Charlie, the chicken, and singing

Some things I’ve realized lately

First:  You have to actually write a book, to be considered a writer. Over the last two weeks, I’ve done more playing “words with friends”, facebooking, and twitter-ing than actual writing. But I’m still nearly finished with my psychological thriller Serve Me.

Second:  People have no idea what to say to you when you tell them you’re a writer. I get lots of blank looks, “that’s nice” comments, and sympathetic “Oh, you’re a little mental” looks all the time.

Third:  You have to be up on it, all the time, in order to make a name for yourself. Twitter, Facebook, blogging, writing-related articles, conferences, etc. It’s a little overwhelming, but exciting. And I spoke with a very nice gentleman/author from Wales via Skype about appropriate curse words in Welsh. Fun world I’m living in right now.

So, books three and four of the Kilts series are playing out in my head, with Séamus’s story coming next, my third book (unrelated to the series) will be finished soon, and Chapter Two of Charlie and the Chicken is below.

It was a mad-lib style story. The words in bold were contributed by Jim Martin, with the story text unavailable to him, and then I plugged them back into their appropriate spots.  This short story concludes soon.

Please see my Facebook page: I am, of course, on Twitter @ m_jeanie11. And please check out my official author page:, where you can purchase my current books, The Celtic Contract and The Celtic Captive, or leave a comment/review. I welcome all feedback!

And for those of you who chose option B–me singing–just wait. I’ll be posting a video soon, as appropriate punishment to you all. 🙂


Chapter Two

Charlie risked a quick look at the hordes of gawkers accelerating around the showdown between herself and the pissed-off chicken. Immediately, every penguin, woman, and child took one purple step backward, as if there was an unhappy game of “Mother, may I?” going on.

Supreme. No help there, thought Charlie.

Worse—one of the map-hawking elephant wranglers would started taking bets. The odds were 42, of course, to 500,000. In the chicken’s favor.

Charlie mentally shrugged. Yeah, that seemed reasonable. After all, she was only armed with gross fingers and a cell phone. The chicken, on the other hand…umm, claw?…parachuted an electric shock stick clutched in her sharp beak, and the look in her red elephantine eyes was deadly.

In fact, if Charlie still had any wildebeests left after splurging on all those tiny treats, she would have bet against herself, too.

Dragging her gaze away from the largest chicken, (there were suddenly five of ’em) the Short-Statured Egg Snatcher was distracted by the crowd again. Some of the watchers were tucking plastic victims into their shirts and semi-finaling their lips. It was obvious that despite their bids against Charlie, many of them were hoping for a free fried-chicken dinner.

Charlie escaped her head. That wasn’t going to happen. At least, not without some of that calamari sauce she had teleported earlier. The crowd noise suddenly grew into a roar and Charlie gently spun her eyes back to the chicken, just in time to see it run/hop/gliding toward her. Before she could dive, the chicken had sort-of hopped and shot until it was perched up on her toes, the electric shock-stick lying directly across her bum.

Charlie was now the chicken’s hostage.


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