CRACKED: An Anthology of Eggsellent Chicken Stories J. Posthumus (ereader that reads to you TXT) 📖

Yokohama resembled the kind of fancy rooster one would see on tea towels that city-dwellers bought to give their flats that “country kitchen” touch.

Gaius walked among the chickens clucking to some and chuckling at others. A brown and black Polish strutted by, with its ridiculous pompom of a crest. The crest was so fluffy that it blocked the bird’s range of vision and made them vulnerable to being carried off by birds of prey. Gaius’s father had stopped stocking them years ago, calling them “the dumbest possible birds.”

Pulling seeds from his bag, Gaius threw it to the nearer hens. A handful of Dorkings and Old English Game gathered around him, breeds so old that they had been eaten by Romans. As a farmer’s son, Gaius preferred the Dorking. The Old English Game tended to get overly protective of their young and attack his ankles when he came to feed them.

A motley Brabanter pecked at his offering, a hardy breed that was not particularly pretty but was ideal for surviving on these cold windy moors. Over to the left, he spotted a pair of big, shaggy Cochins. They looked light grey to his eye, but he knew that their color was categorized by the ridiculous name of lavender. The Cochins were a breed so fond of brooding that even the roosters occasionally sat on the eggs. According to some legends, basilisks hatched from the eggs of roosters. Gaius had long suspected that they were really laid by some other creature but incubated by male Cochins.

A curly-feathered young Frizzle, as shaggy as a Muppet, strutted beside him. Gaius itched for his wand. The fuzzy, goofy little thing was practically begging him to freeze it and watch it flop around in the mud.

A roof had been built along the back wall, giving the birds a place they could go to avoid rain, snow, or excessive heat. Near the beginning of the roofed section was an egg hatch. It stood open, allowing him to peek within. Gaius drew back in surprise. He was used to Easter Eggers that laid blue eggs and even Olive Eggers who laid green ones, but there were egg colors here that he had never even imagined: reds, pinks, lavenders, weirder colors that only girls knew the names of. Backing away, he nearly stepped on a rare Norfolk Grey that looked almost sullen as it huddled in front of the hutch, as if attempting to avoid the judgmental gaze of three imposing-looking German Deathlayers, with their white heads and spotted bodies.

Deathlayers were so named because—unlike most hens, who only laid for a set number of years—they were known to lay eggs until the day they dropped dead. Gaius considered them to be the egg-laying equivalent of a D&D character.

Gaius continued forward, slowly pressing through the birds, using his hiking stick to gently move the hens aside as he searched for where the black rooster could have gone. Was there a back gate he was missing? The fledgling Frizzle ran after him, bumping against his ankle, almost like a dog. He dropped a bit of seed for it. Maybe the bigger birds picked on it, and it was hungry. He looked ahead, scanning the many birds.

Wait. Was that…

A large bird sat among the chickens, but it was not the giant rooster. Gaius blinked twice, but his eyes were not deceiving him. Wide body, narrow fuzzy neck, evil-looking eyes, it was an emu. What was an emu doing among the chickens?

Gaius’s hand went for his wand, but, of course, it was not there. He sighed. Emu could be dangerous. At least, he thought they could. He drew the harmonica from the seed bag and held it in his hand, ready to play the three notes of the paralysis hex, if necessary, but the emu remained where it lay, watching him warily with its beady eyes.

He turned slowly in a circle. There were over a hundred chickens here, possibly two hundred. This was no mere family chicken coop but nor was it a commercial farm.

This was a chicken fancier’s farm.

Apparently, the farmer also fancied emus.

The little Frizzle ignored the grain and pecked at his ankle. It was constantly underfoot wherever he stepped.

Putting on his best Foghorn Leghorn accent, Gaius declared, “Go, I say, go away boy. You bother me.”

The little chicken stopped following him.

Gaius gave an involuntary surprised laugh. “A chicken finally listened to me. What are the chances of that?”

He glanced back. The little Frizzle had hunkered down and looked… depressed? Did chickens get depressed?

“Just kidding, little guy,” he joked, “You can follow me.”

The little chicken popped up and ran back to his leg.

Okay. That was weird.

Then he spotted it. Strutting around on the far side of the enclosure, near the food dispensers, was the black rooster. Only it was small. It strutted around the enclosure, passing a bronze-necked Campine, the black cock was only a tiny bit taller than the hen.

What the cluck?

Gaius moved closer for a better look. Something glittered to his left, followed by a plume of red mist, an unpleasantly familiar red mist. Gaius shouted, dropping his bag and hiking stick in surprise, and lunged to the side. Only he lunged to the wrong side, right into the red mist.

The world turned upside down.

Or rather, it grew. Everything all around him grew bigger, much bigger. The whole world had become gigantic.

The chickens had become gigantic.

Oh, no.

He had been transformed, hadn’t he?

Once upon a time, he had gotten into an argument with one of his best friends at school and ended up as a sheep. This was better than that. He could still think. When he had been a sheep, he had not remembered that he was Gaius. That had been a very disturbing evening.

Gaius looked down, extending one leg, so he could see it, and then putting it back quickly, lest he flop over as his balance seemed off. His legs were chicken legs. His feet were… hidden beneath fluffy white feathers.

No! No, no, no, no. Don’t