You may recall that a couple of weeks ago my sage women friends and I were discussing a number of topics, one of which was trying to decide who is the craziest person in town. I mentioned that it was a tight race and now I would like to submit some evidence to prove that I was not exaggerating.
There is a small white house in town, surrounded by a small white fence. On the fence the owner has attached wooden cutouts of chicken heads and necks to create the illusion there are real chickens poking their heads through the fence. Now one might say there's nothing crazy about that. It may not be to your liking, but it's even a little cute in a kitschy, country kind of way. And I would agree with you, to each his own. Except for this --
The "necks" aren't just poking through the fence. What once was a cute idea for a little country decoration has become some sort of Alfred Hitchcockian nightmare of disembodied chicken heads attached to every structure in the yard. Necks protrude from trees, necks are mounted on top of posts; they're everywhere and they keep multiplying.
AND, they are inspiring other "art." Just take a look.
Note how perfectly the red Lone Star Beer emblem accents the "wing" of the chicken, simulating the true coloring found in nature.
I don't know the owner of the Chicken Neck House, as it has come to be known. I don't know where this love of chickens and "art" comes from and I have been too afraid to ask. I need to just march up to the door one day and ask the owner, "Why?" for this is the prevailing thought I am left with each time I drive by. My writer's brain creates stories to answer the "why," but most likely none of them are as entertaining as the truth. In my novel, something has to happen at the Chicken Neck House; it's just too rich with possibility. Don't you agree?