“Chicken,” he argues, accepting a plateful of my scrambled eggs.
“Egg,” I counter, despairing.
“Chicken,” he pluffs, eggs carelessly falling from his smug mouth.
Unzipping my skin suit, feathered breast bursting, I peck him solidly in the chest. Mouth agape, he flees the kitchen.
I hate it when he’s right.
Judy Crawford met the love of her life in a college writing class. They don’t always agree either.
This is awful. Were you drunk when you wrote this?
Says the person with the moniker “marple.”
@jonny – Ha ha! However, you’ve missed the point. This story is incomprehensible. As for the moniker – Agatha Christie was a very competent author. She didn’t write gobbledegook about a chicken dressed in a human skin suit.
Miss “Marple”–I think You’ve missed the point. This is a story for entertainment purposes only. Lighten up! And not to digress, but Agatha Christie was not the most accomplished writer of mysteries–prolific, maybe but high brow?–Certainly not!
Hi Tjames. I do understand it’s supposed to be for entertainment, but because its such a bad story it doesn’t entertain me at all. It makes no sense at all – even Jaberwocky made sense in its own context! This story is about a giant chicken in a human skin suit but with no explanation as to why this has happened.