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

the treetops. Rich brown eyes surveyed the scene and Harold suspected it took McMillan a scant few seconds to grasp the situation. The headmaster was an astute man and little escaped him.

“Laelothryll Araloth, what mischief have you been up to now?” McMillan asked, a brilliant smile curving his lips as his eyes danced with merriment.

Trying to mouth the name McMillan spoke, Harold gave up and simply shook his head. “I’m definitely calling you ‘Later’, now.”

McMillan coughed politely, cleared his throat, and crossed to the baby chicken-lizard bouncing on Harold’s foot. He scooped up the little creature in one hand and began stroking it gently. Laelothryll waved dismissively at McMillan as she worked to curb her laughter.

“Aren’t those things dangerous?” Harold asked as he straightened his clothes, trying to appear somewhat presentable.

“Oh, when they’re older, cockatrices are absolutely dangerous,” McMillan stated. “As little chicklets? They’re no more dangerous than a normal chick.”

Raising his brows, Harold straightened and stared at Later. “Is that so?”

Straightening, Later turned her attention to Harold and burst out laughing again, apparently at his irritated expression, he decided.

“She said that if they bit me, I’d grow scales and feathers and start trilling.”

The headmaster began laughing. “No, no. Nothing like that. The danger comes after they’re juveniles.” He held the fluffy chicklet out to Harold.

“Ah. Okay,” Harold said, trying to not be miffed at Later for her teasing. Taking the chicklet, he studied the unusual creature. “They do look like the medieval drawings.”

Returning the fluffy baby to the nest, he stepped back to watch the toad with her chicklets. Except the baby hopped right back out of the nest and rushed over to him where it settled on his foot. Curling its tail around its little fluffy body, the chick tucked its head under an itty bitty wing. Sighing, Harold bent over, picked the chicklet up, and again returned it to the nest. The toad, this time, settled down over the chicklet.

“Let’s retire to the cottage,” Later suggested, still giggling. “You look as though you could use a stiff drink, Master Harold.”

“Yes, I do believe I could,” Harold replied, nodding.

“You’re so cute,” Later said, still giggling. “I’ve never met someone so endearingly naïve as you.”

“Uh, thank you? I think?” Harold replied. The smile on her face gave him some reassurance that she actually did like him.

Maybe she wouldn’t kill him any time soon.

Mr. McMillan led the way back, and Later gestured for Harold to follow. He gave the giant toad a final look and noticed a tiny head popped up at the edge of the nest again. Shrugging, he hurried after the headmaster.

After a few yards, Harold heard more giggling from the gamekeeper. Glancing over his shoulder, he spotted a chicklet, scurrying after him. It hopped over branches, scrambling along, occasionally falling and rolling before picking itself up and hurrying along again.

“I do believe you have a shadow, Master Harold,” Later said, mirth filling every word.

“Shouldn’t it stay with its, uh, mother?” Harold asked as the chicklet skidded to a stop at his feet.

“Oh, it would be decidedly unhappy if it did that,” Later stated, the grin still on her lovely face. “That would be decidedly bad.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed. It won't kill you if you keep it happy,” she replied.

There was a serious undertone in her voice that caught Harold off guard. He glanced at McMillan who had returned to see why they had stopped. The headmaster nodded, reaffirming her words.

“What if I leave it behind?” he asked.

“It'll definitely remember you and try to kill you later,” Later replied with a dismissive shrug.

“Great. So, my fate is death by a chicken.”

Mr. McMillan and Later laughed.

“No, no, nothing quite like that,” McMillan stated, cheerfully. “If they bond with you as a chicklet, which this one obviously has, they will see you as a mother. Like with any child, unless you do something to cause it to fear for its life, you won’t become victim to their natural attacks. Such as turning you to stone. Or setting you on fire.”

“It would figure this would be my fate.” Harold sighed. “That I end up with a chicken of doom.”

The End

About the Author

Wife and mother of five, J. F. Posthumus is an IT Tech with over a decade of experience. When she isn't arguing with computers and their gremlins, or being mom to four young monsters (the eldest has flown the nest), she's crafting, writing, or creating art. Starting with fairy tales, she quickly fell down the rabbit hole of reading where she discovered a love for mysteries, fantasy, and the occasional romance. It wasn’t long before she picked up a pencil and began writing while incorporating her love for murder, mysteries, and fantasy into her works.

https://www.facebook.com/authorjfposthumus

Clucking in the Dark The 100% “True” Story of How the High Park Capybaras Escaped

J. Trevor Robinson

Clucking in the Dark J. Trevor Robinson

An irate Canada goose honked at Vivian and Mason as they entered the zoo; they ignored it and never noticed the chickens staring at them from the bushes.

It was an idyllic little spot. Near the southern end of Toronto’s High Park, the largest park in the city, visitors could nearly wander into it by accident. Only a small wooden signpost with an unobtrusive welcome sign marked the place where one of the park paths became the zoo entrance, and pedestrians often found themselves walking past the dozen or so animal pens on either side without meaning to.

The animals were hardly what most would call exotic, but they were well-kept and given plenty of room in their enclosures. There were no tigers or zebras; instead there were Barbary sheep, West Highland cows, several wallabies, and peacocks. The largest crowd gathered around an empty enclosure, taking photos of the unoccupied space.

“They still haven’t caught those things!” Mason said, pointing at the vacant habitat. “I heard they were spotted at Bloor and Lansdowne the other day, but it was never confirmed.”

The things in question were a