Straight on Til Morning

So now, the cockatrice must make a choice, to travel toward a point of light.  But which?

Since no one ventured an opinion, I’ll go with the Star Trek option (Peter Pan option).

The cockatrice raced toward the star on the right.  Its wings flapped.  It lifted off the ground.  With a clarion trill, it flew toward the pinprick, sparkling in the darkness.

White light enveloped the cockatrice.  Its green scales dazzlingly bright in the sudden explosion of color.  Laughter rang through the white expanse.

The cockatrice’s eyes narrowed.  Something lingered beneath the cackle.  Sinister?

The cockatrice folded its wings against its back and dove.  It broke through a tree into a clearing.  It opened its wings.  Wind caught the cockatrice before it crashed into the grass.  The cockatrice glided toward a small cottage at the edge of the clearing.  The laughter drifted from behind the house.

The cockatrice landed on the roof.  It climbed over the thatch, its claws digging into the pitch beneath.  It clacked its beak when it peered over the edge.

An imp held a boy against a fire pit.  The grill and the fire a foot from the boy’s face.  Tears dripped off the boy’s cheeks.  He wailed.


My boy! thought the cockatrice.  Without pausing to contemplate this first, extraordinary case of thought, it leapt into the air and dove toward the red-skinned imp.  Talons lashed out, scoring deep gouges in the imp’s back.

The imp screamed and reached for its back.

The boy dropped toward the fire.  With a shriek, he braced his hands against the warm bricks of the fire pit.  He hurled himself away from the grill.  And flopped to the grass.  Gasping.

The cockatrice landed beside the boy and hissed at the imp.

The imp curled its lip into a snarl.  “Lay off, beasty.  I’ve claim to him fair and square.”

The boy stroked the cockatrice’s back.  “It’s my fault.”

“Too right.”  The imp crossed its arms over its chest.  “Anyone who burns the mistress’ goat gets punished.”

The cockatrice looked over its shoulder at the boy.

He shrugged and turned away, his face reddening.  “I’ve never cooked anything before.”

“I hiked all the way to the market and dragged a goat home.”  The imp glared at the grill.  Blackened slabs of meat sat upon it.  “This bumbling fool blackens them like he’s cooking for an old demon.”  The imp shook its head.

The cockatrice leapt onto the grill and bit into a slab of goat.  It spit it out.

Ben groaned and shook his head.  “I’m awful at making friends.”

“And cooking,” the imp muttered.

The cockatrice grabbed a slice of goat from the grill and dropped the meat onto a plate balanced on the bricks.  The cockatrice emptied the grill.  It sat upon the grass and waited.  It nudged Ben’s knee.

Ben pouted.

The cockatrice poked Ben with its beak.

“Ow!”  Ben rubbed his knee.

The cockatrice nudged him again, toward the imp and the house.

“Try again?” Ben whispered.

The cockatrice nodded.

“What if I screw up?”

“Then we’ll cook you.”  The imp grinned.

So, what do you think will happen?  What do you want to happen?  Was it too short?  Too long?  Too unfunny?

Yep, that’s right.  I’m soliciting comments and suggestions.  I may even use them.  No matter how wacky, zany, nerdy, or weird.  No matter how serious, fanciful, or sci-fi.  It’s a choose your own adventure.  You choose what happens next.


About bkreuch

I like to read, I like to write, and I like to make people laugh.
This entry was posted in Ben's Hen, Humor, Writing and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Straight on Til Morning

  1. Ah yes, the fine art of barbequeing

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