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

unease about placing Cluck in charge of his army when Korion couldn’t personally command them. Korion might speak the language of the undead, but Cluck spoke the language of the chickens.

Yes, chickens. He raised chickens as minions.

And they were excellent servants. No brain to speak of, so no volition of their own. Undeath looked good on these creatures, too. Their relative strength to weight was something Korion had seen in no other creature before. Really, what madman wouldn’t use chickens in their undead army?

They were nearly invincible, too, with no brain to destroy. With a little more magic, Korion could complete their protection. Fire was their single weakness, and he only needed a couple reagents for a good Protection from Elements spell. In a matter of hours, these chickens would be unstoppable.

Someone screamed from behind Korion, and a frown curved the Overlord’s lips. Hmmm. He must have missed one of the plant workers.

Turning a millimeter at a time, he locked eyes with the man for just a second, drinking in the horror that warped his face. Then, looking down on Cluck, he said,

“Kill him.”

Cluck uttered a shrieking cry, and the chickens swarmed as one hivemind onto the doomed man. Their wings turned razor sharp, slicing into their poor victim, talons meeting flesh with vicious fervor.

Korion didn’t let them relish the kill, ordering them away from the body just barely after they had dispatched it. He had a world to conquer, after all.

The End

About the Author

J. A. Campanile was raised with a healthy love of classic literature and dreams of being “an author!” when she grew up. She primarily writes romance, which doesn't have anything to do with zombie chickens… except when it does.

She lives in the Rocky Mountains with her three trusty companion parrots, Blue, Woodstock, and Pepper. When she’s not writing, she can be found at her day job buried under stacks of data, in the library, or binging Netflix and driving everyone else in the room crazy by analyzing the plot and story arcs out loud.

The Great Chicken Escapade

David Millican

The Great Chicken Escapade David Millican

It was Christmas time in the year of… some year that had a Christmas.

Listen, I can't remember what year it is now, so don’t expect me to remember what year it was twelve years ago?

Anyway, my sister offered to care for her boss's animals during his vacation. To my delight, I received my draft notice to serve as senior executive assistant helper and horse pusher away-er.

With aplomb, I rose to the challenge and reveled in the experience. My job, be it ever so humble, was to push the horses away while my sister deposited the oats into the bin without the overzealous horses tearing the bucket out of her hand.

Then, with my superior stealth powers, I would slip in and out of the chicken coop to retrieve the day's eggs. Furthermore, my alpha mentality would be employed in staring down the goats as she swapped out the old straw for new. And, for two days, it was smooth sailing on the ship M.S.S. David Helps.

I should have known it wouldn't last; the signs were there, the omens plain for anyone to read. The sky had cleared, the snow had melted, birds shrilled in the trees, and everything was going well. Yet I had a lapse in judgement. The lack of issues convincing me I was supremely suited to the tasks at hand. Pride cometh before the fall.

Melissa asked if I would handle the chickens while she managed the goats.

“I got this!” I snapped.

(Did anyone else just hear impending doom drums? Weird.)

I skipped along the barn whistling a bright cheery tune. Okay, okay, I trudged through the mud, but I did whistle “Don't Fear the Reaper” which is cheery in its own way.

Kinda. Sorta.

But I digress, I rounded the corner of the barn and made ingress into the horse pen on my way to the chicken coop that lay just beyond. I puzzled over the fact that horses didn't charge at me as usual, but were doing their best to appear utterly uninterested.

“Finally learned your lesson,” I jeered, pulling open the gate that would give me access to the chicken coop door.

Pausing, I mentally prepared myself for the process of opening the door and slipping in before a wild hen got it in her head to escape. My process was simple but foolproof. I’d kick the door to scare the chickens back, and then inch it open just a crack so I could slide in.

(Okay, a little more than a crack, I mean I know I don't fit through cracks, but just go with me on this one.)

I snatch up the eggs, slide back to the door and execute a patented David backwards fan kick to ensure that no chickens would bolt out after me. Perfected over two days of rigorous testing, this routine excelled at keeping order in the chicken coop. There was no reason it shouldn't excel today. Except for that one little problem called complacency. You see these fowls, devious little creatures they are, had been lulling me into a false sense of superiority.

The door gave a deep resounding thump as I let fly a furious kick, and, like a ninja, I rocketed into the coop faster than the speed of sound. All was well as the chickens were against the far wall, clucking and ignoring me. I collected the eggs, only two today, a little low, but I'm not a chicken farmer, maybe it's completely normal. The task completed, I swung open the door with the undeserved confidence of a freshman psychology major.

Like a ball of lead dropping in my stomach, I realized I hadn't executed my patented backward fan kick. The chickens are chillin’ against the wall, my cocky inner voice declared. You’re good to go. This thought, however, conflicted with the golden blur of feathers streaking through my legs and to the great wide open beyond.

“A