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

There is no known cure. These poor souls have to live with this crippling disorder day in and day out.

Now back to our programming.

I walked smack-dab into the center of a huge bail of chicken wire. The next three seconds played out in true slow motion. I started to go down, the chicken held in my two hands in front of me. The poor bird, having the unique advantage of having eyes on the side of its head, stared at me in wide eyed horror as it simultaneously watched me fall, and the ground rapidly approach.

I thought to myself that no matter what this chicken had put me through, it did not deserve to die by being crushed. I thrust it towards Melissa who caught it with her feet like a soccer ball. I got my hands down just in time to keep me from splatting face first. So, there I was on all fours, watching Melissa dribble-kick the chicken, open the coop door, and shove the foul fowl inside.

Remember how I had said the sun was shining, and the snow had melted? Well, when snow melts it makes mud. Except I had already figured out that the “dirt” around here was not dirt. The stuff I had been throwing was dry, but this was full on liquid.

I stood up and whined, “It's poop.”

Melissa doubled over in hysterical fits of laughter.

I started to walk out of the pen when I felt a strange sensation on my leg, cold, wet, and slimy. “The eggs!” I cried out as I felt the yolk slide down my leg.

So, the moral of the story is, don't count your eggs while they are in your pocket. Or some junk like that. You know what? No! The moral of the story is chickens are jerks, and I'm gonna eat me one. KFC here I come. After a shower of course.

The End

About the Author

David was born and raised in the great state of Wyoming. Joining the Air Force out of high school afforded him the chance to travel and experience the world at large. Now he spends his time in the Pacific Northwest with his lovely wife, writing whatever is of interest to him. He loves storytelling, in whatever form it may come.

Chicken Magic

Bokerah Brumley

Chicken Magic Bokerah Brumley

The fate of Santi’s world balanced on a feather’s edge.

And the back of a thieving chicken.

At least that’s what he always thought when Frango, Santi’s best pickpocket, strutted into the crowds at the weekly festival time, hunting for shiny bits and baubles the way Santi had taught him.

The lazy-eyed rooster hunted for reflective trinkets to take back to their nest. The bigger and shinier, the bigger Frango’s pile of feed. The birdbrain wasn’t the smartest fowl around, but he hadn’t minded taking the job.

Santi hooked his thumbs in the length of cord that circled his waist and moved down the street, relishing the boots he’d nicked earlier in the day. The soft leather caressed his feet and would make sneaking that much easier.

The aroma of cinnamon fry bread permeated the air, disturbed intermittently by the scent of mule dung and perspiration. Hundreds of voices mixed into a dull roar like heavy rain on a tin roof. Sweat beaded on Santi’s upper lip, and he wiped it away on the rough sleeve of his robe. They needed a good payday.

Frango darted between the devoted attendees, ducked beneath goods tables, and challenged the fat tabby that the grocer employed to keep the rats at bay. Though, Santi had never seen the feline with anything alive in his mouth.

A nun exited the convent to ring the hourly bells, the deep tones vibrating loud enough to silence the mob. A cart rumbled by, blocking Santi’s view of his feathered partner. He tipped up on his toes and peered over, catching the eye of a well-dressed woman on the other side of the street. He turned and dropped back into the shadow of a stoop. He had to watch out for his little friend, but Santi couldn’t bring attention to himself. In his line of work, attention never ended well.

Down the way, a man yelped, drawing Santi’s attention. The thick-shouldered, sour-faced man muttered words Santi couldn’t make out and rubbed at his bottom, a line of a dozen gold hoops quivered in his ear and gold chains circled his neck, his nose a little too high in the air. Something must have gotten him, and it wasn’t the first time Frango had pecked Adelmar’s giant bum.

In a flash of iridescent colors, Frango bolted around the corner toward home, and Santi grinned. He couldn’t make out what Frango had in his beak, but it would mean food for an evening or food for a week. Maybe more, if they were lucky.

Santi set a leisurely pace toward the hovel they shared near the cemetery. The slip away would be easy. The local authorities hadn’t yet figured out his band of creature misfits. He winked at the row of grandmothers that sat in the shade cast by the eaves, waiting on the nuns to come out and bestow the alms of the Matriarch.

Behind them, curses filled the air, and women gasped at the language. Santi crouched and pretended to re-lace his leather boots. He watched from the corner of his eye.

“I’ll kill that chicken. It’ll be the last time he steals from me.” Adelmar’s bellow alone would have been enough to scare anyone. “Who owns him?”

An answering murmur rolled through the growing crowd. The woman from earlier laid a hand on Adelmar’s forearm, leaned over, and whispered into his ear. Adelmar dipped into his money pouch, and the faint clink of metal on metal followed. Damage done, she closed her hand and slipped back into the crowd.

Sold out. She’d sold him out.

Santi spun back and met the gaze of the gray-haired rag woman at the end of the row, nestled in the middle of braided