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    Playing Chicken: Celtic Myths
    Playing Chicken: Celtic Myths
    Playing Chicken: Celtic Myths
    Ebook44 pages22 minutes

    Playing Chicken: Celtic Myths

    By A. L. Lester

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    About this ebook

    Marc returns home from London to his isolated Welsh cottage for good, having found his ex boyfriend shagging someone else in their bed. Who's the thin, freezing cold man with the bruised face he finds in his barn? Will the tenuous connection between them grow, or fade away?

    A 9,000 word short story to mark the Welsh St Valentine's Day, St Dwynwen's Day, the 25th of January. With chickens.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherA.L. Lester
    Release dateJan 19, 2021
    ISBN9781393720478
    Playing Chicken: Celtic Myths
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    Author

    A. L. Lester

    Writer of queer, paranormal, historical, romantic suspense. Lives in the South West of England with Mr AL and two children. Likes gardening but doesn't really have time or energy. Not musical. Doesn't much like telly. Non-binary. Chronically disabled. Has tedious fits.Instagram, tiktok, fb: CogentHippoMastodon: @CogentHippo@Wandering.Shop

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      Book preview

      Playing Chicken - A. L. Lester

      Playing Chicken

      by A. L. Lester

      Shape Description automatically generated with low confidence

      MARC RETURNS HOME FROM London to his isolated Welsh cottage for good, having found his ex boyfriend shagging someone else in their bed. Who’s the thin, freezing cold man with the bruised face he finds in his barn? Will the tenuous connection between them grow, or fade away?

      A 9,000 word short story in the Reworked Celtic Myths series to mark St Dwynwen’s day, the 25th of January. With chickens.

      ISBN: 9781393720478

      Edited by: Lourenza Adlem, Cat & Keyboard Editing

      Cover by: A. L. Lester

      Copyright A. L. Lester 2021

      Contents

      Chicken

      Dog

      Man

      Friend

      Saint

      Epilogue

      About St Dwynwen

      About the Author

      Other Books

      Chicken

      MARC SWAM UP FROM THE embracing depths of an exhausted sleep to the lighter shallows, and then further, resting on the warm surface, not quite ready to leap out into cold wakefulness.

      He lay there, drifting, and the noise came again.

      Tap, tap, tap, a polite rap on the door.

      That pulled him out of his sleepy haze. Someone at the door.

      But...no-one knew he was here. He’d arrived late last night, made up the bed with the sheets from the cold, slightly damp airing cupboard, and collapsed straight into it, face down, the faint lavender scent of the cotton bringing back memories of living here with his Aunt Pen as a child.

      He slammed on the bedside lamp—it wasn’t properly light yet—pulled on the jeans he’d left on the floor by the bed, and stumbled down the narrow cottage stairs toward the front door. It was wooden, thick old-oak, and he had to yank it hard to get it open.

      There was no-one there.

      He put his head outside into the dim light of the porch—perhaps they’d made their way round the side of the house to look through a window—when his foot brushed against something.

      He looked down.

      It was a chicken.

      Marc froze.

      A teeny-tiny, feathered dinosaur happily sat on his doorstep.

      As he opened the door further, letting in a huge blast of freezing air that made him wish he’d pulled a shirt on, it made a short of chirping, purring noise and stood up and looked at him, head on one side.

      Actually, it wasn’t teeny-tiny. It was huge. Enormous. It looked like someone had dressed a pillow in another, inside-out pillow and stuck a head on it.

      He looked back at it.

      It gave a polite squawk and stepped over the threshold.

      What? he said. No, no, don’t do that! He flapped his hands ineffectually at it and tried to push it gently with his bare foot, but that overbalanced him and he landed on the bottom step of the uncarpeted staircase with an abrupt thump. It scooted round him like a particularly talented scrumhalf and turned right into the kitchen, where it began pecking crumbs

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