Wednesday, December 31, 2003

When I was in seventh grade, I wrote a story about intelligent vampire chickens.
The assignment was in my science class, and it was to write a science fiction story. I was, at the time, a startlingly militant realist. The teacher was a man who would routinely smash a naked barbie against his desk whenever he was annoyed with us, and on the whole I did not feel that strict science fiction was really necessary.

So instead, I wrote about intelligent vampire chickens. I remember little about this opus aside from the fact that it did not, from the human point of view, have a happy ending. The chickens won. Sadly, as far as I know nothing remains but the first page, stained with red ink. There is no record of where the chickens came from, both themselves and from my brain.

This is probably a little bit sad.

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