CRACKED: An Anthology of Eggsellent Chicken Stories

by J. F. Posthumus

  “I only wanted to scare him. We don’t seek out trouble like that, sweetie. Not unless he tries to push me around, anyway.”

  “No, that’s not what I meant. You said it like I could stay here with you for a while.”

  Delores scratched her head. The girl was right. Delores had treated Michelle as part of her little family down there when things got tough. “Well, I’m not going to live forever, and you might be able to convince me to take you on as an apprentice. Khan, what do you think about Michelle?”

  Khan looked up and tilted his head to one side before returning to peck at another piece of liver. No objections from the birds, so they were clearly happy with her plan. It would be a huge responsibility, but it felt right. One more stray given a home.

  The End

  About the Author

  John M. Olsen edits and writes speculative fiction across multiple genres and loves stories about ordinary people stepping up to do extraordinary things. He hopes to entertain and inspire others with his award-winning stories as he passes his passion on to the next generation of avid readers.

  He loves to create and fix things, whether editing or writing novels or short stories or working in his secret lair equipped with dangerous power tools. In all cases, he applies engineering principles and processes to the task at hand, often in unpredictable ways.

  He lives in Utah with his lovely wife and a variable number of mostly grown children and a constantly changing subset of extended family.

  Blog: https://johnmolsen.blogspot.com/

  Inspection Report

  Clair W. Kiernan

  Inspection Report

  Clair W. Kiernan

  I hope you can read this.

  There’s not much light and I can’t see what I’m writing.

  I’m using the notebook I keep in my work overalls and it’s not too clean. But I’ve got a zippered bag and maybe that will keep it dry, at least. So, whoever finds this will know what happened. Please, God, let somebody find this.

  Of course, we had no idea this was going to happen. I was busy shoveling manure. Most of the time, I’m shoveling manure. When I’m not shoveling feed or checking water lines or replacing lightbulbs, or a bunch of other stuff…

  My name’s Billy. I do most of the dirty jobs around here. My dad told me to expect that. I just started after school let out this spring…

  I was putting this morning’s manure into a nice, neat pile, like Jake says to do, and about to go to the oldest pile and stir it up to see if it’s ready to use for fertilizer. We do use some of it on the farm but most of it I bag up and people buy it for their gardens. But it’s got to be good and rotted to be safe. Anyway, I was just about ready to go do some stirring when I noticed there was a bright spot in the sky and not where the sun was.

  I just stood there and watched it get bigger and bigger for a little bit, until Jake yelled at me.

  “Git movin’, boy! That crap won’t stir itself! Then get the feeders filled and clear the trays in number one! Go on, move!”

  “But, Jake,” I pointed up at the sky, but he was already walking away.

  “Ain’t got time fer yer foolishness, boy. I gotta get the office and shop ready fer the inspection today. We got Mr. Harvey from the home office coming in before lunchtime…”

  He walked off, grumbling like usual. Jake was always either grumbling or yelling about something, usually to me.

  I went and stirred the old manure pile, but I kept sneaking a look every so often at that bright spot. What could it be? A star? My brother likes to read, and he’s always telling me about crazy stuff like suns exploding. Don’t see how that could be as important as knowing when a manure pile is safe to put on your tomatoes, but it takes all kinds. I tried to figure out if the spot was moving or not, but it was pretty low over the hills before I ever saw it, and there were trees blocking me, and anyway, Jake was already in a mood. Then I had to go fill the feeders and clean up the trays in the number one incubator, and by the time I was done with that, the bright spot was gone. I looked over toward the hills as best I could, but I couldn’t see anything.

  Jake was still in the office, and the sun was real high, pretty near noon. I didn’t want any part of seeing the big boss come around for inspection, so I went to check on the poults out in the field. They were mostly fledged by now and scratched and pecked the ground looking for bugs or seeds or whatever they wanted. A chicken is mighty dumb, but they at least know when they’re hungry. Not like Mamaw’s cat, who just whines and cries whenever anyone goes in the kitchen, but if you put out food for her, she’ll turn her nose up at it half the time.

  The poults were doing okay, so I went to check on the brood hens next. There were a bunch out there, all of them trailed by their babies. Some were still little yellow fluffballs, and some were starting to get patches of feathers. I wouldn’t mind watching them all afternoon, but then I thought about my lunch in the fridge and having to wait until the big boss left before I could eat it. I thought maybe I could dash in and grab my sandwich and get out of there without being seen.

  I turned the corner of the feed shed, and thought I was home free when I saw a city man just standing there. He was a tall, gangling fellow, looking out of place on a farm in a business suit. I thought the suit didn’t fit him much better than my overalls did me, but I didn’t say nothing. I was still hoping Jake would step out, and I could sneak away, when he turned and looked at me with a jerky head-tilt. I was stuck.

  “Hey, Mister! You lookin’ for Jake?” I walked up to him, not sure if I should put my hands in my pockets or not. I know how to be polite and shake hands, but I wasn’t about to give him my dirty hand to shake. City folks don’t like it. So, I didn’t know what to do with my hands.

  “Yes, I suppose I am,” he said. He kept tipping his head from one side to the other, looking around like he’d never seen a chicken farm before. And here I’d thought that Mr. Harvey would know his way around a farm. Or maybe Mr. Harvey was sick, and this was a substitute. Well, I guess everybody has to be new to a job, but why they sent a fellow like him by himself was a puzzle. Maybe him not knowing anything would be good for us, though.

  “Jake’s probably in the shop or the office, Mister. Do you want me to fetch him?”

  “There’s no need to interrupt,” he said. The city man kept looking around. “Maybe you can show me the place while he’s busy.”

  I knew Jake wouldn’t like that at all, but I didn’t see where I had a lot of choice. “Okay, Mister.” I thought hard. “How about we look at the incubators? They’re right over here,” I said, real loud like. Maybe if Jake heard us, he would come on out.

  The city man walked across the yard kinda funny, picking his feet up high like he was trying to keep his shoes from getting dirty. Every now and then he gave his foot a little shake. His face was all squinched up, too, and I thought to myself, well, at least I got enough sense not to wear my good shoes to a farm.

  He looked impressed with the incubators. He should be; they’re practically brand new.

  “Yessir, they keep the eggs at a constant temperature and humidity, and turn the eggs too. When they’re about a day from hatching, we slip them back to the hens. We get less breakage and loss this way.” Not all hens are good brooders. They don’t always keep their eggs warm, and sometimes they push them out of the nest.

  “Marvelous!” City Man said. “However do you get them back to the right mothers?”

  I thought he was funning me, so I just played along. “We got them numbered by which hen laid ‘em. Then their mamas take them outside to this field here,” I led him to the nearest patch of green, where the hens and young chicks were moving through some grass we kept short just so we could find the chicks. I figured since this was his first sight of a chicken farm, he’d rather look at the little chicks. They’re kind of cute, at least for the first few days.

  “Your females are quite small,” he said offhandedly. I didn’t know if he wanted me to answer, so I didn’t say an
ything because I don’t know all the breeds of chickens. “And these are how old?”

  City Man pointed to a hen and a dozen or so tiny balls of yellow fluff. I say “pointed” but really, he didn’t seem to do much with his fingers except flap them in the general direction of the chicks.

  “Oh, ‘bout a day old. They grow real fast. We can bring them from hatching to mature in ninety days.”

  “Ninety days!” City Man looked surprised. “That’s amazing!”

  I wasn’t about to tell him some outfits down the road did it faster. “Well, we make sure they get the best feed. It’s organic corn and stuff, and you see they spend all day out in the sun in the field. Very healthy for them, too. We don’t do any hormones or antibiotics here.”

  “Yes, this looks like a very healthy place,” City Man said, looking about him with that strange jerky movement. His dark brown hair was thick and much too long, almost a crest on top that flipped and flopped about whenever he moved his head. He gave me another one of those funny head-tilt looks. “What about education? Who teaches the chicks?”

  That nearly floored me. Why he wanted to make fun of me when he looked so foolish made no sense, but then I figured he just felt out of place and wanted to show how he was better than us yokels.

  “Well, them hens is mighty smart, so I reckon their chicks are too. They learn everything they need to know without us having to lift a finger.”

  I smiled at City Man, but he didn’t smile back. He just nodded like he believed me.

  “Impressive,” he muttered to himself, and thought for a bit, then turned back to me. “I can see that you and this—Jake—are very good caretakers of the young. This establishment will be suitable.”

  “Suitable?” I said, confused. “Suitable for what?”

  He pulled something out of his pocket that looked like a ball of light in swirls of pale blue and green. “Did you get all of that?” he said to the light ball. “Yes, it really looks like our best option. Are the transports ready?”

  “Transports? Mister, what are you talking about?” I asked.

  “Your new masters are coming. This planet looked like it had some very desirable areas, but I had no idea you were already prepared for us. You will find we are not exacting.” He stuffed the light ball back into his pocket. His whole suit seemed to shimmer now, and his face started getting blurry. “I suppose it will be all right to show you my true form now, though it makes it harder to communicate.”

  The front door of the office building opened, and Jake came out with an older man, about his height and age but without Jake’s muscle or tan. They stopped when they saw us.

  “Billy?” Jake asked, looked from City Man and back to me. He didn’t say it, but I could hear Jake thinking, You better not have one of your friends messing around here today of all days!

  “Oh,” I said, looking from City Man to the older man who came out with Jake. If that was Mr. Harvey, then who was this? “Um, he stopped by and asked for a tour of the farm…”

  Mr. Harvey brightened right up. “And you showed him around, and I can tell he’s impressed!” Mr. Harvey did that salesman thing where they just assume you’re already agreeing with them, and took City Man by the arm. “A new customer is always welcome here. Let me show you the shop and we can talk about quantities and delivery schedule.” He pushed the door open, half dragging City Man inside. “Now, are you looking for fryers? Everybody wants a nice, plump fryer! They’re our best sellers. We also have roasters, and of course, free range gives you the best flavor for stewing hens!”

  City Man looked around the shop, at the glass chill cases of prewrapped chicken parts and the photos of fried chicken, roasted chicken, and barbecued chicken on the wall, and didn’t say anything.

  “Are you buying for a grocery store or a restaurant? We do give bulk discounts of course, but if you want to come by and purchase for your home freezer—” Mr. Harvey looked at the stranger and stopped talking. I could see why; that floppy pile of hair had turned from dark brown to dark red, and his nose was getting longer and pointier. Mr. Harvey still held onto an arm, but it didn’t have a hand on the end, only feathers!

  The stranger’s suit shimmered, and there was a bright light, and when the glow faded, there wasn’t a man standing with Mr. Harvey—there was a seven-foot rooster, with beady red eyes and spurs.

  The monstrous rooster leaned back and flapped his wings, flinging Mr. Harvey against one of the chill cases. Then he crowed loud enough to make my ears ring. The glowing ball was hovering in the air now, and as he cackled into it, its colors went from pale green and blue to angry black and red. Then the ball vanished. The rooster scratched the floor, leaving deep gouges in the linoleum, and fixed one ferocious eye on Mr. Harvey, who was just coming to.

  Jake grabbed me and hauled me out the door before I could see what that beak and those spurs did to Mr. Harvey, though I could hear the screams, for a while anyway. Jake and I ran into the woods and split up to try to get help. I headed for my mama’s house, which is about five miles by the road and two miles if you can find a straight line through the ravine, and Jake went towards town.

  I’m pretty sure that bright glow to the southwest means town is gone, and I’m stuck here in the ravine trying to find a stealthy way out while all these ships fly overhead with searchlights. I keep hearing zapping noises and screams, but I hope I’m imagining some of it. I hope Jake made it somewhere safe. I hope he was able to get word out and warn folks. Maybe the Giant Chicken People won’t be able to kill everybody. Maybe I’m home asleep and having a bad dream.

  Or maybe to them I’m just a pullet, and they’re going to chop off my head, pull me apart, roll me in flour and fry me. I don’t dare move. Even though it’s dark and I should be running and hiding, I…

  Did something just make a noise over th—

  The End

  About the Author

  Retired graphic designer and current Chatelaine and Artist-in-Residence at Stately Kiernan Manor, Clair was pointed towards writing in childhood because it was the only thing she was good at. Nevertheless, she insisted on trying other artistic endeavors just to be sure. Eventually she won the coveted role of Rooster for the Atlanta Radio Theatre Company through tenacity, talent, and treachery. She is the author of Gone with the Zombies, a cozy mystery, and its sequel “Jessie’s Dress,” and is currently working on The Mage and the Mouse and Buccaneer Island.

  Field Trip Chicken

  Bokerah Brumley

  Field Trip Chicken

  Bokerah Brumley

  Lone Star Recycling Center

  Austin, Texas

  Mary Keen tucked her lunch into her over-sized purse and offered Mrs. Applewood a smile. With her due date less than three weeks away, the expectant teacher returned the grin as she placed her hands in the small of her back and stretched. The volunteer-run recycling center was the ideal place to go for a field trip for a fifth-grade class on Earth Day. Blue skies and a light breeze added up to a perfect April day.

  Mrs. Applewood placed a whistle between her teeth and gave one short blast. When all the students turned toward her, she said, “If you’re finished with your lunch, please recycle anything you can. Harmony Farms mentioned that Miss Frizzle Hen would love your apple cores and banana peels.” She gestured toward the harness-wearing hen penned nearby.

  “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.