I know it's the norm for stories to begin with a bang, but my story starts with an old, farmer dude waking up, going about his normal routine, and then having it all go horribly awry. There is no instant shazam. I guess I'm just wondering if this is even interesting at all (PS - this is a little over 250 because it cut off awkwardly, don't kill me.)
Something was wrong with Jack. Or rather, something was wrong with his perception of the world today. His wife, Fern, joked he woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Jack merely rolled his eyes at this. With his arthritic knees, lower back pain, and other rheumatic aliments which plagued him after years of farming, he had been waking up on the wrong side of the bed for the past decade.
Jack Avens did not feel he woke up on the wrong side of the bed; it was more like he woke up in the wrong bed, period.
The morning begun like any other, jolted out of his sleep at five in the morning to the rooster crowing. That orange feathered son-of-a-bitch — for reasons beyond him, had acquired the name “Terrance Smithers” — attacked him on several occasions when he went to collect eggs from the chicken coop. Most of the time, he was able to sense the impending assault and kick the offensive barnyard fowl aside, but the last encounter caught him off guard. The scab on his leg was still healing and he was positive it would leave a scar.
He peeled himself off the mattress, every joint in his body aching and popping in protest. He shuffled over to the bathroom, his boxers too loose around his boney hips, his t-shirt too tight around his midsection. He remembered when he was younger, seeing his father and grandfather with the same figure he now adorned and wondered how it was physically possible to grow that way. It was too possible, he found out later in life. It seemed his body was squeezing the fat and muscle mass out of his legs and depositing it right to his belly. He felt like a macabre sausage with too much of its contents stuffed into the top half of the casing.