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

“Shaddup,” I told him. “She told a more convincing story than you. A pixie in grasshopper form, without magic, building a flying house on his own? You didn't think we fell for that?”

“I'm a capable guy!”

“Hope you're capable of a better story than that.”

Percival's office looked like what you'd expect from a lawyer fresh out of college—too many textbooks and not enough client files. Percival himself still hadn't grown into his expensive sports coat and tie, literally or figuratively. Late bloomer, complete with zits. I saw why he'd chosen contract law. A jury would take one look at him and doubt he had a license to drive much less practice law. And here I was, offering him the break of a lifetime—a case for the history books.

Don't you love me?

Despite his youth, our spunky new lawyer showed a quick mind and a certain charm. He rose, pulled out Grace's chair, snatched a plant off his file cabinet, and set it on the desk for Jiminy. I peeked at his computer screen—Baba Yaga's dossier and the entry on verbal contracts from Ye Fool's Guide to Faerie Law.

He sat down, opened a new file, and then turned to Jiminy. “I'd like to start with your real name,” he said.

Oh, yeah. I chose well.

Jiminy blinked. “It's Dung, Byatledung, to be exact. Mundanes seemed to respond to Jiminy better.”

Aaron didn’t laugh. “A pleasure to meet you, Dung. I understand from Vern you want your house back. I can help you, but I need the truth from you first—from true names to what really transpired with Baba Yaga.”

Dung fiddled with a bare stem. “Like I told Vern and Sister Grace, I was trying to escape this pointless war my tribesmen had started. I'm an engineer, not a warrior! I don't understand how, but I ended up in the North Caspian, without magic and stuck in this form, with Baba Yaga's house scratching in the dirt to get me. Terrifying! Fortunately, the movement was making Baba Yaga motion sick, so she took me in. We got to talking about the house; I explained my situation, and…”

I'll spare you the sob story. In the end, they formed a partnership: Dung would have free rein of the house and access to all of Baba Yaga's magic and knowledge—and she's a savvy old lady to have kept her house and mortar running as long as she had. In return, he'd help her reinvent her home. In the end, however, the changes he'd built into his model had been too intrusive. The propellers she could handle, but the pipes and gauges outside the house? Obviously, Dung didn't take into account Russian winters. Plus the windows, the pink and blue décor… not her, though she liked the decorative studwork.

She'd demanded that he redesign the entire thing or she'd have chocolate grasshopper for dessert. He'd hopped the first owl out of the Urals, then decided that since he'd built the house, he ought to have it.

Aaron asked more questions, the kind that make more sense in a Mundane Fortune-500 Corporation than a Faerie Enchanted Shack, but Dung answered as well as he could, with me translating and explaining as needed. That's me, the great educator. Grace leaned back with her rosary beads and let me run the show. She was glad to be out of it for once.

Finally, however, Aaron asked her a question. “Sister, does your magical knowledge extend to potions?”

She sat forward. “It's limited. My talent is more toward channeling the power of God. What do you need to know?”

He didn't even blink at the casual way she said that. You know, a few years and a few pounds, and he might be all right in a courtroom after all. He pulled up a file on his computer. “It's just that we have this legend about how tea can restore some of Baba Yaga's lost youth… ”

The next day, Grace, I, Jiminy Byatledung, and Aaron Percival stepped through the portal that took us to Baba Yaga's home.

Aaron shook off the shock of his first real experience with magic and strode up to the blank front wall. “Turn your back to the forest and your front to us!” he called out.

The house did a lovely pirouette en pointe, then crouched before us with a deafening groan.

Baba Yaga's face appeared in the open door. “What do you want?”

“Madam, I am Aaron Percival, Attorney at Law. I wish to offer my services in negotiating a settlement between you and Byatledung the Pixie.”

“Are you going to ask me a lot of questions?”

He held up a large bag full of Grace's special mint-and-rose tea. “Certainly not! I thought we might discuss the matter over drinks.”

I would not have believed it, but the old crone actually cocked her shoulder and gave him a wink. “You sly man! Come in. Bring the bug.”

He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and followed.

The door closed on her cackling.

I turned to Grace. “This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

The End

About the Author

Written by Vern

Karina Fabian writes science fiction and fantasy. More importantly, she writes all my adventures. I’m Vern, a Faerie dragon who was brought low by St. George and pressed into serving sapient beings. Right now, that means living in the Mundane world and solving mysteries that involve the clash of magic and tech. It’s an interesting gig, and you can read more about it at fabianspace.com

Barn Wars The Rise of Brooster Motherclucker

Richard Paolinelli

Barn Wars Richard Paolinelli

“I tell you, boy,” Brooster Motherclucker proclaimed as he scratched at the dirt in disgust. “There’s something downright diabolical goin’ on around this here barnyard. It’s high, I say, it’s high time we do something about it.”

“Well, I think,” Durass Backra grumbled, shaking his green head at the leghorn chicken.

“Now, look here, son,” Brooster replied to the mallard. “I’ll do the thinkin’ around here. And I’m a thinkin’ that old farmer,