Contents
Foreword
Bokerah Brumley
Martian Chicken Man
L. Jagi Lamplighter
Frozen Chicken Master
Joshua M. Young
Spacer Williams’ Chicken
Dawn Witzke
A Murder Most Fowl
Grace Bridges
A Chicken for Miss Cuthbert
Jane Lebak
Things with Wings
John M. Olsen
Stray Thoughts
Clair W. Kiernan
Inspection Report
Bokerah Brumley
Field Trip Chicken
J. F. Posthumus
The Chicken of Doom
J. Trevor Robinson
Clucking in the Dark
Cedar Sanderson
The Great Chicken Escape
Margo Bond Collins
Chickening Out
Karina Fabian
Motherclucker
Amber Draeger
It Clucked
Grace Bridges
PŪKEKO: The Blue Swamp Hen
J. D. Beckwith
A Few Good Hens
Karina Fabian
Home Improvements
Richard Paolinelli
Barn Wars
Denton Salle
Chicken Dance
Abigail Falanga
Free Range
J. A. Campanile
Korion the Unclean
David Millican
The Great Chicken Escapade
Bokerah Brumley
Chicken Magic
Thank You
“Martian Chicken Man” by Bokerah Brumley. Copyright © 2020 by Bokerah Brumley.
“Frozen Chicken Master” by L. Jagi Lamplighter. Copyright © 2020 by L. Jagi Lamplighter.
“Spacer Williams’ Chicken” by Joshua M. Young. Copyright © 2020 by Joshua M. Young.
“A Murder Most Fowl” by Dawn Witzke. Copyright © 2020 by Dawn Witzke.
“A Chicken for Miss Cuthbert: An Earthcore Story” by Grace Bridges. Copyright © 2020 by Grace Bridges.
“Things with Wings” by Jane Lebak. Copyright © 2020 by Jane Lebak.
“Stray Thoughts” by John M. Olsen. Copyright © 2020 by John M. Olsen.
“Inspection Report” by Clair W. Kiernan. Copyright © 2020 by Clair W. Kiernan.
“Field Trip Chicken” by Bokerah Brumley. Copyright © 2018 by Bokerah Brumley.
“The Chicken of Doom” by J. F. Posthumus. Copyright © 2020 by J. F. Posthumus.
“Clucking in the Dark: the 100% ‘True’ Story of How the High Park Capybaras Escaped” by J. Trevor Robinson. Copyright © 2020 by J. Trevor Robinson.
“The Great Chicken Escape” by Cedar Sanderson. Copyright © 2020 by Cedar Sanderson.
“Chickening Out: A Shifters United Story” by Margo Bond Collins. Copyright © 2020 by Margo Bond Collins.
“Motherclucker: A Space Traipse: Hold My Beer Story” by Karina Fabian. Copyright © 2020 by Karina Fabian.
“It Clucked.” by Amber Draeger. Copyright © 2020 by Amber Draeger.
“PŪKEKO, The Blue Swamp Hen: An Earthcore Story” by Grace Bridges. Copyright © 2020 by Grace Bridges.
“A Few Good Hens” by J. D. Beckwith. Copyright © 2020 by J. D. Beckwith.
“Home Improvements” by Karina Fabian. Copyright © 2020 by Karina Fabian.
“Barn Wars: the Rise of Brooster Motherclucker” by Richard Paolinelli. Copyright © 2020 by Richard Paolinelli.
“Chicken Dance” by Denton Salle. Copyright © 2020 by Denton Salle.
“Free Range” by Abigail Falanga. Copyright © 2020 by Abigail Falanga.
“Korion the Unclean” by J. A. Campanile. Copyright © 2020 by J. A. Campanile.
“The Great Chicken Escapade” by David Millican. Copyright © 2020 by David Millican.
“Chicken Magic” by Bokerah Brumley. Copyright © 2020 by Bokerah Brumley.
Cover Design by Elizabeth Constantopoulos
Proofreading by Grace Bridges www.gracebridges.kiwi
Formatting by Jennifer Laslie
The stories in this book are works of fiction. The characters, locales, events, dialogue, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All stories in this work are the Copyright of their authors as noted.
The “Cracked” anthology as a whole is Copyright © 2020 to Bokerah Brumley DBA as “Joyful Peacock Press.” The publisher does not claim any rights to the Copyright or intellectual property of any of the works contributed to this anthology.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Published by Bokerah Brumley,
P.O. Box 367
Cisco, Texas 76437
www.bokerah.com
www.superbokerah.com
Foreword
Bokerah Brumley
What do you do during lockdown?
As an entire nation, I think none of us knew until we were there in the middle of doing what needed to be done.
Reality turned somber and heavy really quickly for many of us.
I reside on a farm in the middle of a sparsely populated county. Homeschooling is a way of life for us. In everything, our manner of living did not change all that much from March 2020 onward, but I struggled. Not so much with toilet paper or supplies.
But I struggled mightily with the weight of what-if…
On one side, we had the economic crash. On the other, the heightened awareness of germs/viruses and how these things spread whether we intend them to or not.
It was a lot then. It’s still a lot now. But writers’ brains never rest.
In April 2020, for the first time, putting together the chicken anthology that I had always planned to do “someday” seemed like a good idea.
I thought maybe I’d gone a bit cracked. I consulted with the hens, and they agreed. So, I put the idea out there, thinking nobody would take it seriously.
Yet feathers flew!
So many authors were so excited about the chicken idea and, for some, it was the first time they’d written in months. For others, it made them laugh in the middle of dismal day job issues or the heaviness of dealing with a shut-down.
I’ve never gotten so much positivity so quickly. That’s when I knew.
WE HAD TO DO IT!
So, I spoke with an incredible cover designer friend, Elizabeth. (To know her is to love her!) Not only is she an incredible writer, she’s a fabulous designer. She made this amazing book cover, and the project moved forward.
At long last, here we are. We’ve reached the finish line, and this half-baked idea is going out into the world. Thanks for being here with us!
We have SO MANY ideas in here… chickens on Mars, chicken shifters, alien chickens, magic chickens, chicken houses, and all the mythical chickens in between. We even have a couple of mostly true tales toward the end.
Keep reading! We’ve got something
for everyone, and some things that will surprise you. Above all, I hope CRACKED cracks you up, too!
~Bokerah
Chicken Curator
Martian Chicken Man
Bokerah Brumley
Martian Chicken Man
Bokerah Brumley
Harmony Settlement, Habitation Module 21.5
Mars Test Colony, Tharsis Region
Local: Sol 1864
Earth: 30 June 2075
Salvador Reyes, Mission Specialist—or Sallie to his friends—stirred a pile of dehydrated compost beneath the glare of the grow lights, imagining the headlines back home.
CHICKENS LAND ON MARS
The Martian wind howled outside the octagonal habitation-turned-agricultural module, rattling the specially fabricated panels that made up the whole of Harmony. The compound was nestled in a low spot between two ridges. On a clear day, he could sometimes make out the volcano Olympus Mons to the North. Valles Marineris, the great canyon system, stretched out to the south and east.
Next year, after the second scheduled wave of astronauts arrived, four members of their crew would be sent to scout Hellas Planitia. He’d been there six months, but Mission Control hadn’t yet notified those crewmen that would be included in the exploratory expedition. He hoped he was one of those selected. He liked change.
He leaned on his composite pitchfork. A small shed rested at the back of the room, far too big for the few tools he had, but NASA liked to plan ahead. Sallie kept two shovels and two pitchforks. Someday, they’d have a whole string of agricultural modules, and they’d grow enough dirt to change the surface of the Martian world.
In the middle of the space, beneath the low hanging grow lights, a metal rectangle made up his workspace. If needed, the table would be easy to sterilize, if they wound up with a broody hen and a subsequent excess of roosters. Off to one side, a mobile chicken coop waited. It resembled a square box, resting on all-terrain tires. Instead of solid, closed-in sides, the walls were made out of a plastic mesh that he’d helped design a handful of years ago. Ventilation was important to roosting poultry, and the birds were important to building long-term viability and self-reliance in the test colony.
The intercom double beeped.
“Sallie?” Cynthia Port’s voice came over the speaker. As the Martian Module Commander, Cynthia kept the new Martian civilization in order.
“Go for Sallie.”
“Have you seen Aashi?”
Sallie glanced at the monitor over the sliding doors, but instead of displaying the time, his album Best of Van Morrison played softly from the speakers, the image bouncing from one corner to the other. That and one disc of classic show reruns were all the personal items he’d been allowed to pack. He hadn’t seen anything but shit glitter—dehydrated compost.
“No,” he said. “Something wrong?”
Cynthia sighed. “She hasn’t checked in, and I can’t raise her on comms.”
Aashi Das, Educator Mission Specialist, didn’t forget to check-in. If she was stuck outside the module… She wouldn’t have much time.
Concern pricked along Sallie’s skin. “That’s not like her. Next steps?”
“Assemble in the commons.”
Doing his best to hide his concern, Sallie jogged toward the common area, but the empty space confused him. Nobody was there. What had happened? He turned, certain he’d missed something.
A small figure leapt out from one of the stand-up cabinets. “Raaaaaaahhhhh!”
Sallie leapt backward, tripping on a chair leg, cursing and spitting. He swung his fists wildly. “What was that?”
Aashi’s face split in a grin as big as Saturn’s rings. “Gotcha.”
“Don’t do that. You coulda killed me.” Sallie crossed his arms and scowled, but he couldn’t stop his smile, and his tone held no ire.
Eighteen Hours Later
Sallie pressed the button on his wrist monitor. Connected to his smart suit, it flashed his vitals and then the time. 0530. Up before the crack. Again. The farming thing was cutting into his sleep habits. A Martian Sol might be 24.5 hours long, but maintaining his circadian rhythm was important.
He shoved the pitchfork into the soil until it hit the hard bottom of the module and flipped the mound over. He repeated the process, tilling the soil one forkful at a time. They had to keep their experiments separate from the pristine wilderness of the Martian landscape. It suited him fine. Made it harder for the inside to wind up outside and vice versa.
Sallie never figured his biological sciences degree would lead to regenerative farming on a foreign planet. He started out with the idea of teaching in a high school or maybe a college. Strange the way things came ‘round.
In keeping with his normal routine, he’d work until breakfast and stop to eat. At 1000, he’d radio the transport, get an ETA, and take his morning spin in the Rover with his helmet cam. Once the transport arrived, it would be all hands-on deck for unloading boxes, crates, and barrels into the solar-powered, pull-behind carts.
Unless something happened to the transport, the Mars colony would have poultry within twenty-five hours. NASA hadn’t released their plan to the media yet, but would once they were certain the birds survived the trip from the lunar colony. Sallie had been given permission to pull a social media stunt.
Sallie sifted the fibrous mulch into the powdery dirt, making sure the discarded potato plants dispersed evenly. Potatoes had been one of the first things they’d tried to grow. The harvest had been small and puny but a promising start in Aashi’s garden. That woman loved her veggies. She’d declared it worth a social media post. Which Sallie photo bombed.
NASA had a love/hate relationship with most of Sallie’s social media escapades. They hadn’t been crazy about his AirBnB listing for a Martian yurt with a spectacular view of Olympus Mons… He hadn’t figured someone would make the million-dollar reservation. The Administrator of NASA visited the trillionaire bidder to make a private apology and explain that they couldn’t make good on the weekend in the Yurt. Then there was the guy that hired him to Uber him around the Mariner Valley—or Valles Marineris. Mission control caught that one before it hit the digi-papers.
In Sallie’s case, rash went along with brilliant. He knew it. NASA knew it. Besides, there was no such thing as bad publicity. He liked to think of himself as their favorite bad boy.
Along with the other dozen crewmembers, he was one of the best damn problem solvers they had and they couldn’t exactly send him to his room from thirty-four million miles away. Though, they probably regretted approving his psych evals for the long-term assignment outside of their reach.
Breathing hard from the work, Sallie leaned the pitchfork against the free-standing table in the center of the room, careful to avoid knocking the grow lights. Thirty-eight percent of the gravity of Earth meant he needed to work harder in the ARED—or Advanced Resistive Exercise Device—room. He shouldn’t be winded from stirring dirt. He stabbed the next vacuum-sealed cube and slit the casing lengthwise.
Nine down, only one more to go.
In order to ship the compost, NASA dehydrated it for the long voyage from Earth to Mars. They’d received one barrel of poultry feed and one brick of mulch and manure for the last ten monthly supply shipments, along with tools, replacement items, and human food. They even shipped toilet paper. They had the use measured down to the minimum.
So far, the colonists received enough to cover the room in several inches of the stuff. NASA had been planning chickens on Mars for years.
He’d give it all a good soak to reconstitute it with water from the H2O collection unit that held melted permafrost so it could be used as rocket fuel on the return trip to Earth and filtered to use inside. Future plants would break down the nutrients more easily after reconstitution. Then he could inoculate the soil and start introducing the bacteria that would eventually help break down the organic material, essentially growing topsoil on Mars. He upended the package, spreading dried fibrous matter over the ferrous dus
t. It reminded him of glitter art projects back in grade school.
The higher-ups had granted him permission to take an Instagram Selfie with the poultry and save it to the memory banks so it would be uploaded to his page the minute it got within range of Earth WIFI. The astro-fan girls would love it.
Hashtag: Save the Planet.
He snort-laughed at his own joke.
“Catching a cold, Sallie?” Aashi Das, Educator Mission Specialist, interrupted his pre-dawn musings. Her footsteps rustled against the reinforced planking that covered the Martian surface in the halls between rooms, quiet enough to be socked. Where Sallie lived dangerously by creating newsworthy gimmicks to the chagrin of NASA, Aashi lived dangerously by wearing socks and leaving her boots in her room.
“Always gotta sneak up on a guy.” He straightened and turned toward her. It was early for her. Most of the crew didn’t get up until 0600. “You know shit glitter makes me sneeze.”
She laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. They all wore the same blue jumpsuits, but she wore hers best. She stood about seven centimeters shorter than he was; she was one of the youngest crewmen. “I can never figure out why you call it that,” she said.
CRACKED: An Anthology of Eggsellent Chicken Stories Page 1
