by Raymond Brunell
Old Bess wasn’t any hen. Her speckled feathers carried the dust of a hundred seasons, and her comb was forever dull and dusty. But her eggs—well, those had changed. Last Tuesday, she laid one glowing like dandelion wine, and when it cracked, no chick appeared. Instead, a tiny, perfect cloud rose, no bigger than a robin’s egg.
The cloud drifted with a light movement, then released a soft mist with a hiss. Old Man Tiber was passing, cradling a plate of warm, buttery biscuits. The mist brushed his ears, and a delicate voice whispered, “Well now, that’s a remarkably good biscuit, Tiber. An excellent crumb.”
Tiber blinked, startled. Compliments were rare—he’d lived quietly, too shy to ask Mrs. Gable to the Harvest Festival. His heart tightened with old fears. What if she says no? he thought. He almost turned away, words caught in his throat. But the soft praise lingered, warmer than the morning sun. He squared his shoulders, took a breath, and whispered, Today, I’ll try.
Nearby, Mrs. Grindle, the shopkeeper, watched with a skeptical frown. “Nonsense,” she muttered. “Clouds can’t speak kindness.” Yet even she paused when a cloud brushed past her, whispering, “Your shop brightens the village, Mrs. Grindle.” For a moment, the frown softened.
From then on, every egg Bess laid became a cloud. One afternoon, Lily came to collect eggs, her small hands trembling. She was usually quiet, hiding her drawings. As Bess shifted, a feather brushed Lily’s arm, soft as a sigh. A cloud floated toward her, wrapping her in cool mist.
“You’re a bright spark, Lily. Don’t ever dim your shine,” it whispered.
Lily’s breath caught. Doubt lingered—could she believe it? But something in the mist settled her nerves. She ran inside and taped her favorite drawing, a rainbow-maned unicorn, proudly to the fridge.
The clouds weren’t random; they found the quietest corners where kindness was needed—a weary farmer, grumbling postman, a lonely scarecrow.
As the sun sank low, Bess laid one last egg. The cloud it hatched drifted outward, carrying a shimmering drop that landed on a drooping sunflower. The mist whispered, “You are still beautiful, even when you bend.”
The sunflower lifted its head, catching the fading gold.
And as twilight wrapped the farm in quiet, the whispers promised this was only the beginning.
Raymond Brunell is a published author of ten books and counting, with short fiction appearing in Bluebird Scribe, Literary Garage, Soul Poetry Subs, Manic Author, Young, and The Orange Rose. He delights in stories that blend the unexpected with quiet wonder.