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

“B’gawk,” the bird answered. She seemed to understand her name. Standing still, her feathers stuck out in all directions as if she’d pecked an electrical socket.

There was something almost… deranged about that bird.

Mary glanced around. Probably her overactive imagination.

“Miss Frizzle says thank you,” Mrs. Applewood said, and giggles rolled through the group. Mary dropped a piece of her banana into the pen, wondering if the head teacher would need help getting the therapy chicken back into the carrier later.

That was going to be a nightmare.

A handful of students tossed apple cores and raisins into the octagon-shaped plastic fence that the urban farm had sent along for the presentation on how to transform food scraps into chicken eggs and compost for a backyard garden. To the children’s enjoyment, the hen scratched and pecked at the lunch leftovers. Lisa, the other teaching assistant, directed children to the correct bins for their non-food trash.

Mary had been conscripted into chaperoning the field trip. Being the principal’s girlfriend led to that sort of thing, but it was the first time she’d assisted Mrs. Applewood whose maternity leave began the following Monday. Principal John suggested the field trip was the perfect way to break the ice with her students since Mary would be substituting for the first week of maternity leave. Mary had taken to the idea right away. The students thought the world of their teacher, and the cheerful woman was already beginning to grow on Mary.

At the beginning of the day, when Mrs. Applewood arrived with Miss Frizzle, the chicken, in tow, Mary had thought it was a weird addition to the recycling center field trip.

The compost demonstration showed all the amazing ways that poultry could break down waste while building soil. She had no idea a flock of chickens could be so industrious. Mrs. Applewood was convinced that chickens had an important role to play in the efforts to recycle matter and change it from something wasteful to something useful. Regenerative farming practices had the potential to change the world.

But, still, there was something about that Miss Frizzle.

As she mulled on these things, Mary took her place at the large bin next to Mrs. Applewood as she directed the children to help reduce the large pile of recyclables in the center of the room.

Mary’s phone buzzed. When she checked the text message alert, she was surprised to see that thirty minutes had gone. It was almost time to leave. She scooped up an armful of smashed plastic bottles and dropped them in the bin.

A gasp caught her attention.

“Can you take the chicken back to Harmony Farms?” Mrs. Applewood asked, close to Mary’s ear.

“You know I’m terrible with directions.” Mary chuckled as she placed a clear glass bottle in one of the bright blue bins then placed a ball of aluminum foil in another. “Besides, I pretty much know nothing about chickens.”

“It’s only five miles, so I think I’m going to need you to take the chicken,” she repeated, her voice strained. She bit her bottom lip and then groaned.

Mary scowled and turned to face the other woman, prepared to disagree, but the pained expression on her face stilled her tongue. Mrs. Applewood held onto the bin in front of her, her knuckles white. Mary lowered her hand over the other woman’s.

“Are you okay?”

“No, I need a… a…” She puckered her lips. She clutched her middle, her stomach the shape of an over-inflated basketball.

Mary flinched when the head teacher bent forward. Her eyes widened as a gush of water spread down Mrs. Applewood’s legs. “Oh,” she said, pressing a hand over her mouth. “You need an ambulance,” she whispered.

She spun toward the other teacher’s assistant. “Lisa,” she said, waving her over. “We need an ambulance.”

“Which kid is hurt? I told them not to jump off the recycled trash art. Hans will not be happy if they’ve ruined the Squatting Zebra.” Lisa pushed up her sleeves.

Mary put her hands up. “No, not that,” she jerked her head toward Mrs. Applewood, “she’s in labor.”

Ten minutes later, a paramedic slammed the rear door of his ambulance and jogged around to the front seat, Mrs. Applewood tucked into the gurney inside. Once he climbed in, she was on her way to the hospital. Twenty worried kids watched from their seats on the idling school bus. An early end to the field trip wasn’t ideal, but the circumstance made it prudent. Lisa and the school bus driver would escort the kids back to their school.

Mary waved as the bus pulled out of the parking lot and drove out of sight.

She turned slowly, and three revelations descended upon her at once.

The crate was in Mrs. Applewood’s car.

The keys were in Mrs. Applewood’s purse.

And Mrs. Applewood’s purse was in the ambulance … already miles away.

That meant it was just her, the chicken, and the backseat of her cobalt Ford Fiesta.

Woman vs. Beast: the showdown in the parking lot of the Lone Star Recycling Center.

She laughed at her dramatics. How difficult could one chicken be?

Mary approached the poultry playpen. More interested in her movements than the bugs on the ground, the hen stood up tall, its posture highlighting the point of the orange beak.

Could chickens smell fear?

She eyeballed the walking feather duster. Mrs. Applewood said the owners took it to nursing homes to cheer up the residents. It was a therapy chicken.

How hard could it possibly be to shoo it into her backseat?

Mary tilted her head. She had one job standing between her and the end of the day, and she would get that thing in her over-sized purse if she had to.

“I just want you to stay safe.” Mary fumbled with the seatbelt buckle and yelped when Miss Frizzle’s beak speared her hand. For the eighth time. “It’s not like I have a chicken car seat.”

“B’gawk!” Miss Frizzle jumped out of the lap belt and away, screeching hen-obscenities at Mary from the floorboard. The hen pecked at a piece of lint on the upholstery. Then, with a wing flap,