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

“Aaaiiigggghhhhhhh!” The Dark Lord shrieked in terror as the filth got past his shielding arms and hands. He scrambled up the stairs, using his hands to claw his way up to the door. One goose got in a final insult as he flew by, biting the Dark Lord on one denim-covered cheek and drawing a satisfying howl of pain from his target as his reward before the door slammed shut.

From inside the house the attackers heard the sounds of the Dark Lord quickly shoving things against the door to separate him from a barnyard filled with fowls and one black spider.

“We did it,” Brooster exclaimed. “I’ll be a son of a suck-egg mule, but, by golly, we did it! We beat the Dark Lord!”

The barnyard filled with honks, quacks, crows and gobbles of celebration.

The victory party lasted for three days.

During that time, there had been no sign of the Dark Lord, Hartvar, or any of the other four-legged minions of the Empire. Brooster perched on top of the fence and looked out across the barnyard with pride. Naebi spun a web to his right and Las flew in to perch on Brooster’s left.

“What a sight,” Brooster said. “We defeated the Empire. Why, there’s nothin’ we can’t do now!”

“Don’t get cocky, kid,” Las counseled. “They might just come back.”

“Naw, son, not a chance,” Brooster scoffed. “They got a bellyful of us before. They won’t come back here.”

Just then, a large white object appeared on the horizon and slowly approached.

“What in tarnation is that?” Brooster squinted as he tried to make it out. “It looks like a big ol’ moon.”

“That’s no moon,” Naebi said ominously.

The object closed the distance before turning away, It was a large, white delivery van with strange letters on it in purple and orange. A human clad in purple and back stepped out of the van, carrying a white box to the house where the Dark Lord had retreated three days before. After a minute, the human returned to the van and it headed back the way it had come, disappearing below the horizon.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Las replied.

A few minutes later, the back door opened and the Dark Lord, one foot in a cast, limped out. He used a cane in one hand but, in the other, he held the mysterious white box. He hobbled over to the main gate, opened it, and stepped into the barnyard. He placed the box on the ground and opened one end of it.

No matter how hard Brooster peered into the opening, he could not make out what was inside.

The Dark Lord straightened, favored the barnyard with a smug, satisfied smile, and hobbled back to his house, closing the gate behind him.

No one in the yard made a sound as they all stared at the box.

At length, a gray rabbit with a fluffy white cotton tail hopped out. He stood up on his hind legs and produced a carrot. Taking a bite from the vegetable, the rabbit gazed around at his new surroundings. He stopped when his gaze fell upon Brooster. Then he smiled and spoke for the first time.

“Eh,” the rabbit said around another nibble. “What’s up, Cock?”

Coming Soon—BARN WARS 2: The Hare Menace

The End

About the Author

Richard began his writing journey as a freelance writer in 1984 and gained his first fiction credit serving as the lead writer for the first two issues of the Elite Comics sci-fi/fantasy series, Seadragon. After a 20+-year career, he retired as a sportswriter and returned to his fiction writing roots. Since then he has written several novels, two non-fiction sports books, and has appeared in many anthologies including four Sherlock Holmes collections. He has won several awards and his novel, Escaping Infinity, was a 2017 Dragon Award Finalist for Best Sci-Fi novel.

Find more about him at: http://www.richardpaolinelli.com

Chicken Dance

Denton Salle

Chicken Dance Denton Salle

One Saturday last month, the youngest, all six-three of his teenage testiness, and I drove over to my friend Phil’s place to take care of his chickens while he and the missus were off in Tennessee. Some sort of convention. I kinda tuned out the details when his wife mentioned cosplay. She raises these ornamental chickens—I dunno why—the eggs taste the same as those from Piggly Wiggly.

Anyway, when she stared talking about dressing up for the con, as she called it, all I could imagine was her in a chicken costume. Now, I don’t judge but really… Elza was about 5 foot and a plump thing. Lord forgive me, but I imagined her as one of the hens from those old Leghorn cartoons. The ones that looked nearly round.

I promised I’d feed and water her birds and at the same time, ahem, remove the excess roosters from the property. I actually was going to whack all of them and make what my boys call bad rooster stew and the French coq au vin.

Elza preferred not to know the details. We did this thing every four months where I killed off the excess males from the eggs she let hatch. Apparently, these funny-looking breeds ran fifty-fifty on sex.

Maybe all chickens do. Seems like a waste, if so, since Phil only keeps one rooster around. One fairly tough old bird too from what I could tell. Grumpy fellow for someone with his own harem. Maybe there is truth to that story about Vladimir of Kiev where he decided against Islam because, if he kept his harem, he needed to drink.

Saturday morning, I packed up the pickup and loaded my youngest, Ben, in the front seat. All it took was the promise of breakfast tacos from the food truck outside town. And coffee. Like his daddy, he’s not safe to be around before coffee.

We headed up I-35 until we saw the TA station with the taco truck in the parking lot. Ben got in line to get tacos and I headed inside to get us