Mary’s phone buzzed. When she checked the text message alert, she was surprised to see that thirty minutes had gone. It was almost time to leave. She scooped up an armful of smashed plastic bottles and dropped them in the bin.
A gasp caught her attention.
“Can you take the chicken back to Harmony Farms?” Mrs. Applewood asked, close to Mary’s ear.
“You know I’m terrible with directions.” Mary chuckled as she placed a clear glass bottle in one of the bright blue bins then placed a ball of aluminum foil in another. “Besides, I pretty much know nothing about chickens.”
“It’s only five miles, so I think I’m going to need you to take the chicken,” she repeated, her voice strained. She bit her bottom lip and then groaned.
Mary scowled and turned to face the other woman, prepared to disagree, but the pained expression on her face stilled her tongue. Mrs. Applewood held onto the bin in front of her, her knuckles white. Mary lowered her hand over the other woman’s.
“Are you okay?”
“No, I need a… a…” She puckered her lips. She clutched her middle, her stomach the shape of an over-inflated basketball.
Mary flinched when the head teacher bent forward. Her eyes widened as a gush of water spread down Mrs. Applewood’s legs. “Oh,” she said, pressing a hand over her mouth. “You need an ambulance,” she whispered.
She spun toward the other teacher’s assistant. “Lisa,” she said, waving her over. “We need an ambulance.”
“Which kid is hurt? I told them not to jump off the recycled trash art. Hans will not be happy if they’ve ruined the Squatting Zebra.” Lisa pushed up her sleeves.
Mary put her hands up. “No, not that,” she jerked her head toward Mrs. Applewood, “she’s in labor.”
Ten minutes later, a paramedic slammed the rear door of his ambulance and jogged around to the front seat, Mrs. Applewood tucked into the gurney inside. Once he climbed in, she was on her way to the hospital. Twenty worried kids watched from their seats on the idling school bus. An early end to the field trip wasn’t ideal, but the circumstance made it prudent. Lisa and the school bus driver would escort the kids back to their school.
Mary waved as the bus pulled out of the parking lot and drove out of sight.
She turned slowly, and three revelations descended upon her at once.
The crate was in Mrs. Applewood’s car.
The keys were in Mrs. Applewood’s purse.
And Mrs. Applewood’s purse was in the ambulance … already miles away.
That meant it was just her, the chicken, and the backseat of her cobalt Ford Fiesta.
Woman vs. Beast: the showdown in the parking lot of the Lone Star Recycling Center.
She laughed at her dramatics. How difficult could one chicken be?
Mary approached the poultry playpen. More interested in her movements than the bugs on the ground, the hen stood up tall, its posture highlighting the point of the orange beak.
Could chickens smell fear?
She eyeballed the walking feather duster. Mrs. Applewood said the owners took it to nursing homes to cheer up the residents. It was a therapy chicken.
How hard could it possibly be to shoo it into her backseat?
Mary tilted her head. She had one job standing between her and the end of the day, and she would get that thing in her over-sized purse if she had to.
“I just want you to stay safe.” Mary fumbled with the seatbelt buckle and yelped when Miss Frizzle’s beak speared her hand. For the eighth time. “It’s not like I have a chicken car seat.”
“B’gawk!” Miss Frizzle jumped out of the lap belt and away, screeching hen-obscenities at Mary from the floorboard. The hen pecked at a piece of lint on the upholstery. Then, with a wing flap, she jumped up onto the seat space, ducking forward to take a tenth run across the back seat. The jail bird was determined to break out.
“Fine.” Mary slammed the rear door of her Ford Fiesta and leaned on it, panting. No matter what Mary did, the feathered menace would not stay in the seatbelt. In a rush of wings and feathers, Miss Frizzle threw herself at the window.
Over the backseat, Miss Frizzle flew, a malevolent dragon set on devouring Texas with fire and ruin. The bantam meant to take over the world.
Mary squealed and leapt backward.
But the beady yellow eye kept coming. It was the eye of Sauron come true, staring into the depths of Mary’s soul. Time stood still. She beheld the Apocalypse in the eye of a chicken.
In slow motion, Miss Frizzle fell away and then darted to the other end of the Fiesta seat, preparing for another go.
Mary backed away from the car. “How are you a therapy chicken?”
“B’gawk!”
Mary dug her phone from her pocket. “Siri, call John.”
“Calling … John.”
The line rang once. A deep baritone answered, “Hey, Mary, how’s the field trip?” He had her on speakerphone. She hoped nobody was in his office.
“Mrs. Applewood is pushing out a baby, and there’s a crazy chicken,” Mary huffed.
“Wait. Just a minute.” There was the sound of shuffling. “She had a chicken?”
No more speakerphone. It was definitely not a speakerphone kind of conversation.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re the principal. You’re supposed to be smarter than that.”
“Why do you have a—”
She continued, “Do you know hens will not walk on leashes? I didn’t. Not that I even had a leash since that was in Mrs. Applewood’s car, but Miss Frizzle had a harness, and I used a piece of rope. Chickens hate leashes. Did you know that? I feel like everyone probably knows that but nobody bothered to tell me. There’s nothing about farm animals in my resume, you know that, right?”
Mrs. Frizzle watched from her perch on the armrest. It had probably been the hen’s plan all along. It was a verbal breakdown of pretty much everything that had been rattling around Mary’s brain for the last half-hour. John had no idea what a sick twisted chicken Miss Frizzle was.
Silence stretched. “Is this a joke?” He drew out the last word.
“John. Listen to me. If I said I am going to kill you for this, I wouldn’t be joking any less than I am right now.”
He stammered on the other end of the line. “There’s a ch-ch-chicken at the recycling center? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It’s called permaculture, John. Recycling energy. It’s a thing. Google it.”
“Okay. I’ll do that, but I still don’t understand—”
“I’m never volunteering for you again. Don’t even ask me.” Even as she said it, she knew she still had to substitute the following week. No field trips. That’s all.
“Now, Mary …”
“I have a chiiiiicken in my backseat.” She peered into the window. New problem. Her mouth twisted.
“What? Why do you have a chicken in your back seat?”
She whispered, “They poop.” All over her backseat. She probably had some sunflower seeds in her center console. Maybe she could throw them on the floor to keep the attention of the wandering fowl in the floorboard.
“I have heard that about them,” he said.
“Mrs. Applewood has gone into labor.”
“Did you call an ambulance?”
“Of course.” Miss Frizzle scratched at the carpet, pulling up threads as she did. Mary needed a new car anyway. It was time to trade-in.
“Sweetie, slow down, I don’t understand how—”
Mary sighed. She had to get the thing back to Harmony Farms. “John. When this is all over, know this: you’re paying to have my car detailed. End call, Siri.”
Chickens did NOT belong in cars, and that was a fact.
Mary resisted the urge to punch the horn. Instead, she pitched another handful of sunflower seeds over her shoulder, hoping the detail shop could work miracles. Her trade-in value was sinking like a rock. The vents were on full blast as she tried to leech some of the manure smell from the vehic
le.
“B-gawk!” The creature screeched at her from the backseat.
With every wing flap, Mary flinched, and her car swerved a little in her lane. She wasn’t going more than forty miles per hour, but there was nothing keeping Miss Frizzle in the backseat, and she never had a chicken in her hair before.
The GPS announced two miles to the destination.
Thank god.
Red and blue lights flashed in the rearview mirror.
Perfect. Just perfect. So close. She was so close to being free of the pooping nuisance.
She eased onto the shoulder and flipped on her hazard lights. Cars sped by.
“B-gawk!”
Mary tossed another handful of sunflower seeds over her shoulder.
In the side mirror, the grim-faced officer climbed out of his car and approached. She had to share the chicken smell with an Austin Police Officer. Law enforcement saw a lot of things. She had to explain the whole story or none of it made sense. Maybe she wouldn’t be the weirdest anecdote of the trooper’s life.
Mary grimaced. That sealed it. She was going to wind up on Austin Nightly news.
“Wait until the pregnant woman goes into labor,” Mary muttered. “The fifth horseman of the apocalypse isn’t a horse at all. It’s a chicken.” She rolled the window down three inches.
The police officer scowled and leaned close. His name badge read Martin. “Ma’am, I’m going to need you to open your window all the way. License, registration, and proof of insurance, please.”
“If I roll it down anymore, the… the chicken will get out.” Mary’s chin quivered.
“Ma’am, could you repeat that?” He frowned. “I pulled you over for reckless driving.”
“If I roll the window down anymore, the little red hen will fly out the window and get run over.” She sighed. “Look in the back seat.”
The officer tilted his head, appraising her for a long moment. Then he laid his hand over his holster and leaned close to the rear window.
“B-gawk!” In a flap of wings, Miss Frizzle rushed at the 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 the chimney, settling over the treetops.
Another work of history, he thought as he paused at the end of the forest to stare at the cottage’s steeply pitched, cross-gabled roof. Unlike modern houses, this cottage harkened back to earlier days when buildings were made of stone. He doubted this house was put together using a mixture of mud to create a type of cement. Despite that small fact, though the stones were common, they were obviously chosen for their colors. There was a pleasing appearance to the layout of the rocks. The colors blended together to form a sort of camouflage, allowing the cottage to melt into with the trees surrounding it, hiding it from a cursory look. Simple dark brown curtains hung in lattice-style windows, adding to the deceptiveness of the cottage.
Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, he realized had it not been for his lady guide, he probably wouldn’t have realized he’d found a house in the middle of the woods.
“Are you coming?” Later asked, exasperation evident in her voice and posture. “You act as though you’ve never seen a house before.”
“This is more like something I’d find in Europe than here in the States,” Harold replied, dragging his eyes away from the cottage. “It’s gorgeous. Very homey. Not at all rustic.”
“Oh.” She turned to her abode and shrugged. “It reminds me of home.” She glanced over her shoulder at him, a tiny smile on her lips that met her eyes and filled them. “The actual domicile, not the era.”
“To have lived through those times would have been amazing.” Harold sighed wistfully. At her raised brows, his face flushed, and he ducked his head. “Sorry. I’ve always loved history. Though, I’m learning that living through so many centuries isn’t easy, I do envy you and those in the magickal world.”
CRACKED: An Anthology of Eggsellent Chicken Stories Page 14
