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

the edge of the barn. He could feel Gamin pushing his way in front of him.

“Look around the corner,” he instructed the young chick. “Do you see Monsieur Marcel?”

“Uh huh. He’s at the place we found Rex’s feathers.”

Monsieur peered around the corner of the barn.

Monsieur Marcel was with the old rooster at the stump. He was holding him sideways by the legs, resting his head on the flat top of the wood. The bird didn’t move. In one swift movement, Monsieur Marcel brought the small woodchopper down, severing the rooster’s head from his body.

Monsieur Le Coq’s mouth hung open.

Monsieur Marcel was the murderer?

No.

It couldn’t be him. He and the madame cared for them. The madame took eggs to hatch and raise the chicks as her own. The madame fed them and the monsieur kept predators like Faucon away.

The macabre scene played out in front of him. The rooster ran about without his head, spraying blood everywhere while his beak moved in silent screams on the ground.

The squeak from below him reminded him the chick was there. “Run back to the yard! Now. And stay there. Tell no one what you saw.”

He had to push the young one along to get him to leave.

Should he tell the others that the person they trusted with their lives was killing them? It was only fair to let them know. They should no longer go on under the delusion that the Monsieur and Madame cared for them. They were tyrants using them for their sick purposes.

With a heavy heart, Monsieur Le Coq returned to the yard. The other birds were in a frenzy. It seems the chick had not kept what he saw to himself.

“Is it true? Did Monsieur Marcel murder Rex?” Mademoiselle Padovana asked when he entered the coop.

“I’m afraid it is. And now the old rooster,” Monsieur Le Coq said.

“Are we all going to die?” Penny asked.

“I don’t know. It appears as if Monsieur Marcel prefers to kill cocks and roosters, but there is no guarantee that he won’t go after the hens as well.”

“What are we going to do?” Mademoiselle Padovana asked.

“Fight back!” Monsieur Le Coq raised a wing in the air.

The La Flèche imitated him. “Fight!” they said in unison.

Monsieur Le Coq walked around the coop, talking to each chicken as if they were the only ones in the coop.

“Show them no kindness. Show no cooperation. Do not go freely with them. When they come for your eggs, bite them.”

Monsieur Le Coq hopped up on the perch above the flock.

“We will no longer be their captives.”

“We are to revolt?” one of the La Flèche asked.

“Non, ce n’est pas une révolte, c’est une révolution.”

The End

About the Author

Dawn Witzke writes speculative fiction tales of vice and virtue. She is the author of the Underground Series and a bunch of short stories. She hails from flyover country where she lives with her husband, evil minions, and their flock of birds. Find out more at https://dawnwitzke.com

A Chicken for Miss Cuthbert An Earthcore Story

Grace Bridges

A Chicken for Miss Cuthbert Grace Bridges

Laura Schultz peered down through the canopy of the big pohutukawa tree and hoped her viscosity calculations had been correct. To be fair, success relied less on the substance itself than on the timing of its delivery, to which end she had deputised her twin sister.

Leaves rustled and Alena pulled herself up to a perch nearby. “I think I got it.”

They waited in silence, a gentle breeze providing a welcome coolness on this summer evening.

The screaming began, a horrified wail cut off short, followed by another, then a whole bevy of them. The twins grinned at each other.

“Great job,” said Laura, and held up a fist as if to bump.

Alena raised hers and moved it up and down in a knuckle pass without touching. “We’re that good.”

Whimpers still sounded from the direction of the gym entrance, interspersed with the shouts of a teacher. It was Mrs. Jones, Laura thought. Not a bad type, but too strict.

The group passed underneath the branches. Laura peered down and smothered a laugh at the sight of the white gym shirts daubed with her mixture of tomato sauce and engine oil they’d found in the maintenance shed. Those stains weren’t going anywhere.

Finally, Mrs. Jones passed, shepherding one of the other girls—little Belle, it was, talking nonstop through hiccupping sobs. “As soon as we opened the door, the—the water balloons fell on us. Except it—it wasn’t water, and they were regular balloons, you know, the big ones—” Belle gestured to show the size, and she and her teacher walked on out of sight.

Alena shifted her weight as if to climb down.

Laura held up a hand. “No, wait!”

They froze. Everything was still and quiet. Moments stretched into a minute.

Alena shrugged, and swung to the next branch down. Laura waited.

Reaching the ground, Alena brushed herself off, and looked in the direction the group had gone. She raised an arm and an elbow and twitched them towards each other to begin a sprinkler dance move.

Before the “sprinkler” could spin, a shadow moved behind her.

Laura bit her lip. She couldn’t help her now.

A large hand descended on Alena’s shoulder and she jumped six inches in the air. She turned, her face a mask of horror.

“Interesting coincidence, that you were up in that tree just now.”

Oh, no. Laura closed her eyes. It was Miss Cuthbert, the principal.

“I—” Alena appeared to have lost the power of speech.

“No need to say anything. I can see it written on your face.” Miss Cuthbert marched off, her grip firm on Alena’s shoulder, propelling her ahead. Alena didn’t look back, of course.

Laura didn’t feel too bad. After all, she’d taken the rap for the scheme they’d cooked up yesterday, in which they had filled all the staffroom’s sugar bowls with salt. At least, she’d taken as much punishment as they ever dished out at St. Gerhard’s: an extra round of chores on the roster. Once they’d confiscated