CRACKED: An Anthology of Eggsellent Chicken Stories by J. Posthumus (read after txt) 📕

dutifully turned the eggs and candled them every day for two weeks. They observed how the chicks developed, and they made plans for the brooder box. On weekends, Ruthann came to the classroom herself to take care of them, but on school days, the students helped change the water and monitor the temperature. They even suggested names for her to write on the shells in blue crayon: Dixie, Shelly, Chris P., Avery, Nugget, and Bill.

One Wednesday, Ruthann turned on the classroom lights to find the first egg cracking. By lunchtime, no instruction whatsoever was taking place because all fifteen students wanted to watch the chicks hatch, and whenever an egg moved, the students all shouted. I hope chicks are hard of hearing, Ruthann prayed. She didn’t pray often, but she wasn’t sure who else to talk to about hatching chicks.

She surprised herself by enjoying hatching day. The chicks emerged wet and ugly, gangly, wobbly. They staggered around, stepping on their own shells without understanding why the ground wasn’t steady. None of the kids wanted to go home because Bill still hadn’t hatched. Ruthann promised she would stay and take video.

Bill hatched at three thirty, clear-eyed and bigger than the others. The chick strutted, then stared right into Ruthann’s eyes.

“Hello, sweetie.” She rested her chin on her hands. “It’s a big world, and now you’re here.”

Bill inspected the other chicks, then nudged one with its head.

“You’re taking charge.” She chuckled. “I hope you enjoy it here. Once you’re dry, you’ll all go in the brooder box. Tomorrow, you’ll get to meet your fan club.”

Sekkiel hadn’t moved from before God’s throne for two hours. Kneeling, hands crossed over his chest, wings tight to his back, he prayed with his eyes closed and his heart broken. He should have an egg in his hands. Instead, his hands were empty.

The Holy Spirit washed through him, but Sekkiel couldn’t relax. Relax, and he’d break down.

Just this morning, Raviniel had visited the sanctuary, feathers dull. “I got a friend to stand in for me,” he’d murmured, not noticing Sekkiel’s startled fear. “It’s been difficult lately. Her life feels so empty to her.”

Sekkiel had managed to say, “Is she resisting grace?”

Raviniel only shook his head. “Just resisting joy.”

Sekkiel couldn’t tell him what he ought to. Couldn’t tell his already-downtrodden friend that one of the eggs was loose in the world, lost, unpresented to God. Couldn’t say it was his own fault. Not when Raviniel already had so many worries about his joyless human charge.

It’s only an egg, Sekkiel insisted to the Holy Spirit, as if the Holy Spirit needed to know. There are eggs all over the world.

It’s just that he’d wanted to do a good job. Losing something like that—it wasn’t merely unprofessional. It was careless in a way God’s creatures didn’t deserve.

Sekkiel had done everything he could to track where the egg went. He’d put plants into the dimensional pocket to see where they’d go. He’d tried with insects. When the pocket buckled, they always returned where they belonged. But the egg belonged in Heaven to be presented to God, and the egg hadn’t come back.

Why won’t you tell me? Sekkiel finally asked.

The Holy Spirit swirled through Sekkiel again, moving against the tight parts in his soul, the anxiety about one lonely egg jostled from the nest, rolling through the spiritual corridors of the world.

You could have warned me, Sekkiel prayed. I’d never have tucked it in there.

The Holy Spirit poured reassurance into his heart, but Sekkiel recoiled.

The Holy Spirit pushed forth a question: why was he so insistent on feeling terrible? Was he not sure of his own innocence? Did he believe God would allow evil to come from his well-intentioned mistake?

Raviniel counted on me. Sekkiel closed his eyes. I failed.

The Holy Spirit replied, But I didn’t.

Ruthann turned on the classroom lights to find all six week-old chicks out of their brooder and staring directly at her from the carpet.

At the head of the fluffy flock, Bill regarded her with an intent focus. It wasn’t exactly creepy, but in sixteen years, she’d never encountered a chick who paid attention to the humans in the room. Usually the chicks pecked around and put up with being handled.

These six, though: Bill had them all under his wing, figuratively, and when she brought in other classes to see the chicks, it seemed Bill thought it the reverse—that she had brought humans for him to study. Him or her—that couldn’t be determined yet.

She’d asked the seller what breeds he’d sent—and finally asked why he hadn’t removed the broken egg. He said he’d never send a broken egg (he’d packed her box himself) but did provide a list of breeds in the assortment. The list didn’t seem to match the eggs, and she still couldn’t identify Bill. Again, not something she was used to after sixteen years.

This morning, finding all six out of the brooder box—that was another unusual development. The chicks had gathered on the carpet as if for circle time, standing over a pile of open books. She wasn’t good at reading bird expressions, but it seemed her arrival surprised them.

“Sorry, guys.” She hung her jacket on a hook, making sure the door was shut so they wouldn’t escape. “I didn’t realize I needed to mention I was coming in early.”

Bill led the chicks to the side of the brooder box, which was considerate. Ruthann must be cracking up: Bill wasn’t actually considering her feelings, and the chicks hadn’t actually been studying the phonics books—the phonics books that had been on the shelf yesterday. Ruthann scooped the waiting chicks into the box one at a time. Last into the box was Bill. “I wish I could keep as good control of the kindergarteners as you do.” She laughed, but then Bill inclined his head toward her in agreement.

During circle time, one of the students asked, “When do the chicks go home?”

Ruthann said, “When they’re four weeks old, we’ll send them to a farm.”

“Do