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Serial Stories -- The Chickens
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......As I sat in the comfortable leather armchair, enjoying the warmth of the
fire in the fireplace and contemplating a glass of brandy, my reverie
was broken by the familiar ring of the telephone. I stood up, tightened
the sash of my leopard-print silk smoking jacket, and answered it.
......"Hello," I said, "Rothschild Manor, Colonel Rothschild speaking." ......But my polite greeting was met by an agitated clucking noise before the line was abruptly cut off. I placed the phone back on the receiver slowly. ......"The chickens again," I growled, seething with resentment. |
Submitted by:
Mark Sieve |
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......Another quick shot of brandy steadied my nerves and I tried once more to
relax in the rich and soothing comfort of the glo...
......Knock. Knock. Knock. ......The door cut through the silence again. ......Knock. Knock. Knock. ......And with the same repetitive, insistent beating that was becoming the all too recognizable calling card. ......Knock. Knock. Knock. "Yes, yes! WHO IS IT!!" ......"...cluck, cluck..." ......I threw myself against the door, barring the chickens from entrance. "The chickens," I sneered, suddenly aware of the sweat dripping from my brow. |
Submitted by:
Chad |
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......I threw the latch and stood panting in the foyer, listening to the eerie
scratching noises coming from the other side of the door. My soul was
filled with dread and I realized that I was on the verge of panic.
Suddenly my eyes locked on the painting that loomed over my mantelpiece
like some grim harbinger of doom. It was an oil-paint portrait of my
beloved Gretchen that I had commissioned some years ago. But I could
find no beauty in that face now. Only beady little black eyes filled
with malice and a beak that seemed to point at me like an accusatory
finger from the other side of the grave.
......"Well, Gretchen," I said a little unsteadily, "wherever you are I hope you're happy now!" |
Submitted by:
Mark Sieve |
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......Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the borders of the portrait began to dissolve, the face looming closer, distending, undulating... the eyes that once held
such comfort gone sinister, savage, accusing... the plumage becoming serrated daggers as the scratching continued. How could this be?
......And then it hit me: the brandy! Or the cognac, or whatever-- it had been drugged! With some hallucinogen so powerful that I couldn't remember whether it was brandy or congnac. The portrait was unrecognizable, a leering pastiche of pure poultry menace. None of this is real, I told myself... none of this is real! ......I shook myself, clearing my head just enough to regain control. My vision remained a drunken fugue of kaleidoscopic feathers, but the scratching subsided. All part of the hallucination. ......But my newfound calm was quick to evaporate, as I realized that my situation was far more dire than I had imagined. For although the chickens were not pecking at my door, someone had slipped the drug into my drink... someone INSIDE my estate! I summoned all my strength and bellowed for my manservant, Snack Food Jones. |
Submitted by:
Rex Broome |
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