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

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 vehicle.

“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