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

officer’s head. Mary flinched as the bird slammed the glass.

A string of curses leaked from the officer’s mouth as he stumbled backwards.

“I told you.” Mary stared straight ahead. “Chicken.” The fine was going to be astronomical. She was sure of it.

“Ma’am.” His head swiveled toward her. “There’s a chicken defecating on your backseat.”

“I’m a volunteer teacher’s assistant. I was at the Lone Star Recycling Center when our teacher went into labor. I got stuck with taking the therapy chicken back to its urban farm home.” The words came out in a rush.

To her surprise, Officer Martin nodded, staring at the bird. “Did you know chickens are good at recycling?” He glanced up.

“I’ve heard that,” Mary said.

“You taking the chicken back to Harmony Farms?”

Mary’s shoulders sagged. “That’s the one.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Would you like an escort?”

“B-gawk!”

“Miss Frizzle says thank you,” Mary said with a grin.

The End

About the Author

Bokerah Brumley lives on ten permaculture acres, complete with sheep, goats, peacocks, turkeys, geese, guineas, ducks, chickens, five home-educated children, and one husband. She serves as the president of the Cisco Writers Club and moonlights as an acquisitions editor for The Crossover Alliance.

For more information and a complete list of published works, please visit: www.bokerah.com

The Chicken of Doom

J. F. Posthumus

The Chicken of Doom J.F. Posthumus

Despite being a misplaced magickless teacher of world history at a school for magickal children, Harold Sylverson was enjoying his time at Hogsback Creek Academy.

His method of dealing with troublemakers had spread throughout the academy with the other teachers adopting it. Instead of having points removed from the four houses, the teachers were assigning extra work. Not only that, the other professors were also hinging the student’s grades on those reports.

Harold may not have become a favorite teacher among all of the students, but he had certainly cemented his place among those typically bullied and teased.

Or maybe it was the fact the students were enjoying having pencils, paper, and listening to the music play from his phone? Harold didn’t care. He enjoyed the vast library the academy offered and the willingness of his students to also teach him even as he taught them.

When he was invited to visit the gamekeeper’s cottage, he should have known something was up. Most of the teachers were friendly, but the gamekeeper was always spoken about in whispers and declarations that said person should never be bothered. Except for Lord McMillan, who praised the gamekeeper’s skill at keeping all the ‘pesky creatures’ away from the academy and often visited the cottage, everyone else avoided the gamekeeper. In fact, Harold had never met the gamekeeper.

So, when he received the letter, sealed with wax of course, and written in a flowing script, he should have known someone else had penned it. Admittedly, though, Harold had always allowed his curiosity to get the best of him.

Now, as he walked along the cobblestone path down the gently sloping hill to the path that twisted through the tall trees, Harold wondered if maybe he should have refused the invitation. Or had someone join him on his trek to the gamekeeper’s cottage.

Not even ten paces past the forest edge, Harold heard the distinct sound of a rifle being cocked. That, alone, made him stop mid-step. He slowly set his foot down on the leaf-strewn path and held his hands up.

“My name’s Harold, and I’m the world history teacher. Please don’t shoot me!” he exclaimed in a rush of words.

“What are you doing out here, Harold the World History Teacher?” a distinctly feminine voice asked.

“I received a letter inviting me to your cottage,” he replied. “The letter’s in my hip pocket.”

There was a crunching of leaves, and he felt a tingle as the letter was lifted from his pocket. Not by a hand but by magic. Strange, he thought, that magic should leave his hip tingling as though he’d been given a light shock by something. Maybe the lady had done it on purpose?

A few more moments passed followed by some quiet grumbling.

“Obviously, you know by now I didn’t write this,” the woman replied. “But I suppose you can come for a visit.”

From the shadows of the trees appeared the most beautiful woman Harold had ever witnessed. He swallowed hard and clenched his jaw to make certain his mouth didn’t drop open. At her glower, he smiled. Her chestnut hair was wild and free. Some strands curled while others were straight as a rod. Wind-blown with bits of leaves stuck to it in places, her hair swayed as she lifted her chin defiantly, as though daring him to mock her.

She wore blue jeans, hiking boots, and a T-shirt under a heavy jacket. A plain black cap perched on her head. Just an inch or two shorter than him, everything about her screamed she was a wild creature. For some reason, it drew him to her even more.

“I would be delighted to visit,” Harold said, cheerfully, lowering his hands. He paused, tipping his head to the side. “What should I call you?”

The woman blinked a few times. Her brow furrowed as she pursed her lips. “You can call me, later.”

“Later! What a lovely name. Shall we?”

She exhaled loudly. “My name isn’t… Oh, what the hell. Come on.”

Harold followed Later along the path. She didn’t say anything, so he followed in silence. He really wasn’t the outdoorsy-type, so this was one of the few times he’d taken a stroll through the woods. Or, in this case, along a narrow mountain trail. Birds sang and chirped, flittering from branch to branch. Squirrels scampered through the trees, up and down trunks before racing along the ground. He kept pausing to watch their antics before hurrying to catch up with Later.

Eventually, they reached a clearing where a lovely cottage was situated. It was Harold’s turn to show surprise. He’d expected a small shack or fortress. Not a charming cottage more suited for the British countryside. Wisps of smoke drifted lazily from