Bob limped home after another night of drinking too much and making bad decisions. He had a sloppy smile on his face and the taste of cheap vodka in his lips. He tripped over a laundry basket and swore under his breath as he walked down the dark hallway, his feet hardly following his orders. When he eventually got to his safe place, his bed, his wife was already asleep and had no idea that a human cyclone was happening next to her.
Bob buried his face in the pillow and let out a loud sigh. The world whirled softly beneath his eyes. He was used to this feeling: the warm bewilderment and the steady throbbing behind his temples. But tonight was different. He couldn’t figure it out. It was more like being pulled through a tunnel than falling asleep, as the darkness of slumber crept over him.
When he opened his eyes, the change was sudden and shocking. Not a room for sleeping. Not a pillow. There are no linens. Instead, he was standing barefoot on what seemed like polished marble, with a huge sky full of golden clouds and a brilliance that seemed to come from another world. The famed Pearly Gates loomed in front of him. They were unbelievably tall and lined with what could only be called astonishing craftsmanship—gilded bars that glistened like liquid sunlight, melon-sized pearls, and an unusual warmth in the air that made Bob feel small and defenseless.
He still thought he was dreaming, so he blinked until he heard a voice.
“Robert Thomas Pennington,” said the calm, booming voice.
Bob turned around and saw that it was St. Peter himself. The gatekeeper, who was wearing long robes and carrying a large clipboard, stared at him with a combination of authority and pity.
Bob squinted. “What is this? A dream of some kind?
“No, Bob,” St. Peter said softly. “You died last night while you were sleeping.”
Bob felt like he had been punched in the gut as he heard the words. Bob’s mouth dropped open and closed in disbelief. “What? No! That isn’t possible. I was just… I only had a couple drinks! Well, maybe more than a few. But I’m fine! I have things to do! I have to take care of my job, my wife, and my fantasy football league!
St. Peter raised his hand. “I understand. Also, you’re not the only one who thinks the timing is wrong. Thank goodness there is another choice.
Bob leaned in because he was desperate. “I’m ready to do anything.” I will do anything.
“There is a loophole,” St. Peter said. “You can come back to Earth, but not as a person.”
Bob blinked. “What do you mean?”
“You’d come back looking like a chicken.”
The silence was too much. A chicken? There must have been better choices. Was a dog a better choice? A raccoon would have been more honorable as well. But the thought of coming back to life, even in feathers, was better than the finality of death.
“Okay,” Bob said, “I’ll do it.
Before he could doubt his choice, there was a flash of light, a gust of wind, and the definite feeling of getting smaller. His whole body hurt since it was new to him, and his limbs felt odd.
He then realized he was on the dirt floor of a chicken coop, or rather, kneeling. His arms had become short wings, and his body was covered in feathers. He flapped his arms in an odd way and almost fell into a grain trough. There were a lot of clucks around him. The smell of feathers, hay, and poop made the air feel thick. In a strange suburbia nightmare, chickens walked about like normal neighbors.
Before he could get his bearings, a large rooster walked up to him. He seemed like he owned the place because of the way he walked and the shine on his feathers.
The rooster said with pride, “Well, well, look who’s back from the dead.”
“I—what?” It sounded more like a stifled cluck, but Bob was able to do it.
The rooster turned its head. “You’re new. I can smell the panic. You will get used to it. Life in a coop isn’t that bad, really. The farmer’s daughter will be up in the morning, so don’t bother her.
Bob moved forward in a staggered way, flapping his wings uselessly. “There is a problem. I feel a little weird. My stomach feels like it’s under strain. or fewer.
The rooster laughed. “Oh, that? Congratulations, you’re ovulating. This will be your first go at laying eggs.
Bob came to a standstill. “Excuse me?”
The rooster smiled and whispered, “Calm down.” It’s in the genes. Of course. Just let yourself feel the emotion.
Bob did what he was told, but he wasn’t sure why, scared, or inquisitive in some manner. He closed his eyes, strained, and squatted as his body told him to. It was not comfy. It wasn’t comfortable. Then, plop, a perfect, velvety egg appeared under him.
Bob’s heart raced as he looked at it. He had a simple, beautiful feeling, but he didn’t know why. Pride? Happiness? Comfort? Even though it seemed silly, the action felt important. He clucked softly and almost lovingly, and then another wave of eggs came. Another egg. The fun doubled. He smiled. It wasn’t that bad. He might get used to—
THWACK!
Bob woke up from the dream when something hit him hard in the back of the head.
“BOB!” His wife’s voice broke next to him.
He sat up straight in bed and gasped. He could smell it before he knew there was a big problem under the sheets. His wife was almost out of bed, with her eyes wide open in disbelief.
She spat, “You’re drunk again.” “And you’re peeing in bed!”
Bob sat there in awe without saying a word. His heart raced. His shirt was soaked with sweat. The coop, the eggs, and the rooster all seemed so real. But there he was, laying in a broken bed, his pride gone, and his wife looking at him like she was going to file for divorce.
He wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or cluck.
Bob added, “I think I need help,” as he leaned forward.
There was no doubt that he would never look at scrambled eggs the same way again.