Bob stumbled 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 were barely obeying him. When he eventually got to his bed, his wife was already asleep and had no idea that a human cyclone was crashing next to her.
Bob buried his face in the pillow and let out a loud sigh. The world whirled softly under his eyes. He was used to this feeling: the warm confusion and the creeping pain 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. The darkness of slumber stole over him.
When he opened his eyes, the change was sudden and shocking. Not a place to sleep. Not a pillow. No sheets. He was instead standing barefoot on what seemed like polished marble, surrounded by a huge sky full of golden clouds and a light that seemed to come from another universe. The famed Pearly Gates stood before him, impossibly tall and lined with what could only be called wonderful craftsmanship. The bars were gilded and shone like liquid sunlight, and the air was strangely warm, making Bob feel small and weak.
He blinked till he heard a voice, still not sure if he was dreaming.
“Robert Thomas Pennington,” said the calm, booming voice.
Bob turned around and saw that it was St. Peter himself. The gatekeeper, who was wearing flowing robes and carrying a hefty clipboard, stared at him with a look of power and compassion.
Bob squinted. “What is this? A kind of dream?
“Sorry, Bob, but no,” St. Peter said in a gentle voice. “You passed away while you were sleeping last night.”
The words hit Bob like a kick in the gut. Bob’s mouth dropped open and shut in horror. “What? No! That’s not 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 bird? There must have been better options. Would a dog have been a better option? A raccoon would have been more respectable, too. 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 think about his choice, there was a flash of light, a gust of wind, and the feeling of getting smaller. His body hurt all over because everything was new to him, his arms and legs felt funny, and his vision changed.
Then he was on his knees on the dirt floor of a chicken coop. He had short wings for arms and feathers all over his body. He flapped his wings in an unusual way and almost fell into a grain trough. There were a lot of clucks around him. The stench of feathers, hay, and poop filled the air. In a strange suburbia nightmare, chickens walked about like normal neighbors.
Before he could get his bearings, a large rooster walked up to him. His swagger and shiny feathers made it seem like he controlled the place.
“Well, well, look who’s back from the dead,” the rooster said with pride.
“I—what?” It sounded more like a stifled cluck, but Bob did okay.
The rooster’s head turned. “You’re new. I can smell the panic. You will get used to it. Life in a coop isn’t that bad, really. Don’t bother the farmer’s daughter; simply wait for the morning crow.
Bob lurched forward, flapping his wings uselessly. “There is a problem. I don’t feel quite right. I feel like my stomach is being pushed. or not much.
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?”
“Calm down,” replied the rooster with a smug look. It’s in our genes. Of course. Let the feeling take over.
Bob did what he was told, but he wasn’t sure why and was scared and curious in some manner. He closed his eyes, strained, and stooped down like his body told him to. It was not fun. It wasn’t comfortable. Then, plop, a perfect, smooth egg appeared below him.
Bob’s heart raced as he looked at it. He felt a simple, great feeling, although he didn’t know why. Pride? Happiness? Comfort? The action seemed silly, yet it 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 through next to him.
He gasped and sat straight up in bed. He could smell it before he knew there was a big problem under the sheets. He was shocked to see his wife’s eyes wide open and her body almost out of bed.
“You’re drunk again,” she said angrily. “And you’re peeing in bed!”
Bob sat there in disbelief, not 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, lying in a broken bed, feeling humiliated, with his wife looking at him like she was about to divorce him.
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.