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

Together, they finished wiring the extra netting over the top of the protected garden. Tiger tied off the last loop and stood back, nodding. “Won’t be any pūkeko getting in there now.”

Movement in the street. He looked up.

A vaguely familiar blonde woman ran by the driveway, chasing a pūkeko. “How do you feel about that, now?” she shrieked, and continued on her way, laughing.

Tiger frowned. He’d seen her before somewhere, hadn’t he?

Naaah, probably imagining things.

“Let’s get a bite to eat, then, eh?” He turned to find Graeme and Harley already gone. Their voices rumbled in the kitchen. Ah, well. They were ahead of him on that one.

Harley returned to the door with a little dish and called for Sunshine.

Tiger spied her at the end of the driveway, her tail curled firmly around her feet. “I don’t think she’s gonna come.”

“I’ll take her the food in a minute, then. You coming in?” Harley gave him a sideways glance.

“Yeah, I am.” His eye fell on the group of pūkeko he’d chased out of the garden earlier. They were oddly still and quiet, their beaks raised at an angle.

“Crazy birds. What do you think you’re staring at?” Tiger stomped into the house, a familiar sense of loss tugging at his guts. Loss and lack that he couldn’t see his taniwha.

A new warmth crept into his heart. He didn’t know why.

He did know his taniwha was real. And they’d meet face to face someday.

Outside, a pūkeko screeched, and the little group of blue hens flapped away over the lake.

“Good riddance,” said Tiger under his breath.

He found, to his surprise, that he didn’t mean it.

The End

About the Author

Grace Bridges is a geyser hunter, backyard chicken keeper, editor and translator, and Kiwi. The current president of writers' organisation SpecFicNZ, she is often found poking around geothermal sites or under a pile of rescued kittens. She is a multiple nominee and three-time winner of the Sir Julius Vogel Award from the Science Fiction and Fantasy Association of New Zealand, an editor and mentor for Young NZ Writers, and has edited dozens of published books. Her own novels include Earthcore, Irish cyberpunk, and Classics in Space. Both her works in this collection are part of the Earthcore urban fantasy series based in New Zealand. More information and free stories at www.gracebridges.kiwi.

A Few Good Hens

J. D. Beckwith

A Few Good Hens J. D. Beckwith

“All right, ladies, listen up!”

The Colonel strutted back and forth in front of the line of females, some of which actually looked up from their breakfast at him on occasion, especially when he got loud.

“Our situation has become dire and urgent! As you know, our local allies have failed us! The very boundaries of our compound are no longer secure!” He squared his shoulders and continued. “Now, I know that many of you ladies don’t respect me as much as you did our departed General. He was a brave warrior, and he was taken before his time, but I can promise you that under my leadership, we will overcome this enemy that tries to steal away our very future!”

A scramble broke out at the far end of the chow line, interrupting his speech. The Colonel rushed to address the squabble, but it had already subsided by the time he reached it. He cleared his throat pointedly and continued.

“The General tried to fight the enemy alone and in doing so he paid the ultimate sacrifice for our safety. It was brave, yes! But I tell you it was also foolish! One alone cannot hope to defend this place, but together, we can win against these invaders!”

A few of the females squawked as they realized his intent.

“Starting today, each of you will learn to fight alongside your sisters. We have a lot of work to do to get you gaggle of biddies into fighting trim, and we have to do it quickly. It is time for you of the fairer sex to cast aside your matronly instincts and see to your own defense!”

The cackling grew in intensity.

“Now, don’t fret! I will help you! That is my job! But I need you to…”

A rather burly female hurdled the chow line and nearly knocked the Colonel over as she ran forward shouting. “She’s got the Bucket! The Bucket!”

He spun in a circle shouting inarticulately. “Now, see here, you! This is an outrage! Pure treason!”

He shook with anger at the insubordinate act. He yelled at the top of his lungs as the remainder of the troop also took off in the direction of the compound’s front gate. “Get back here or I’ll have you all plucked, battered and deep fried!” Then it finally clicked into his brain what the old bird had said. “Bucket!? Mealworms! I love those things!” Then he too ran for the gate.

“Mama, why does Colonel Sanders crow so much?” Sally waited patiently while her mother filled a small blue sand-box pail with a large scoop of meal worms from the compost bin.

Diane handed the bucket to Sally, smiling. “Well, it’s springtime, and the boy animals like to make lots of noise and show off for the girls in springtime, so that they like them more.”

Sally wrinkled her nose at the wriggling bugs in the bucket, then held them out in front of her as far as she could.

“Colonel was walking back and forth while the hens were eating, but they didn’t care. I don’t think they like him as much as they did General Tso. He’s all white feathers, but General Tso was pretty with all the red and black. And his legs were fuzzy, too.”

“Yeah, I liked General Tso’s feathers too.” Diane gave her daughter a rueful pat on the head. “He was a good rooster.”

“Do you think Daddy will get the big rat tonight?”

“Hmmm, I don’t know. We’ll see.”

“You don’t think his idea will work, do you?”

“Let’s just say I think his idea may not work how