
wasn't speaking to you. I was performing a haiku,'' she
fibbed, faxing something.
Well, time passed, and the readers grew, and so did Chicken
Little, but not very much. The light inside the hut was dim,
and she worked in a huddled position for long hours. She
grew paranoid. She began to think she wasn't sure anymore.
She began to fear she didn't know. Then, just as her resolve
was nearly wiped away clean, she heard a sound that was not
very loud. She cocked her head from side to side, her little
neck pouch jiggling, and pecked at a few pebbles lying
around her desk. Yes, the sound was definitely there. In
fact, it was coming from all sides now, the sound of a
million tiny things dropping on her roof. She peeked out her
window and saw a million tiny things dropping from the sky.
All her chicken senses gathered in supreme vindication. She
opened her throat as wide as it would go and crowed, ''The
sky is falling! The sky is falling! By God, any moron can
see the sky is falling!''
The peacefully sleeping readers were aroused, but did not
pay attention anymore, so used to her hysteria were they by
now that her crowing became one more familiar noise in the
chattering nighttime forest.
''The sky is falling! The sky is falling!'' Chicken Little
screeched, terrified they would not heed her and would be
found the next morning, buried among the intellectual
debris. She pecked and pecked at them with her sharp little
beak until they finally agreed to be awakened. The three
readers rose up and shuffled outside to be greeted by a
warm, summer rain falling steady as a heartbeat, wondrous
and quiet as unexpected relief from pain. ''Why, Chicken
Little,'' said one reader, ''it's only a summer shower come
to feed the land. It feels great!'' Chicken Little cowered
in the corner as a fork of lightning licked the
trees. ''It's dangerous!'' she cried, ''you could slip on
the wetness! You could catch a nasty cold! You could get
electrocuted!'' The three readers laughed, and went back out
to experience the mystery of the storm, without thinking,
without deconstructing, without checking what the other
would do first. ''Listen to me! Listen to me!'' cried
Chicken Little, as she watched their backs turn. The three
readers stopped at the door and called out before
leaving: ''C'mon, Chicken Little. Hurry up, you're gonna
miss it!''

LIZ PHAIR
Manhattan Beach, Calif.