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

his body swooping up and down. That silly old bird responded and rose up like he was fighting another rooster. Striking at Ben with talons and wings. Once or twice, it must have gotten too close because Ben slapped at it.

Not hard, just a finger flick to make it keep its distance. Of course, the size difference made it a bit rough on the rooster.

The bird bounced a bit on the ground, got itself up, and then came back for more. Like I said, pure aggression. Never understood why we called cowards chickens. Made no sense.

Finally, Ben skipped back and forth, almost like a dance. If you ignored the enraged squawks and the way the bird was trying to hook him with his talons. Ben worked his way back to the door and jumped out. As he slammed the cage door shut, the rooster crashed into it.

He walked over to me, sweaty and scratched in a few places from playing tag with the bird.

“Need to clean those good, kid,” I said. “What the heck were you doing? You look like an emu, not a chicken. You’re too dang big.”

“Hey, you studied a bit with a snake master, so don’t mock my class with Master Chicken.”

A loud crow echoed through the yard. The old bird was on top of the coop, crowing his heart out.

“He’s boasting he’s so badass he beat a giant rooster. The hens should appreciate him,” I said. I pulled my flask from a hip pocket. “Here, wash those off until we can get to the first aid kit.”

The rooster crowed again, screaming his victory to the sky. Ben, on the other hand, cursed as the alcohol hit the scratches.

“You kiss your momma with that mouth?” I asked.

“Well, yeah, she kisses you and yours is worse.”

The boy had a point. He looked at the rooster preening itself on the top of the coop.

“Well, I made one rooster’s day better.” Ben said. “His sons’ day—not so much.”

“Yeah, but we got dinner. And eggs.” I said. “Let’s load this cooler and go home and clean these guys. Some look like they might even fry up decent.”

Ben picked up the cooler. He was kind to his old man that way and let me carry the ax and the eggs to the truck. As we loaded stuff into the back, he said, “Kinda amazing how it was ready to fight me, even though I was, what, twenty times its size. No wonder you get expressions like cock of the walk.”

“Yep. Or gamecocks for a football team. We all locked down here?”

“Yes, sir,” Ben answered. “You think Momma will make biscuits if we get these guys in a pot?”

“Maybe. Can’t hurt to ask,” I said. “We just got to get this cleaned before she gets back from Yoga. She still thinks food comes in white paper or plastic wrap.”

When Phil and Elza got back from their trip, Ben was out taking care of the birds. Ben said he and Phil talked for a bit, but that Phil kept looking at him like he was a bit special.

“Like short bus special?” I said, “Oh honey, I knew that.”

The boy grumbled at me. No respect, kids these days. I didn’t think much about it until Phil came by to say thanks. It was a lovely evening, so I invited him out to the back yard for a bit. We were sitting under the old magnolia I planted when I bought the place. The flowers were in bloom and the heavy scent filled the warm evening air. I handed him a glass of whisky.

“I do want to thank you for taking care of Elza’s birds while we were gone. And for cleaning out the troublemakers. I’d do it myself, but she’s too soft-hearted to be around for it,” Phil said.

“No problem. The meat comes in handy, and the eggs we don’t use we give to the soup kitchen. What do you think of the hooch?”

“Decent. Local stuff?

“Nah. From Japan of all places.”

“Huh. Hey, I got a question. When we got home last week, Ben was out there. I could have sworn he was dancing with my rooster.”

The End

About the Author

Denton Salle traveled a lot for business, and when they banned the fun hobbies in airports or on planes, writing took over. It’s really just an extension of a strong tendency to tell lies and long stories. After all, the truth can be so confining. Previous works in Deep School Tuition in Fantastic Schools, V1, Texas Otherworld, Daemonic Mechanical Devices, and West Texas Cozies. Updates can be found at www.dentonsalle.com.

He is not a giant panda.

Free Range

Abigail Falanga

Free Range Abigail Falanga

On the plus side, if you fail out of Space Explorer School, you can still go to space.

I attribute it to scoring high enough grades to qualify for SES in the first place. But it’s impossible for any member of my family to not have some kind of cosmos-based employment.

Ever since my Great-Great-Uncle, the redoubtable Admiral Rigby Matthias Jones, accomplished his spectacular feats in the first Astro-Terran war, every generation has also aspired to greatness in space. We’ve piloted exploratory vessels, captained warships into valiant battle, manned medical expeditions, and conquered an entire galaxy through the expedient means of marrying into the royal family.

It would, in fact, have been an embarrassment for even a lesser son of this glorious family to not find his place among the stars. Particularly when he also bears the name Rigby Matthias Jones.

But I still believe I could have made it into SES on purely academic grounds.

Granted, I didn’t exactly graduate valedictorian from high school. Or with any kind of honors from college. But at least I passed.

I am a late bloomer. And, like all Joneses, I have an excellent stomach for space travel.

What I don’t have an excellent stomach for, however, is chicken poop. Can’t stand it. It stinks.

I scraped the gunk from the inside of