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

said a soft prayer, thanking God, angels, universe, whoever had gone to bat to keep it from blowing up in my pants.

Before me rested a charred pile, bones, crisped sinews. I crawled to the still-burning skeleton of the Gator.

Blackened feathers blanketed the ground, some only singed.

In all that fire, with all that heat, pieces, proof of its existence, remained. I coughed, smoke catching in my throat, and stood up.

It wasn’t too late. Maybe Perry was right. I could save a piece of it, perhaps enough for scientists to pull DNA samples. I stooped over the pile that had been Merryl-Perry-thing, and picked up a single white feather, resting on top. I rolled it in my hands, letting the sunrise catch the soft green flakes tucked between each barb. What would come of this, though? Keeping it tempted me, of course it did.

I released it, letting it float back down to the pile of its originator.

Sirens sounded off behind me. They were pulling down our county road. It was now or never.

“Not today, motherclucker,” I said, as I uncapped the can of lighter fluid. “Not today.”

The End

About the Author

Author Amber (A.R.) Draeger specializes in macabre, fantastical fiction, spreading her interest across multiple genres including horror, sci-fi, fantasy, thriller, and romance. She resides in rural Texas with her husband and son.

http://www.amberdraeger.com

PŪKEKO: The Blue Swamp Hen An Earthcore Story

Grace Bridges

PŪKEKO: The Blue Swamp Hen Grace Bridges

Tiny shreds of high clouds drifted over Lake Rotorua in the afternoon sun. Silhouettes of birds crossed the water towards the island in its middle. From Tiger McRae’s perch on the roof of his house, he could see almost the entire caldera region with its Shire-like hills and occasional volcanic mountains.

But he wasn’t up here for the view. He tossed down the last chunk of broken rooftile and glanced down at his friends on the ground.

Graeme and Harley watched, a stack of new tiles ready to pass up to Tiger. Harley’s cat, Sunshine, wound her way around all the legs she could find, sending a dirty look up at Tiger as if he’d deliberately deprived her of his ankles. Graeme’s majestic tui bird guardian towered nearby, almost higher than the manuka trees, and Harley’s sun-dragon sat a small distance away, the flames of his fur forming a halo around him. Thanks to these creatures, Harley and the cat were able to run on the lake’s surface, and Graeme could summon birds.

They thought Tiger had a guardian, since he had a gift of great sight. He glanced out across the lake again and noted the apples were ripe on the opposite shore, over five kilometres distant. He grinned to himself. It was a very useful gift, but if he had a guardian spirit, it was staying stubbornly invisible as it always had.

“Pass me those tiles, Graeme?”

Tiger fitted the first concrete slab into place, hooking it over the interior strut where he’d removed the cracked tile. A second soon followed, but the third wouldn’t fit, and his fingers found a protruding bolt that would have to be cut off.

He eased over to the ladder. “I’m going to need a bolt cutter. There’s one in the shed, I think. Help me look?”

Graeme snorted. “Help you look? You with the best eyes anyone’s ever had?” But he followed along anyway, and Harley moseyed behind.

Tiger searched the sky and the trees as he walked. It had become a habit; one day, he might see his guardian if he only kept his eyes open.

“Looking for your taniwha again?” said Harley.

“It’ll be there, even if it’s unseen.” Graeme punched Tiger in the shoulder. “Look at all the things you’ve accomplished.”

It was true enough. He’d been a part of dealing with criminals, stopping volcanoes, calming earthquakes. A small part.

They reached the shed, and Harley caught up, searching Tiger’s gaze. “What if it’s shy, like me? Staying out of sight like I used to before I was friends with you all.”

Tiger shrugged. “I suppose. They certainly act human in other ways.” He reached for the toolbox.

“TIGER!”

His mother’s distant yell stayed his hand, and he sighed. “I’d better see what she wants.”

He rounded the house, following her voice, and found her pacing by the vegetable garden, her face in her hands. “What is it, Mum?”

“These ruddy birds,” she wailed. “Muck-dwelling bottom-feeding swamp hens! They don’t need to eat my spinach, do they?”

Tiger approached and peered over the wire fence into the overgrown patch. Several pūkeko foraged there, blue feathers bold amongst the green. One looked up at Tiger and swallowed the leaf in its big red beak, as if to taunt him.

“Here’s your problem,” said Harley, pointing at a section of fence. “They got in through this gap.”

Tiger eyed the rogue birds. “We can fix that. But it won’t help much, since they can fly…”

“I saw some extra netting in the shed. We could put that over the top.” Graeme spread his hands as if forming a roof.

Jody beamed. “That would be a wonderful solution! Do you think you all can make it happen?”

They assured her that of course they could, and she retreated to her lean-to office where she was soon heard yelling at the printer.

“We have to get these little guys out of there first,” said Tiger, stepping over the fence. “C’mon, you lot. Scram!” He herded them away from the spinach and they made for the gap in the fence, preferring to walk rather than fly if they had the choice.

Harley stood aside to let them pass. “I’ve heard the pūkeko enjoys garden vegetables. Never seen it happen before, though.”

Graeme had fetched supplies from the shed in the meantime, and set to closing the hole in the fence with loops of wire while Harley held the edges together.

Tiger unrolled the netting and considered how he might attach it to the tops of the fenceposts. He turned to ask the others, and came face to face with a row of blue