HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.4 - LAY AN EGG

BLOOD ON THE HARDWOOD CONCRETE CH.4 - LAY AN EGG

By Rashelle Workman

You’re on your knees in a chicken suit with a gun pointed at your head. In this type of situation, there’s only one thing to do. 

Breathe heavily. 

You’ve seen the Lamaze techniques work for childbirth; maybe it’ll get you out of this situation as well. Plus, if you act like you’re trying to squeeze a chicken egg out your body, Clive might freak and leave. 

“Ooooh. Ooooh. Eeen,” you begin.

“What the hell are you doing?” By the sound of his voice, you can tell he isn’t sure whether to laugh or shoot.

 

You look into his anger-filled eyes and continue—louder. “Ooooh. Oooooooh. Eeeeeen.” All the deep breathing is starting to make you dizzy. The room smells of mentholatum and Pepto Bismol: A terrible combination, but there’s no way you can stop now. 

Instead you grab your stomach and hunch over, the big beak of the chicken suit smacking the floor, rattling your insides. A shock of pain zings through your body. 

A contraction, you wonder. 

“Stop that, you crazy . . . chicken!” By the quiver of his lips, you know he’s on the verge of serious laughter. 

This may work, you think.

You shake your head. “Oh. Ah. Ohhhhhhh.” Another sharp pain starts at your belly button and ripples along both sides of your stomach toward your back. “Owwwwww,” you yell. 

“I mean it—” Clive begins, but breaks off with laughter. 

You shake your head again. “No, man! I think I’m actually going to pop a chicken egg right out of me. For. Real!” You try to pull the large chicken head off, but it’s stuck. Panting, you let out another cry.

 

“You do realize you aren’t really a chicken, right?” The guy asks in between guffaws. 

“Righ—ri—bacaw!”

 

It just felt right. You start to peck at the floor, trying to pick up the dust bunnies with your sharp beak. “Bu. Bu. Bu. Bacaw!”

The pain inside hurts so badly, it’s mind-numbing. There’s a burning, ripping and tearing . . . 

Plop. A large brown chicken egg lands on the floor behind you.

You look up. Clive’s got to be impressed with the remarkable feat you’ve achieved.

But the look on his face is anything but impressed. Horror’s a more suitable word. 

“Bacaw . . .” you try.

Clive steps back, gun shaking and: POW! The gun goes off, smoke swirling from the end. 

Sticky red trickles into your eyes. As the room, Clive and the giggling old lady get fuzzy and your world goes black, you think, But who’ll take care of my chick? 

THE END.

Oops...Return to Chapter 4

TIME DOUCHE CH. 1 - STAND AND BE SEEN

TIME DOUCHE CH.1 - STAND AND BE SEEN

by MJ Heiser

With a blinding flash of insight, you understand how this whole thing can be twisted to your advantage. Maybe you are the kind of moron who mistakes a time machine for a shower, but that happened because any enclosed space found in a tiled room in a 21st century American home is easily assumed by the people of your time to be a shower. Designers are constantly coming up with avant garde new interpretations of ways to make yourself clean; how could anyone anticipate that this thing could be a time machine, after all?

You think about this for just a second longer. Yes, it was an easy mistake to make for people of your time. What would this thing look like to the people of Revolutionary France?

A big, daffy grin overspreads your face. This is a bad omen to the people who know you, but you haven't gotten the memo that your grins are signs of coming disaster. "Nubleman, I have a plan," you say, and to your own ears, your voice carries the excited certainty and rightness of a big-shot A-list celebrity on the silver screen, getting ready to face down zombies or aliens or even the US Congress.

"You have a -- a what?" Nubleman asks. Maybe he's gotten the memo.

"Play along with me," you say, pulling a dirty, roughly-woven shirt over your head. It manages to just barely cover your privates. You don't have time to put on any of the other elaborate clothing of a bygone era. Somebody should have introduced these people to the wonder of sweatpants, you think giddily to yourself.

"What the hell are you talking about? You're in 18th century FRANCE! This is no time for playing along with anything!" Nubleman stammers.

There's no time for discussion. You step out of the strange titanium enclosure, puffing up as much confidence as you can, and fix your gaze on the approaching riders. It's obvious that they'd finally noticed the shiny foreign object while you'd been fussing with this strange shirt you're now wearing -- a shirt that barely protects your delicate 21st century flesh from the unexpectedly brisk breeze. The last thing they expected was to see anyone emerge from this thing, and that anyone includes you.

"Merde!” shouts one of the riders.

"Greetings, Earth people!" you announce.

"What the blazes are you doing, you idiot?!" Nubleman bellows.

If you'd had the presence of mind to emerge from the time machine speaking French, you may have survived the experience. French aristocracy may have spoken English, but most of the peasantry now taking over the country did not. Unfortunately, you started speaking in a strange tongue, and the shock of that combined with your abrupt appearance and Nubleman's disembodied shrieks of outrage are just too much for the imaginations of the three men in front of you. They scream and fire on you in superstitious horror. Despite their fright, their aim is perfect.

All I wanted was chicken, you think to yourself as blood leaks from your perforated body. Fortunately you're dead before those dull bayonet blades can reach you.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 1