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

you do that every year?” said a little boy. When Ruthann nodded, he asked, “Can we visit?”

Ruthann glanced at the “Chickens on the Farm” book the kids had been poring over this whole week, wondering how many new vegetarians she could create if she answered honestly: “Maybe you’ll see them in the cafeteria.” No, no, not a thing to say out loud. Most of the local chicken-keepers wanted hens for the eggs. Meanwhile, the chicks left the classroom before they could be sexed. Ruthann never asked what happened to the roosters.

One of the girls giggled. “That’s funny. Bill is watching us.”

Hair standing on end, Ruthann turned. It wasn’t just Bill. It was all of them. Staring. Studying.

“Well, then,” she said brightly to get the class’s attention back on her. “Let’s sing the Itsy Bitsy Spider!” and she launched into a rousing chorus.

Bill watched for the rest of the day. When she turned off the classroom lights at four o’clock, Bill was still watching, and all the books were tucked into the shelf.

When Ruthann returned the next morning, “Chickens on the Farm” was off the shelf, and six chicks were regarding her with disappointment.

Ruthann didn’t return them to the box. Nothing made sense, and for someone who spent entire days working with a population who seldom made sense, that said something. Although, children did make sense once you looked at the world the way they did.

The question was, could Ruthann look at the world like a chicken?

With half an hour before the students arrived, she sat against the wall, cross-legged. “Bill, all of you—let’s talk.”

The chicks approached, the other five clustered behind Bill.

After teaching kindergarten for a decade and a half, Ruthann thought she’d done every ridiculous thing there was to do. This was more ridiculous than all of them. “I don’t know how much you understand, but if you used the phonics books to learn to read, then now you’re reading about your future. Yes, you are domesticated animals. Yes, humans domesticated you. That means we protect you, and in exchange for protecting you, we take your eggs. At the end, we expect to take your feathers and take your meat. That’s been the arrangement for eight thousand years.”

Bill cocked his head to the side. He had never made such an arrangement with anyone.

Ruthann folded her hands. “I can see this upsets you. I have no idea what to do.”

Still, they expected her to do something. Ruthann pulled out her phone to call the farm where she sent the chicks, and she switched to her teacher voice, upbeat. “Lucy! I wanted to talk to you about this year’s chick-hatching lesson.”

Lucy sounded happy. “Are all six doing well? Do you want me to pick them up?”

“It’s not about that. The kids were asking what happens to the chicks when they grow up. I wondered what I should tell them.”

“We’ve gotten some beautiful layers from you in the past.” Lucy chuckled. “Some of them, not so much.”

Ruthann said, “Do some of them get eaten?”

“Some of them.” Lucy wasn’t bothered by this, but she didn’t have Bill at her ankles, awaiting his fate. “Were you thinking of a field trip? It might be fun to have your class deliver the chicks and see the coops. Maybe they could watch me shear a sheep or milk a cow.”

When Ruthann got off the phone, Bill returned to the book, studying a picture of hens getting fed cornmeal while a woman collected their eggs.

Zynna extended her wings to Sekkiel. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?”

He flexed his feathers as her wingtips touched his. “I’m sure. Just pray it goes well.”

Sekkiel flashed across the divide to the earth, to Raviniel where he stayed with his charge—or rather, on the roof of his charge’s house. Beneath the full moon, the house cast a shadow across the hill, and in the distance, trees stood like armed sentinels. Casting no shadow, Raviniel leaned against the chimney and prayed. Sekkiel sat on the ridgepole and settled into a prayer of his own. It was sweet of Zynna to offer her presence, but in reality, the one whose strength he needed was God’s.

Raviniel spoke in a low voice, as if unwilling to awaken the woman in the bedroom beneath. She couldn’t hear him. That was part of the problem. “Thanks for visiting.”

Sekkiel asked about his charge. Raviniel still seemed exhausted by his charge’s joyless existence. “I wish I could enliven Ruthann. It’s such a beautiful world.” Then Raviniel grew concerned. “You’re sad, too. What’s wrong?”

“I have a confession to make.” With his wings tight to his back and his eyes downcast, Sekkiel confessed about the missing egg, about his attempts to track it down, and finally, about his failure.

When he raised his eyes, Sekkiel found his companion wrapped in thought. Raviniel breathed, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I let you down. I promised to take care of your sanctuary.”

“Did you think I’d be angry?”

“Do you forgive me?”

“I’ll always forgive you, but you did nothing wrong.” Raviniel extended a wing. “Come. There’s something I want you to see.”

Raviniel flashed them into an airy room, windows along one entire wall, colorful posters decorating the other three. At the center was a colorful carpet, and on the carpet stood a cluster of six chicks. Raviniel crouched with wings up and hand outstretched, and the largest chick toddled right for him.

Sekkiel’s wings raised. “Is that your egg?”

Stroking the chick’s head, Raviniel chuckled. “I didn’t know it was my egg! It arrived with a half-dozen others for the kindergarteners’ hatching experiment, but one of the six was broken. My egg took its place. Bill has been unusual from the start.”

“The egg came to you.” Sekkiel crouched on the carpet alongside the chicks. “The egg went where it wanted, and you were what it wanted.”

“I don’t think so.” Raviniel looked into Sekkiel’s eyes. “I think it wanted Ruthann. Or rather, it wanted to give joy, and it went to the