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Use this space for notes and reminders to yourself.
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A great place to keep your fantastic ideas, like, "Hey! I need to write more sentences about crickets and English gentlemen with unruly beards."
Maybe it was the idea of so many different takes on the afterlife, just blowing past me one after another, like the way small Iowa farm towns used to blow past my uncle and that smiling chicken.
When it comes to walking straight lines here on this farm, the order goes: cow, duck, chicken, rabbit, cat, human, dog; yet oddly enough, when it comes to telling a straight story, the order goes: cow, duck, chicken, rabbit, cat, dog, human.
When I coughed (I was so embarrassed!) feathers flew out of my mouth: little ones, tiny ones, black and red, curving through the air, perfectly unbloodied and almost comical but, yes, entirely, yes, criminal because, you see, all those who were around me, and there were at least a dozen, stopped what they were doing and stared, all eyes on me, all black and no red, water still dripping from our beaks, amazed that I could cough (I didn’t know either! who among us can cough!) but distracted by the fact a murder came out of my throaty anomoly: little ones, tiny ones, black and red.
Sometimes when I get up in the morning, there’ll be a couple of chickens at the back door, staring in at me.
“I can’t keep up with this Scrine nonsense,” complained Osmond W. Blackburn, “when some days, everyone is all heavy into introspection, but the next day, ooh! they suddenly get whimsical and start making scrines about chickens!”
When, at the age of ten, Elizabeth independently confirmed that the color of a chicken’s ears really do indicate the color eggs they’ll lay, she concluded there is a God and she’s one twisted diety.
B-gark*. (*I appear to have been turned entirely into a chicken.)
‘He held aloft El Pollo Del Destino and cried out, “DONDE ESTA EL BANYO!?”, and suddenly, inexplicably, all the breasts throughout the land hastened to his side.’
Of course, the tricky part of the plan was fitting them all with claw-friendly shoes.
Reading some of my Scrine entries of late, I begin to wonder whether it’s entirely healthy to have the Chicken of Doom in my kitchen.
It is lurking, it is hiding, it can see you and you can sense it’s imminent, feathery and dread-filled return.
Beryl had grown accustomed to the chickens in the kitchen, but she refused to acknowledge the existence of the chicken in her sock drawer.
The chickens, ducks and other such cluckery gathered around the call to war, each one pecking or scritching their names to the document and all that it heeded for the days to come.
Eavesdropping would eventually get the chicken into trouble when she showed up at the company picnic wearing her finest brooch.
Chickens fear no more, The Great Aussie Chook has arrived.
Can’t see the forest for the chickens.
It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents, except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the chickens that struggled against the darkness.
Sandra’s chickens were quite astonished to find themselves adorned with gold jewellery and, without knowing why, seemed to strut more avidly around the quaint hobby farm.
I’ll let you mull that one over (since I’ve forgotten what in blazes I was going to say about it).
Tammy quickly realized that she had become a Midwesterner by default when part of the closing contract on her new house included removal of a chicken coop; she found it even more amusing when her real estate agent, through true Scrine folly, wrote the contract asking for removal of the chicken “coupe” inspiring thoughts of hip chickens cruising the town in a Camaro with t-tops.
The world was filled to the brim with roosters, only a handful of them disguised as chickens.
When they heard the frantic clucking, everyone rushed into the break room to see whose hen had laid the egg, but it was only Phyllis on the phone, talking to her sister in Phoenix.
I will become a chicken.
His dream job was to run an organic eyebrow salon, where specially trained chickens carefully plucked the unruly brows of the city’s most discerning and environmentally concerned citizens; also, they could buy eggs.
“Please, everyone,” the rooster demanded, proud of his ability to take charge of a meeting, but not realizing the impact his next words would have on the course of chicken history, “I insist everyone hold their squawking until after we vote on the new “Everything Tastes Like Chicken” campaign.”
Think about chickens.
To Fender, “The Pied Piper of chicks” sounded less like a Viagra spam header and more like a man who could make whole communities of chicken farmers very angry.
Cornshins ran for his fourth life, the chickens hot on his heels.
Millicent had enjoyed a nearly 20-year string of unbroken resolutions to avoid reality tv; sadly, that streak was broken by ABC’s announcement that Chicken-Dancing with the Stars would be added to the primetime lineup on January 2.
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