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 - a challenge - 52 short stories in 52 weeks...something must be worth reading, right? |
| “Sammeh! Sammeh! Come ’ere, quick! Sammeh!” Sam Haggins tore free of a fitful sleep and lurched to his feet, heart hammering. His wife’s shriek had him snatching the shotgun from beside the bed and stumbling toward her voice, the bitter stab of morning air shocking him fully awake. “Nolly!” he called, finger tense on the trigger as he scanned the darkness. “Where are you, honey?” “Down by the chicken coop!” she shouted back. Sam blinked, baffled, and nearly pitched down the short flight of steps before he found her standing rigid at the coop’s entrance. She wore her usual dressing gown and galoshes, one hand still clutching the egg bucket. That hand trembled now. Her jaw hung slack as she stared into the narrow wooden building and its wire fencing. Inside sat their twenty‑four hens, all different breeds, all calm and content in their nesting boxes. For a year, Sam had argued with Nolly about selling them off. They barely laid at all—his half‑baked scheme to make extra cash had turned into a quiet embarrassment. After talking with Peter McCallum, owner of the biggest poultry farm this side of Ashtonville, Sam had shelled out for twenty‑four bags of premium feed, hoping it would make a difference. Three months later, they had maybe ten eggs to show for it. But not today. “What in God’s name…?” Sam whispered, lowering the shotgun as he stepped inside. The nesting trays were overflowing. Eggs—hundreds of them—packed every box, smooth and pearl‑colored. Sam picked one up, half expecting it to vanish. Nolly did the same, her breath catching. “It’s a miracle,” Sam breathed. “Oh, Sammeh…” Nolly sobbed, joy spilling over into tears. There was no time to waste. Phones rang all morning. Local shop owners came by that afternoon. By sundown, twenty‑four crates were sold. The next day, another twenty‑four. And the hens never stopped. For twenty‑four glorious days, the eggs came without fail. Sam bought a brand‑new harvester with the money. It was while parking it in the barn that he realized he wasn’t alone. “Hello?” he called carefully. “You ain’t a customer, are you?” The stranger—clearly Native American, with weathered skin, long black hair streaked with gray, and traditional emblems stitched into his jacket—removed his hat and dipped his head. “Forgive me, Mr. Haggins,” he said, his voice calm and grave. “My name is Iron Sky. I heard about your good fortune.” Sam grinned. “Yep. Wife says it’s angels. I don’t buy into that, but—” “But perhaps you should,” Iron Sky said gently. “Today is August twenty‑fourth, yes?” “…Yes.” “And the blessing has lasted twenty‑four days.” Sam’s smile faltered. “Uh‑huh.” “Then you must make an offering to the Spirits who granted it.” “An offering?” Sam scoffed. “I ain’t into voodoo.” “It is not voodoo,” Iron Sky replied. “This land once belonged to my ancestors. Each year, on this day, we give thanks. Blood must be spilled at the source of the gift.” “The chicken coop,” Sam muttered. “You must start anew,” Iron Sky said. “Do it before the moon rises, and you will be rewarded.” “And if I don’t?” Sam asked, unease crawling up his spine. Iron Sky only smiled. That night, Sam lay awake, anger simmering. Kill the chickens? After all this luck? It's nonsense. Jealous nonsense. McCallum’s been sore ever since we out‑sold him… CRASH. Sam bolted upright. Nolly gasped beside him. They ran outside to hell on earth. The coop burned, flames roaring into the night, smoke boiling upward. Chickens screamed as wood splintered and collapsed. Sam fell to his knees, grief hardening into rage. Not Spirits, a voice hissed inside him. McCallum. “Sammeh?” Nolly cried as he rose, shotgun in hand, striding to his car. “Where are you going?” He didn’t answer. By morning, police found twenty‑four slaughtered hens arranged in a circle outside the McCallum house. In the center lay Sam Haggins, a strange smile on his face, blood seeping from a gunshot wound into the soil. McCallum denied everything. The death was ruled a suicide. And yet, twenty‑four months later, when Nolly Haggins woke on the morning of August twenty‑fourth, she found her new chicken coop—once barren—overflowing again. This time, she wept not with joy, but with knowing sorrow. ------------------ Word Count: 711 Prompt: In many cultures, the number 24 is considered a powerful Angel number signifying luck and can bring wealth, health, happiness, and prosperity. In others, it’s considered unlucky or a “beastly number.” For tomorrow, write a story that happens on the 24th of any given month, about a person caught in an event that is both lucky and unlucky at the same time. Make the number “24” a significant factor in the story. For example, an event that happens at 24 minutes past the hour, on the 24th floor, or any combination of possibilities using the number 24. Make one of your genres Folklore. Written For: "The Writer's Cramp"  |
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