CRACKED: An Anthology of Eggsellent Chicken Stories by J. Posthumus (feel good novels txt) 📗

been normal lately, too. He darkened the port and forgot about it as best he could.

Menendez was waiting on the other side of the door, hand poised above the chime, blinking in surprise. She was in uniform, but only just. It wouldn’t have passed muster, but maybe she’d just been working late. “Spacer Williams! I—I was just coming to see you,” she said, then added, with an embarrassed blush, “Clearly.”

“Ma’am?’ he said cautiously. “What can I do for you?”

Her mouth worked for a moment, half-vocalized words dying on her lips. Finally, she said, “Just—Just come with me.”

There were no explanations. Menendez tried a couple times, but they petered off without giving him a clear understanding of what had gotten her worked up, or why she had come for him. Williams didn’t press her, but followed where she led.

Transit Three.

Menendez looked up and down the empty corridor before keying the door open and shoving him inside. “I was doing routine sensor maintenance,” she said, finally managing a coherent sentence as she began pulling open access panels in the walls. “It’ll be another week and a half before we need to use the short-range wormholes. We always do extensive checks on the equipment en route. No one uses Transit in deep space. And, well. Look.” She removed a large sensor module with a twist and a yank and Williams finally understood what any of this had to do with him.

“Are those—”

“Eggs,” Menendez confirmed. A dozen of them, bright and silvery, cradled in a nest made mainly of black and red feathers with some shipboard waste thrown in.

“How? It wasn’t on board the ship for more than half an hour.” Williams reached out to touch an egg and Menendez tried to swat his hand away with a hissed “Careful—”

But the chicken beat her to it, pushing out from the recesses of Zheng He’s innards with a shocking speed and aggressively pecking at his hand. Williams snatched it back.

“—She doesn’t like that,” Menendez finished, lamely.

The chicken cocked its head and fixed him with the gaze of one great, shimmering eye, and Williams understood. Understood his sudden fixation back on Dzamglin; understood Menendez’ decision to allow them through Transit screening, in defiance of the Lister Protocol. He understood the spur wound that vanished—because it had never been. And having done that, it was no stretch to think that the chicken had merely seemed to run through the wormhole.

“There’s a kind of psychic chameleon on Rigel VII,” Menendez said. “Or so I’ve read. Doesn’t change color or shape or anything, just makes you think it has.”

The chicken’s eye was a fathomless deep of stars and streaks and distant bright flashes. The cosmos was in that eye, the totality of all things. Infinite futures, infinite pasts. Infinite paths to infinite possibilities. No wonder the priests had torn apart the planet looking for it. In the chicken’s eye were things of which the human race could only dream.

Cluck, went the chicken, as though imparting a sacred truth.

Cluck.

The End

About the Author

Joshua M. Young lives in Columbus, Ohio with his wife, son, and two more feral cats than the optimal number of feral cats. (Which is, ideally, zero.) He holds a Master of Divinity from Ashland Theological Seminary, and yes, he’s quite aware that writing this kind of stuff isn’t exactly what you’d expect from a trained theologian. A life-long lover of science fiction and fantasy, he has been published in numerous venues, including the anthologies Planetary: Mercury, Storming Area 51, and the webzine Mysterion. He can be found blogging at SuperversiveSF.com.

A Murder Most Fowl

Dawn Witzke

A Murder Most Fowl Dawn Witzke

Monsieur Le Coq stretched his wings and ambled out into the sunlight. He was among the few who were awake that morning. It was strange that Rex, Le porteur de lumiere for the flock, had not woken them at dawn as usual. He would pay dearly for his oversight when the hens awoke. They could be quite obstreperous when their morning routine was interrupted.

Across the lawn, Chien, a large yellow fur ball of the canine persuasion, lay in a sunny patch on the grass chewing on something. The young retriever belonged to the caretakers, Monsieur Marcel and Madame Juliette. He could not understand why they would keep such a dumb creature, but for whatever reason, the flock had to put up with him.

Two La Flèche youngsters marched towards the dog squawking; feathers fluffed. The La Flèche were a cheeky, yet small group of young cocks, none being more than three months old. They thought of themselves as Le Garde, tasked with keeping predators away from the yard.

Chien was their favorite target, most likely due to his easy disposition. The cats, however, they avoided. Chien ignored them and continued chewing.

Monsieur Le Coq settled in at the feeder for his morning breakfast. He turned away from the scene before him to say good morning to Penny, the only hen in the yard.

“Good day, Mademoiselle. How was the worm hunting this morning?”

“Excellent, Monsieur. For the past week, I have caught trois earthworms, but this morning, I caught quatre.”

“Très bon. I do not understand how you keep such a pleasant figure eating so richly.”

The hen blushed. “I’m just lucky I guess.”

The rooster had yet to take a bite when the loud cry from the two La Flèche drew his attention. They ran at great speed toward the coop.

“What in the world?” He could see no reason for their panic.

Chien remained fixated on his chewing and there was no one else around.

“He’s killed Rex! The beast has killed Rex!” one of the young cocks screamed as they ran past.

“That is absurd,” Monsieur Le Coq said to no one in particular. “Chien wouldn’t harm a fly.”

He moved decidedly across the lawn to where Chien lay to see for himself what all the fuss was about.

“Chien!” Madame Juliette called from the porch. The large golden dog dropped the object and ran toward the house.

Lying