Into Granny's Subconscious

Inside Granny Were's subconscious...

Twasn’t brillig – it didn’t dare. And the slithy toves weren’t gyring or gimbling. Not if they knew what was good for them. As for the borogoves and the mome raths, they were sitting under the Tumtum tree, sipping cups of Earl Grey and having a quiet game of rummy. And the Jabberwock? Well he was perched on a rock in the sun giving his claws a particularly focused and fastidious manicure. Broken strains of Moon River drifted through the wood as he whistled toothily to himself.
In the background Alph the sacred river was running away faster than any river had the right to do and was flinging itself over the cliff - quite happy to smash itself on the rocks of very sunny sea far below. As for Kubla Khan, he’d clearly got word and had buggered off long ago.
Somewhere on the path leading to the stately pleasure dome, the Jean Genie was practicing yoga. Nothing at all outrageous, you understand, and definitely no screaming or bawling. On the steps of the dome Ziggy Stardust had all the spiders from Mars on a leash and was humming a lullaby to them while they practiced their knitting.
This, I have to tell you, in case you’re wondering, is what it’s like in Granny Were’s subconscious. Even her nightmares are so frightened of her that they behave well. There isn’t a hint of a whinny and definitely no bucking or wild, untamed rearing. Who’d have thought it, right? You’d have expected a werechicken to have violent dreams. But oh no.

You’re wondering, I can tell, what on earth I’m doing in Granny’s subconscious in the first place. To be honest, I’m not really sure.
See, the thing is, as you’ve probably noticed, I’ve not heard from the Hens in a while. I might even be pushed so far as to admit that I was getting a little worried - and missing them.
And then Granny turned up.

Note to self: remember to keep mind fully sealed when thinking about the Hens – it’s not like they really need the encouragement.

She’d nicked a spacepod from High Command and come whizzing through the singularity in time and space and landed, with an almighty splash in the swimming pool - of course - leaving the neighbour’s washing (and dog) well-soaked.
“Darling girl!” she squawked, flinging yellow tipped wings around me. “How are you! So delighted to hear you’ve been missing us.”
“I wasn’t really -” I started to say and thought better of it. “Where’s Atyllah?”
“Oh,” said Granny waving a claw, “she’s off in the Pleiadean system gathering meteors. We use them, you know, in our heat reactor – to keep the Novapulse temperature nice and temperate – none of this climate nonsense for us.”
It was some time later, while sipping hot chocolate and nibbling on mopani worm crisps that Granny suggested I might like to get to know her a little better. It was, she assured me, a genuine gesture of interspecies and intergalactic goodwill.
Right now, as I dust Jubjub bird pooh off my shoulders and find myself reading a bedtime story, called the Velvet Goldmine to the bandersnatch, I’m really not so sure about all that interspecies goodwill.
For one thing. I have utterly no idea how I’m going to get out of Granny’s head.
(Mind you, I’ll say this: it makes a change from having her and Atyllah in my head...)

The Chickens Have Landed - Part Three

The Chickens Have Landed - Part One
The Chickens Have Landed - Part Two


“And then there was that other friend, wasn’t there,” says Atyllah, egging me on.
“Yes,” I say. “I only sent him an email requesting that he issue D with a letter of invitation about five weeks ago.”
“Whatcha need a letter of invitation for if he’s a friend?” asks Granny looking puzzled.
She’s never quite got the hang of human bureaucracy. Mind you, I can’t say I have either.
“D needs a visa. Because we’re staying with a friend, the friend has to issue a written invitation so the authorities know we’re not refugees or state freeloaders.”
Granny considers this for a moment. “Nope, still don’t get it.”
“Don’t worry about it Granny, most don’t, it’s human stuff,” remarks Atyllah.
“Ah,” says Granny, “well that’s all right then. Their stuff has never made sense. I still can’t get my head around all this division humans are so incredibly intent upon.”
“No, me neither.”
“Frankly, they’re a disgrace to the oneness of the multiverse,” mutters Granny as her eyes redden.
“That’s what Aunt Aggie always used to say,” replies Atyllah.

Great Aunt Aggie, Philosopher Chicken, now with the Andromedans manifesting multiversal peace

“Shall I carry on?” I ask. “If you’re sure you’re quite finished.”
“Of course, of course, you carry on, dear,” says Granny pouncing on an unfortunate bug that had been minding its own business on the daisy bush.
“Well,” I say, “after four weeks no invitation was forthcoming and we were running out of time to apply for the visa. I emailed him again – and again – and again… Eventually he said it was too complicated… I mean I ask you, what is it with men?”
“Human men,” corrects Atyllah.
“Yes, well, them too,” I mutter.
“I can’t stand the suspense,” squawks Granny, “did you get the vista or not?”
“The visa,” I say, “I don’t know. We did finally get the invitation, after a considerable amount of stress. Whether we get the visa on time remains to be seen. We may yet be staying home and missing our holiday. You know, I really-really-really don’t need stress like this – not after everything went tits up with the other friend. Did I mention how much extra that has cost us? Did I?”
“Um, well I did spot the figure in your brain. You haven’t thought of, you know, doing that thing the Americans so love to do – what’s it called now…? Sewing her.”
“Ooh,” crows Granny, “you mean like stitching her up - like that Frankestein fellow.”
“No,” I say, rolling my eyes, “I think she means mean suing.”
“Yes! That’s it! You haven’t though of suing her, have you?” asks Atyllah. “I gather she is extraordinarily wealthy…”
“No, but I did withdraw all offers of friendship. I’ve decided that loyalty is vastly overrated.”
“Oh I could have told you that if you’d but asked. It’s really not a quality suited to the current state of human evolution,” says Atyllah. “And besides, there is nothing quite so callous as the super rich. We see it all the time with the Arcturean nobility. Think they’re gods – or something.”
“More like something – from the depths of the henpost heap,” mutters Granny and then pats my knee with a knobbly claw. “Don’t worry, darling, you can always come back to Novapulse with us for a nice little break. We love to have you…”
“Thank you, Granny,” I say weakly. Somehow, and with full respect (I’d be mad to have anything less) the idea of three weeks living amongst chickens who are human sized just doesn’t appeal.
“And then, what was the other thing?” asks Atyllah.
“I don’t know why you keep asking me when you already know.”
“Ah yes, the other was the administrative bit of financial bungling caused by bank officials which may well cost you a few thousand pua shells.”
I grunt and notice that my heart rate is doing a jitterbug jive without the benefit of a tune. I can feel the steam building up in my ears and my foot starts to tap the floor in an uncontrollable way.
“Well, I think we arrived just in time!” announces Granny. “I can see my little cupcake here has been well and truly upset and that Does Not Please Me.”
She quivers and a strange sound starts to build up. It seems to begin near her knees. It travels upwards and issues from her beak as cacophony best described as a howling screech.
OMG! Granny is going Were! And it’s not yet full moon.
Oh dear. It truly doesn’t do to anger the old bird anywhere around full lunar manifestation.
I watch in alarm has her talons start to extend. Her eyes develop a maniacal gleam, her beak sharpens to a razor-sharp point and thick clumps of fur start to sprout between her toes.
“Let me at the bastards,” she screeches.
“BAHOWOOOOOKAAAAAOOOOOOWWWWL!”
I stuff my fingers in my ears and grin quietly behind my scarf. Frankly, I am delighted the chickens are here.
“See, I knew you would be,” says Atyllah smugly.

Granny Were starts to go were...

The Chickens have Landed - Part Two

Atyllah the Hen...

The Chickens Have Landed - Part One


“So,” says Atyllah the Hen slurping through a straw at her mopani worm juice, “do you want to tell us about it?”
“What’s the point,” I mutter, “You already know. I can feel your mind creeping about my thoughts like a ravenous, oversized mealworm.”
“I’ll ignore that reference,” says Atyllah.
“Ooh, mealworms, did you say mealworms?!” cries Granny Were excitedly. “Oh I don’t suppose you have any?”
“Out in the garage,” I say, “In the aquarium. Left over from Ms Bo’s days.”
“Hmm,” mutters Atyllah, her tone as dark as a storm cloud whose thunder’s been stolen. “I heard about that. I always said no good would come of your playing at Mother Fowl. Or is that foul?” she murmurs sotto voce.
“Listen here,” I protest.
“Ptchah!” snorts Atyllah and little flecks of mopani worm juice create an unattractive speckling on the fabric of the sofa. “So, this trouble you’ve been having… You do know,” she says giving me the kind of thoughtful look that would make lesser beings crumble to dust, “don’t you, that your infuriation has been radiating across the multiverse like a star going supernova on a clear night. I’m surprised the Alpha Vampirieans haven’t been here yet to leech all that juicy red hot energy from you.”
“The Alpha Vampirieans? Who the hell are they?”
“Ah, yes, hell indeed, but perhaps the less said the better. I wouldn’t want to give you nightmares, think how my own beauty sleep might be disrupted. Let’s just say they materialized 240 degrees off the west front of the Gamma Quadrant, and have been making um… food along the way.”
I consider her words for a moment and feel beads of icy sweat prickle on the back of my neck. Alpha Vampirieans…
“Yes, that’s right,” says Atyllah, “The general idea forming in that pea brain of yours is about right.”
I do so resent the liberties the Chicken takes in infiltrating my thoughts – and categorizing my brain.
She smiles. “Don’t you just wish you were telepathic? Now, now, don’t lie…”
From the back yard I hear a contented belch. Clearly Granny has not only found the mealworms but has eaten the lot. Sigh.
“Now, about this trouble of yours, tell me all about it.”
“What’s the point, you know anyway or you wouldn’t be here.”
“Yes, but you know that a problem shared is a problem halved.”
Oh the rhetoric!
“Sarcasm, my dear Vanilla, as you have so often told me, is not an enviable form of wit. But no matter, given your reluctance, shall I just list the annoyances of the last few weeks and we can form a plan of action from there.”
“Action? Did someone finally say action?” Granny flings herself upon the sofa and lets rip a fart of spectacular proportions. “Sorry,” she says fanning the fumes away, “it was the beans I found in your vegetable patch. They don’t seem to quite agree with me.”
FRRRRT!
“Perhaps we should sit outside,” I suggest as a noxious vapour threatens to overpower me.
We migrate to the patio and watch the space pod as it bobs, glinting like a pearlescent oyster, around the pool.
“Now, as I see it,” says Atyllah, “first there was that so-called friend of yours who decided she was swanning off to a spa for a month.”
“I don’t see any problem there,” said Granny frowning. “What’s wrong with going to a spa. Ooh, do you think she’d mind if I joined her.”
“Oh yes, please do,” I encourage. “I wouldn’t have minded at all,” I say turning to Atyllah, “were it not for the fact that we were going halfway across the world to visit and stay with her. I mean, it is a bit rude, don’t you think, having made all the arrangements, booked the flights, checked and double checked that our visit would not inconvenience her, for her to suddenly turn round and say, ‘oh, I probably won’t be here when you get here’. I mean, you know, WTF?”
“Yes, I see your point,” says Atyllah, preening an errant wing feather. “Not very nice.”
“No manners that,” snaps Granny, “No etiquette. Most inconsiderate.”
“My thoughts exactly,” I reply.
“Yes, I think perhaps I may well pay her a visit in that spa,” murmurs Granny, her eyes glinting in a way that has been known to make warrior Draconians tremble in their iron studded boots.

Granny Were...

TO BE CONTINUED…If the world survives.

The Chickens have Landed - Part One

An all too familiar screech ricochets through the fabric of time and space. It is accompanied by muffled cursing of the more fruity variety.
SPLASH!
Why the space pod, a translucently silver capsule, always lands in the swimming pool is beyond anyone of human persuasion.
“It’s because the garden is too densely treed to allow a safe landing on the lawn!” squawks an indignant voice.
As if anyone would dare call the pilot’s navigational skills into question.
“You do understand that, don’t you?” It’s the kind of voice that has an insistence about it that cuts through the skull-bone and penetrate directly into a mind – which is exactly what it is doing.
Telepathically projected it feels like sherbet of the brain. And it itches.
“To the rescue!” crows another voice. It has a rasping quality which is edged with a sort of lunatic peal. “Let me at ‘em!”
Anyone who knows and hazards a glance at the evening sky will cringe realizing it is nearly full moon…
“Help me out of this damned thing!” snaps the second voice. “And make sure I don’t get my feathers wet!”
“Granny,” clucks the first voice, “stop being such a drama queen. Ouch!”
Oh yes, gentle reader, the Chickens have landed. Gird your loins for the going the might get rough. And bloody.
“I don’t know why you bothered to hide.” Atyllah the Hen’s voice reverberates down the passage with foghorn intensity. “You know I know exactly where to find you.”
“Anyone would think she’d be pleased to see us,” mutters Granny Were. “Did you pack the corncakes, I’m feeling a bit peckish.”
‘Oh Vanill-aaaaaahhhh!” The tone can not be described as dulcet.
“OUCH! OW! STOP PECKING ME!”
“How many times must I tell you – you can run but you can’t hide. And anyway what kind of greeting is this? You with your head under the bed and your backside pointing skywards like some flat-barreled missile? You haven’t been at the beans, have you?” Atyllah asks suspiciously.
“Your trouble is you’re incorrigible,” I mutter backing out from under the bed in what can best be described as an inelegant manner.
“Darlingggggg,” crows Granny Were wrapping her wings around me.
ATISHOO!
Bloody chicken feathers.
“What – sniff – are you doing here?”
“Your woes are our woes,” says Atyllah in magnanimous tones.
“Ah, you mean Granny felt up for a fight.” The moon’s full-bodied roundness, like a good, wooded Chardonnay, has not escaped my attention. “Couldn’t she have picked on the Draconians? Or is it just that it’s our turn again?”
“Really,” remarks Atyllah as she studies her well-manicured talons, “anyone else would be grateful. A being could be quite insulted by your cavalier idea of a welcome, you know.” She shoots me a beady glance.
I stare at her – and remember to shut my mouth.
“Of course I’m delighted to see you…”
“Oh pull-lease! You were never any good at lying.”
I notice from the corner of my eye that Granny Were is bopping and bouncing like a boxer on cricket juice. “Let me at ‘em, yeah. A peck here, a kick there, a bite to the jugular. Hmm-mmm…”
I groan. It’s my own fault of course. I’m the first to acknowledge my own shortcomings and I hold myself entirely responsible. It’s my own inability to control the anger I’ve felt over the past few weeks as one level of incompetence, selfishness, thoughtlessness and stupidity has leaped to another – and led to the Chickens’ arrival. Actually, if truth be told, I’m secretly rather glad they are here. Sometimes A Chicken With Attitude is just what a girl needs.
“Of course you are,” says Atyllah.
“Of course she is,” echoes Granny Were and smiles. It is a smile which spreads across her beak and can best be described as gruesome. I mean have you ever really, really seen a were-chicken smile?

TO BE CONTINUED… if I survive.

Oh by the Great Corncob... Uninvited Houseguests!

Chicken with Attitude... and on a rescue mission. Oh boy...

I was gently swimming towards consciousness after a good night’s snooze when I heard a huge splash outside. Something had fallen in the pool. But it wasn’t a small something, like a squirrel, no this was much, much, much bigger. My heart quivered. I’d heard that kind of splash once before. It was the splash of something round and silver and about the size of a… well, the size of a Novapulsian spacepod. I knew, in the interest of intergalactic relations, I should get up and help but I couldn’t bear the thought. Instead I pulled the duvet over my head and pretended to be dead.
The front door opened, and someone clicked across the tiles and headed towards the bedroom.
“You can come out of there!” snapped a voice.
“I’m ill,” I muttered, “And it’s contagious.”
“Don’t lie to me, ever. You know I know when you’re telling porky pies!”
The duvet was unceremoniously yanked off my trembling form and I found myself staring into a pair of dark glinting eyes.
“The word is,” rasped the voice of Atyllah the Hen, Chicken with Attitude, dangerously close to my ear, “that you’ve kidnapped and are holding captive a young fowl. I don’t know what you were thinking Vanilla, but this is not acceptable. It contravenes every multiversal code we ever taught you. Shame on you!”
“I didn’t…” I began, and then realised that it depended entirely from which perspective you looked at Bo’s rescue. “Look,” I said trying again, “It’s not like that.”
“Oh really,” said Atyllah, “then explain to me how it is.”
Somewhere down at the other end of the house I heard a loud, PFRRRRT! The fruity smell of ancient beans drifted up the passage.
“Oh you didn’t!” I exclaimed.
“Couldn’t be helped,” said Atyllah, gazing at a well-manicured claw. “When she heard what you’d done, Granny Were insisted on coming along so she could help set things to rights.” She gave me a wily and knowing look down her beak and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“She’s not cross, is she?” I mumbled.
“What do you think?”
I groaned. “Honestly,” I said, “it’s really not how you think it is.”
“So you said, and I’m still waiting for the explanation.”
I heard the kitchen cupboards open and the sound of scuffling.
“She won’t find any beans or corn in there, you know,” I said.
“It’s not going to stop her from trying,” remarked Atyllah.
“I don’t suppose you brought Great-Aunt Aggie with you,” I asked hopefully, praying for some “balance”.
Atyllah sighed. “You know full well that Aunt Aggie took on the altered form of a pure energy being when she joined the Andromedans.”
I nodded.
“But of course, she can join us telepathically.”
“Oh good.”
“I’m still waiting you know.”
“Look, there was a storm, this chick wasn’t fledged,” I said hurriedly – speaking loudly so that my voice would travel down the passage to the kitchen. “The others had fledged the day before, had taken to the trees. This poor mite was still grounded and she was just not going to survive the storm. We did the decent thing. We rescued her, took her in. By the time the storm had passed, her family were gone – and it turned out later that only two chicks, the biggest, had survived the storm. If we’d left her out there she’d never have made it.”
“Uhuh. And you’ve kept her, why? You’re not thinking of fattening her up for Christmas, are you?” Atyllah shot me a beady look.
“Of course not. At this point she’s abandoned. She’s tiny and she still can’t fly properly. We’re doing what we believe is the decent thing. As soon as she’s big enough, we’ll set her free.”
“You know if it was any other human telling me this, I wouldn’t believe them.”
I sighed, relieved. “Thanks, Atyllah.”
“Oh, don’t think you’ve got off that lightly. If there is a young fowl to be raised, you’re not doing it alone. It’s going to be done properly.”
“What do you mean?” I asked nervously.
“It means we’re staying to help.”
“Both of you?” I asked, groaning inwardly.
“Uhuh.”
“Oh.”
“Oh pul-lease, don’t look so miserable, anyone else would be grateful for the assistance.”
“Yes, they would,” crowed a voice from the doorway.
“Hello, Granny,” I said weakly and tried to pull the duvet over my head again.

So there you have it. And I thought D and I were getting along just fine in raising little Bo. Now Atyllah and Granny Were have turned up from Novapulse and are weighing in with their expert advice. Oh by the Great Corncob, as if I needed more drama. Will someone just remind me when we come up to full moon. We’ll need to truss Granny to keep her out of harm’s way. Harm to everyone else that is. I don’t even want to think of the effect on Bo when Granny goes lunar and does the full werechicken number. Still, the old bird might come in handy in dealing with the sparrowhawk… and Mrs Stroppy. Now that could well be a sight worth witnessing.

Villa Beau Bo - Bo's new accommodation - we hope she likes it!
And yes, it's been a weekend of sawing, hammering, planing and varnishing.

Atyllah Checks In

It’s been a while since we’ve heard from her. It’s not that she hasn’t been present; it’s just that I’ve been trying to block her out of my head. But let me tell you, chicken telepathy is a powerful thing. And now, addled as I am with the red scribbles all over my manuscript, my blocking power is fading. So I’ve given in. Kip-kip-kip-kip-kip, here, Chicken, here, Chicken…


OOOOWWWWW!!!!


See what happens; I go away for a while and she gets all cocky. Yes, I know, poor choice of words from a chicken but you know what I mean.

So, greetings Earthlings and how are you? Still war mongering and squabbling, I see. Still trying to pull the wool over each others’ eyes, still doing a splendid job of screwing up the planet. I tell you, you have no idea how it looks from out here. This teeny tiddly little planet filled with one particular species that believes it has got it “all right”. Wrong! So very, very wrong. I said once before that my money was on the bacteria. It still is – well so okay, it’s split evenly between them and the viruses. And at least they understand the concept of evolution. But not you lot. Oh no, you just keep on with the same old, same old, century after century, one millennium after another. A chicken could get dizzy watching you go round in ever-diminishing circles. It’s really like watching one of those soap operas that just goes on and on – you can not watch for three years and still pick up the story because it hasn’t really changed.

And I know you think you’re civilized, but of course you’re not – you’re positively primeval. I mean, prime evil. I’m sure an ancestor somewhere went and watched some early version of Cruella De Ville and decided to model himself on said fiend. I mean, really, couldn’t you have chosen a better role model. Even a bad-tempered hippopotamus puts most of you to shame. And let’s face it, while the hippo is one animal which kills more humans than most, it’s only because you insist on paddling your canoe over the poor beast’s snout. What do you expect? I mean, really?

Huh? What was that? You don’t want to be told about your shortcomings? No, I’m sure you don’t. Most of you are generally not overly fond of the truth. What? You want to know how Granny Were is? Are you sure? Because the reality of that is she is meaner, nastier and more wereish than ever. But okay, so here’s a tasty tidbit to titillate your senses. She’s in lurve. With a werewolf. No, I kid you not. On our last trip out here she wandered off for a bit of full moon squawking and found herself in the depths of the Transylvanian Alps. No, I’ve no idea how she got there. But the upshot of the thing is she ran headfirst into this huge, muscular brute of a hound and it was lust at first sight. Let me tell you, before you even try to imagine it, there is nothing quite so distressing as the sight of one’s granny in full-lust. Because, I’ve learned to my utter embarrassment, that not only does my werechicken Granny do the full lunar thing, she also does the full frontal lunar thing – and when it’s with a werewolf – oh my, you should see the fur and feathers fly. Honestly, one as young as me should never be subjected to such were-ish erotica. And oh yes, she did the full red lace and leather negligee thing – just so he could rip it to shreds. I swear, it’s at least five years of therapy for me. Bet you wish you hadn’t asked, right?

Granny dressed for the...

Well, on that note, I find I’ve gone a bit hot around the neck-feathers, so if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to raid Vanilla’s drinks cabinet. I could do with some mind-numbing.

Don’t bother to be good, because I know you can’t but do try to remember you’re not the only species on the planet. Ba-kaaaak!

Atyllah (not Vanilla) got tagged for a meme - take cover now

Atyllah, as seen through the ether of the Multiverse...

Bonnie over at Bonnie's Books left the following message in the comments box...

Atyllah? Yo, Atyllah! Where are you, quirky chicken? I just dropped by to tell you that I tagged you for a quirky little meme, and I hope you'll do it for me. I'd like to know you better. Your assignment, if you choose to do it, can be found here:


Oh, and please say hello to Vanilla for me, will you?

Those of you who have been long and regular readers of this blog and the blog that preceded it, will know exactly who Atyllah is. For those of you who don't, please follow the link from Atyllah's picture in the column alongside. Here, I will simply suffice to say that Atyllah is a Chicken. With Attitude. From a planet called Novapulse - that's Novapullis - New Chicken - geddit?

I duly sent a message to Atyllah in Novapulse (she gave up on humanity a good while ago and went home in disgust) and have just received a reply from her...

Oh, by the way, the rules of the meme are as follows:

* link to the person who tagged you
* post the rules on your blog
* share six non-important things/ habits/ quirks about yourself
* tag at least 3 people at the end of the post and link to their blogs
* let each person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog

Greetings sad Earthlings - oh, and you happy ones too. I see your fascination with me continues unabated. I've yet to make up my mind whether this is a good or a bad thing...

So, Bonnie wants to know six quirky things about me. Hmm. I hope she doesn't live to regret this.

Since I am about to convene a meeting of department heads of the Allied Federation of Intergalactic Associations, I don't have much time, and, besides, UberAgent the Grand High Cluck is casting beady looks in my direction which I'm not much enjoying. Novapulsians, you should know, have developed a "view" about humanity - or more correctly, inhumanity - and intergalactic fraternisation with you lot is frowned upon.

Right, so six quirky things about me. (Actually, I don't think they're remotely quirky, but knowing you humans, you inevitably will.)

1. I prefer to eat my worms and grubs (and other such delicacies) with a light seasoning of olive oil and garlic - this is a little treat I discovered whilst on Earth. Since we don't have olive trees on Novapulse, I had to bring back crates of olive oil with me when I returned. Now I'm running low on supplies - 'cos it seems the other chickens like it too. Perhaps one of you would be willing to send me more? We could set up and import/export arrangement - you could send me olive oil, I could send you Granny Were when she's lunar...

2. I may have inherited more of Granny Were's werechicken tendencies than I first realised. I've discovered I love to crow to the full moon.

3. Having brought Chicken Man back to Novapulse with me, I find we rather enjoy role swapping games... Oh yes, it's very kinky. I dress him up in feathers and he dons my old human suit.

4. I am able to interact fluently with all sentient beings across the infinity of the multiverse - though I confess to struggling to get humans to understand my point of view. I suspect this has less to do with me and a lot more to do with YOU!

5. I discovered this great comedian whilst I was on earth - he's called George W Bush. I make a point of tuning in to Earth television on a regular basis so I can cackle at his antics. He is just sooo funny - and I've realised he cannot possibly mean anything he says because its all too ludicrous for words. Great comedy, Georgie, you're blessed with comedic genius.

6. Beans make me fart. This is a deeply quirky thing for us Novapulsian chickens given that beans are a staple part of our diet. I realise this might seem strange to you because I have never met a human who could eat a bean without farting.

Now, let me think, who shall I tag... Hmmm... Some old friends and some of Vanilla's new friends - and forget it, I'm not sticking to three people only, you know what I think of your Earth rules! (And no, it doesn't rule - just remember that!)

Jefferson Davis
Baino of Baino's Banter
Kyklops
Shameless of Shameless Words
Jon of Writing in a Vacuum
Steph of The Biopsy Report
Moonrat of Editorial Ass
and
Sameera of Sameera's Haven


Right, and now let me get to that meeting.

Over and out, Vanilla, and please say "Buk-buk, a la Ba-Kaaak, Peck-Peck" to all our dear friends on Earth.


Notes from Vanilla:
1. "Buk-Buk etc" is the offical Novapulsian Greeting.
2. I did say to Bonnie that I take no responsibility for Atyllah's "quirkish replies.

In Honour of the Silly Season and Courtesy of Atyllah the Hen…

And just when you thought it was safe to go back into the world… the silly season descends. And not just that…

There I was trying to make my way through the ravening hordes at the mall – having fought my way through at least five traffic jams – when there was a tap on my shoulder. I recognized that tap and so tried to ignore it.
“You know what happens next, don’t you?” hissed an all too familiar voice.
I shoved my fingers in my ears. But not in time.
“BA-KAAAAAAAK!”
Oh bother, what can I say, she came back.
For those of you who haven’t been journeying with me for that long you may not be aware of Atyllah the Hen, Chicken with Attitude. Now I would tell you that Atyllah is a fictional character who used to have her own blog. Atyllah, however, will tell you that if you think she’s fiction then your life is one big fantasy. She’s that kind of Chicken. Moreover, she’s an alien chicken from a distant galaxy and a planet called Novapulse. Nova Pullis – New Chicken – geddit? Well, I try not to because it really just becomes far too much.
“What are you doing here,” I hissed, steering her to an alcove. One doesn’t, after all, really want to be explaining oneself to the authorities when they ask what you’re doing with a five foot four chicken – and one who is likely to give them a good pecking if they “get smart” – her words, not mine. “And where’s your human suit?” I muttered, “Couldn’t you at least have made some effort to blend in?”
“Ha! Blend in, with you lot, why by the great Corncob and all that is unholy would I want to do that? Eh? Anyway, I’m perfectly blended, in it’s your silly season time, people will just think I’m part of the festive appeal.”
“Yes, but you’re not appealing.”
“Oh really? You’re joking, come on, tell me you’re joking.”
“Yes, all right, I’m joking.” Anything for a quiet life. I’m an eternal optimist.
“So, what are you doing here?”
“Checking up on you.”
“And? How’m I doing?”
“Well, Aunt Aggie would be proud of you but Granny Were thinks you’ve gone a bit sappy and that there's been far too much seriousness on your blog of late.”
“Yes, well, she would. She is, after all, a WereChicken. But I don’t see how Aunt Aggie can be proud of me, she died.”
“Oh, I know, from an excess of human toxicity..." Atyllah glared at me in a meaningful way. "But happily for us she reincarnated. She decided she was missing us too much.”
“It’s as easy as that?”
“When you are as evolved a being as Aunt Aggie you can do pretty much as you want. Anyway, listen, I can’t hang about chatting, the spacepod is parked up on the roof – I wasn’t going to risk teleporting here with all the air traffic flying in at this time of year – Corncob, this place is overrun with tourists!”
“And you’re not a tourist – an intergalactic one?” I said raising an eyebrow.
I received a scathing look for my pains.
“As I was trying to say, since we were aware that this was your festive, urgh, season, we thought we’d jolly together for old time’s sake and provide you with some good cheer. Of course, you know my view on these things, “bah, humbug”, but, oh well, anything to humour a reincarnated great-aunt. Come on, I’ve got something to show you.”
I was dragged and bustled through the shoppers and wailing children - and past a man who clearly wasn’t Santa - and up to the roof of the mall, where a very strange sight awaited me. The Hens had all descended and were putting on a show!
You can decide for yourself just how pretty it was – and I’m sorry to say, I got dragged in too.
Oh well, ‘tis the season to be jolly, tra-la-la-laa and bah very humbug.

Atyllah's impersonation of Scrooge may be viewed here

(Pictured from left to right - Aunt Aggie, Granny Were, Atyllah and yes, well, I got dragged in too.)

The full-on Hen impersonation of jolly little elves may be viewed here.

Of course, you can join in the mayhem and silliness by going to Elf Yourself.com or Scrooge Yourself.com. Ho ho ho...