CRACKED: An Anthology of Eggsellent Chicken Stories

by J. F. Posthumus

  “You’re strange for a human. How did you even manage to get here? Part of my job is to ensure wards are in place to keep humans out. Yet, my wards are still in place and working. But, here you are!”

  “I just drove up,” Harold replied. “Even Lord McMillan can’t figure it out.”

  Laughter as sweet as honey tinkled like silver bells from her lips. “That must be driving him crazy.”

  Harold stared at her in confusion.

  She giggled. “Angus hates mysteries. I’m certain he told you only those with magickal blood can see the place. Perhaps you aren’t as mundane as you seem. Have you been tested yet?”

  “I’m sorry, but ‘tested’? There’s a test?”

  The lady gamekeeper nodded at him before leaning the rifle in a corner near her front door.

  Harold sighed. “Mr. McMillan didn’t mention anything about being tested. Not that I’m worried about it! I’m enjoying myself and my short time here.” In truth, he was going to miss the academy after the teacher he was substituting for returned.

  “What do you mean ‘short time’?” Later asked. “Aren’t you a professor here?”

  “Oh, I was sent as a substitute for Mrs. Clarke,” he replied.

  “That bat got exactly what she deserved,” Later stated. “I warned Angus against letting that idiot take that field trip. Told him something would happen.” Her lips stretched until she was giving him a broad grin. Laughter, mirth, and something wild and mischievous twinkled in her eyes. “You may be here for longer than a week or two, Master Harold. Especially if I have any say regarding her return.”

  A shiver raced down Harold’s spine. Desire mixed with fear and he felt himself drawn to this strange woman. “Ah, well, I wouldn’t object to a longer tenure here. It’s a very enjoyable school,” he said. “How long have you been the gamekeeper here? In fact, what do you do as the gamekeeper, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Come with me while I check on Vestra and her brood,” Later said.

  Nodding eagerly, Harold followed her around the corner of the cottage. The yard in the back was just as simple as the front. Chopped wood was stacked neatly between two trees, an axe leaning against the front of the stack. A small shed sat further back in the forest. Chickens wandered around clucking, scratching the dirt, and chasing bugs. A rooster with bold gold, orange, and black feathers strutted alongside the hens. Fluffy white feathers wrapped around the base of his long black iridescent tail feathers that swayed and bounced as he walked. A single black and white hen, with feathers ruffled, herded her clutch of fluffy chicks off to the side of the other chickens.

  “I take care of the magickal creatures on the academy grounds. We have a variety of Magickal creatures that are used for lessons, ingredients, and also pets. There are also the wild ones that live on the mountain. Like the rest of the wildlife, there are predators and prey. Those that threaten the academy, I remove.” She paused as she seemed to consider something then shrugged. “I’ve been here since I retired from the Wild Hunt a century ago.”

  “The wild hunt?” Harold repeated. “As in the Wild Hunt? The hunt of myth and legend? You were a part of that?”

  “Well, yes,” she said, leading Harold past the small shed and deeper into the woods. “I led the Hunt for centuries.”

  When she looked back at him, the sunlight shone down through the canopy of the trees, spotlighting her. Her hair shone with red and silver highlights. It sparkled and shone like a gem. The tips of her ears broke through the unruly, untamed strands, and her eyes shone with a fierceness Harold had never before seen.

  A creature of the wilderness, he thought, mesmerized. He swallowed hard at how dangerous she appeared, standing before him with danger shining in her eyes. Of course, she was also absolutely beautiful standing in the sunshine, her hair unkempt with little leaves stuck here and there, wearing a loose T-shirt, and blue jeans that showed her trim figure. The boots were the only awkward part about her. They looked too big for her petite stature.

  “That… that explains a lot,” he finally said after a few moments of trying to make his tongue work. “I would enjoy hearing stories, if you’d be willing to tell them.”

  “What does it explain?” Her eyes narrowed as she spoke each word.

  Harold cleared his throat nervously. He suspected she did not need a weapon to remove his head if he misspoke. “Why the other teachers avoid you. You’re not only dangerous, but beautiful and obviously very intelligent. Even among mundanes, people avoid women who are beautiful and intelligent. Throw in ‘dangerous’ and it’s the perfect recipe for being shunned. Those who are unusual or don’t follow the ‘typical’ lifestyles expected of people have often been treated as outcasts throughout history.”

  Later tipped her head to the side and studied Harold. “You aren’t terrified of me.”

  “I respect what you can do to me, certainly, but I hope I haven’t given you a reason to wish me harm.”

  “Not yet,” she replied cheerfully. Turning on her heel, she continued down the path.

  Letting out a breath, Harold followed behind her, making enough noise to wake the dead, while she moved without making a sound. Admittedly, he did enjoy watching her move. It wasn’t often one was able to watch how a hunter walked. He tried to copy her and found that with effort and a lot of concentration, he was able to make considerably less noise.

  “Not bad,” she said as she stopped in front of what looked like a giant nest.

  The size of a small kiddie pool, it resembled a very muddy hole in the ground with twigs and vegetation pulled in around it. Level with the forest floor was a very large toad, complete with dark brown and black bumpy skin and round gold eyes with black pupils. It blinked twice before letting out a long chirp.

  Harold leapt backwards, nearly stumbling over a branch. “What is that thing? It looks like a toad, but toads are not that large!”

  Later laughed again. “It’s a giant toad and her clutch is ready to hatch.” She pursed her lips, studying the large amphibian. “Though, they may have already hatched. Today was their ‘due date’.”

  “Their what?” Harold repeated, straightening himself. He leaned forward and peered at the enormous toad. He guessed it was easily fifty or sixty pounds, if not closer to one hundred. “I’m not that familiar with amphibians or reptiles, but even I know toads and frogs don’t sit on eggs like birds. They also typically lay their eggs in water.”

  “Yes, toads do generally lay their eggs in water, but sometimes they are hatched by chickens, in which case you’ll get a basilisk,” Later explained. She reached over and stroked the toad between her giant eyes. The toad closed its eyes and trilled. “This lady is hatching some rooster eggs.”

  “Roosters don’t lay eggs,” Harold said dumbly. He was starting to feel as though he were in some weird fairy tale again. At least he knew he wasn’t dead and in a weird level of Hell. “Hens lay eggs.”

  Just as Harold finished speaking, the toad shifted her weight and a tiny head popped up from beneath the toad’s front legs. Harold yelped and hopped backwards. This time, he did fall over the branch.

  The not-a-chick hopped up on the toad’s leg before jumping to the edge of the nest. Harold shrieked again and scrambled backwards further as he got his first good look at what the toad had hatched.

  The size of a large breed chick, the fluffy black and yellow feathered creature had the head, beak, and eyes of a normal chick. The wings were small and also normal for a baby chicken. Even the feet and toes matched those of a chicken. The rest of the creature was most definitely not a normal chick. No chicken Harold had ever seen had the body and tail of a lizard. There were two bitty little feathers at the tip of the tail.

  Later scooped up the little creature. It sounded very much like the normal chicks Harold had seen earlier. She let the little thing on the ground, and it raced over to Harold, peeping the whole time. It wagged its tail, reminding Harold of a puppy. As he stopped trying to scramble backwards, the chicken-liz
ard hopped up on his stomach and trotted up his chest until it was eye-to-chin with him. It tilted its head back and forth, as it wagged its little lizard tail.

  Harold stared down his nose at the little thing. It cheeped again before promptly moving to his shoulder and began examining his ear. Cringing, he leaned away from the creature.

  “What will happen if it bites me?” he asked, trying to eye it warily and failing because of its size and location.

  “You’ll grow scales and wings within a few days,” Later replied without missing a beat. “A tail, too. Oh, and you’ll start trilling like a toad.”

  “What!” Harold all but screeched. Gingerly, he shooed the little chicken-lizard from his shoulder. He leapt to his feet and backed away from it until he was almost hiding behind Later. “So, this has been a lovely visit, but perhaps I should be returning!”

  Later burst into laughter until she was doubled over. The toad rose up on its legs, croaking at her. As it moved, a small horde of chicken-lizard babies popped up and began trilling. They reminded Harold of a swarm of locusts. That is, if locusts had tails.

  “Oh, gods! There’s more!” he screeched.

  The baby chicken-lizard crouched down before racing towards him, its neck outstretched and the tail straight behind it.

  Harold cried out again and backpedaled until his back was to a tree. The chicken-lizard pounced on his shoe and began bouncing up and down, cheeping loudly.

  Looking from the tiny fluffy chicken-lizard to Later, who was bent over, holding her stomach as she laughed, Harold wondered what new Hell he’d encountered.

  “Ah, the darlings have hatched!” the voice of Headmaster Angus McMillan cut through the noise and laughter. Seconds later, McMillan appeared in his long, flowing robes. The auburn highlights in his dark hair shone in the sunlight that filtered through the treetops. Rich brown eyes surveyed the scene and Harold suspected it took McMillan a scant few seconds to grasp the situation. The headmaster was an astute man and little escaped him.

  “Laelothryll Araloth, what mischief have you been up to now?” McMillan asked, a brilliant smile curving his lips as his eyes danced with merriment.

  Trying to mouth the name McMillan spoke, Harold gave up and simply shook his head. “I’m definitely calling you ‘Later’, now.”

  McMillan coughed politely, cleared his throat, and crossed to the baby chicken-lizard bouncing on Harold’s foot. He scooped up the little creature in one hand and began stroking it gently. Laelothryll waved dismissively at McMillan as she worked to curb her laughter.

  “Aren’t those things dangerous?” Harold asked as he straightened his clothes, trying to appear somewhat presentable.

  “Oh, when they’re older, cockatrices are absolutely dangerous,” McMillan stated. “As little chicklets? They’re no more dangerous than a normal chick.”

  Raising his brows, Harold straightened and stared at Later. “Is that so?”

  Straightening, Later turned her attention to Harold and burst out laughing again, apparently at his irritated expression, he decided.

  “She said that if they bit me, I’d grow scales and feathers and start trilling.”

  The headmaster began laughing. “No, no. Nothing like that. The danger comes after they’re juveniles.” He held the fluffy chicklet out to Harold.

  “Ah. Okay,” Harold said, trying to not be miffed at Later for her teasing. Taking the chicklet, he studied the unusual creature. “They do look like the medieval drawings.”

  Returning the fluffy baby to the nest, he stepped back to watch the toad with her chicklets. Except the baby hopped right back out of the nest and rushed over to him where it settled on his foot. Curling its tail around its little fluffy body, the chick tucked its head under an itty bitty wing. Sighing, Harold bent over, picked the chicklet up, and again returned it to the nest. The toad, this time, settled down over the chicklet.

  “Let’s retire to the cottage,” Later suggested, still giggling. “You look as though you could use a stiff drink, Master Harold.”

  “Yes, I do believe I could,” Harold replied, nodding.

  “You’re so cute,” Later said, still giggling. “I’ve never met someone so endearingly naïve as you.”

  “Uh, thank you? I think?” Harold replied. The smile on her face gave him some reassurance that she actually did like him.

  Maybe she wouldn’t kill him any time soon.

  Mr. McMillan led the way back, and Later gestured for Harold to follow. He gave the giant toad a final look and noticed a tiny head popped up at the edge of the nest again. Shrugging, he hurried after the headmaster.

  After a few yards, Harold heard more giggling from the gamekeeper. Glancing over his shoulder, he spotted a chicklet, scurrying after him. It hopped over branches, scrambling along, occasionally falling and rolling before picking itself up and hurrying along again.

  “I do believe you have a shadow, Master Harold,” Later said, mirth filling every word.

  “Shouldn’t it stay with its, uh, mother?” Harold asked as the chicklet skidded to a stop at his feet.

  “Oh, it would be decidedly unhappy if it did that,” Later stated, the grin still on her lovely face. “That would be decidedly bad.”

  “Oh?”

  “Indeed. It won't kill you if you keep it happy,” she replied.

  There was a serious undertone in her voice that caught Harold off guard. He glanced at McMillan who had returned to see why they had stopped. The headmaster nodded, reaffirming her words.

  “What if I leave it behind?” he asked.

  “It'll definitely remember you and try to kill you later,” Later replied with a dismissive shrug.

  “Great. So, my fate is death by a chicken.”

  Mr. McMillan and Later laughed.

  “No, no, nothing quite like that,” McMillan stated, cheerfully. “If they bond with you as a chicklet, which this one obviously has, they will see you as a mother. Like with any child, unless you do something to cause it to fear for its life, you won’t become victim to their natural attacks. Such as turning you to stone. Or setting you on fire.”

  “It would figure this would be my fate.” Harold sighed. “That I end up with a chicken of doom.”

  The End

  About the Author

  Wife and mother of five, J. F. Posthumus is an IT Tech with over a decade of experience. When she isn't arguing with computers and their gremlins, or being mom to four young monsters (the eldest has flown the nest), she's crafting, writing, or creating art. Starting with fairy tales, she quickly fell down the rabbit hole of reading where she discovered a love for mysteries, fantasy, and the occasional romance. It wasn’t long before she picked up a pencil and began writing while incorporating her love for murder, mysteries, and fantasy into her works.

  https://www.facebook.com/authorjfposthumus

  Clucking in the Dark

  The 100% “True” Story of How the High Park Capybaras Escaped

  J. Trevor Robinson

  Clucking in the Dark

  J. Trevor Robinson

  An irate Canada goose honked at Vivian and Mason as they entered the zoo; they ignored it and never noticed the chickens staring at them from the bushes.

  It was an idyllic little spot. Near the southern end of Toronto’s High Park, the largest park in the city, visitors could nearly wander into it by accident. Only a small wooden signpost with an unobtrusive welcome sign marked the place where one of the park paths became the zoo entrance, and pedestrians often found themselves walking past the dozen or so animal pens on either side without meaning to.

  The animals were hardly what most would call exotic, but they were well-kept and given plenty of room in their enclosures. There were no tigers or zebras; instead there were Barbary sheep, West Highland cows, several wallabies, and peacocks. The largest crowd gathered around an empty enclosure, taking photos of the unoccupied space.

  “They still haven’t caught those things!” Mason said, pointing at the vacant habitat. “I he
ard they were spotted at Bloor and Lansdowne the other day, but it was never confirmed.”

  The things in question were a pair of capybaras, named Bonnie and Clyde after they had escaped the zoo four weeks prior. The educational plaque by the fence had a photo of the South American rodents.

  “They’re like hundred-pound guinea pigs, aren’t they?” Vivian said. “The official story is that one of the zoo employees didn’t latch the gate properly, and Bonnie and Clyde took the opportunity to escape.”

  The tone of her voice prompted Mason to study Vivian’s face. He hunched his broad shoulders and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “You think there’s an angle here. Not just that, you think there’s a weird angle. I know that look,” Mason said. Vivian was a blogger and freelance reporter, specializing in odd and unusual stories. “What, do you think ghosts stole the capybaras?” he asked.

  “Come on, Mason, you and I saw a ghost together once. I don’t get how you can still be so skeptical all the time,” Vivian replied. Her wavy brown hair bounced as she shook her head, and she grinned. Mason was in the same line of work, minus the paranormal angle; he reported for the Cross-Canada Observer, one of the largest independent outlets in the country. She knew that no matter how annoyed he seemed, he’d be just as curious as she was to find the truth.

  “But as it happens, no,” Vivian continued. “A ghost seems unlikely this time.”

  She pointed to the ground near the fence. On the capybara’s side of the chain link, barely distinguishable in the dirt, were miniscule tracks that weren’t left by a capybara and certainly not by any ghost.

  Mason hunkered down for a closer look. “Those are chicken tracks. And… tiny boot prints?” he said.