A surreal satire about routine, control, and very judgemental chickens.
By Laura Bernardeschi Nelson
In the heart of the Narrow Pots Complex — a social experiment in brutal architecture and forced conformity — lived a creature known as Medusa. But she didn’t turn people to stone with her gaze; she numbed them with pure, unstoppable dullness.
Her daily mission, the peak of her creative expression, was the Solar Underwear Theory. Every morning, as punctual as a factory-made Swiss clock, Medusa stepped outside wearing her Official Giant Robe (a piece of clothing that would scare even the most open-minded pyjama designer). Her destination? The Sacred Laundry Line.
There, with the precision of a surveyor, Medusa arranged her collection of underwear. No room for boldness, no colour, not even a rebellious bit of lace. Just an endless army of standard white cotton oversized briefs and bras straight out of a 1950s hygiene commercial. To her, it was art. A public exhibition of domestic virtue, proudly displayed as if everyone should admire it.
While Medusa performed her daily ritual, she was being watched. Not just by amused, unseen eyes from the trees of the garden nearby, but by a rusty metal guardian: The Wreck. An ancient camper van, parked there since what felt like a previous geological era, stared at her with dull, lifeless headlights. It was a monument to adventures that never happened. A pile of metal that hadn’t moved in years, yet somehow felt comforting in its stillness. The Wreck watched her hang her laundry – her only real companion in that endless tunnel of aesthetic boredom.
Then there were the Prisoners. Thin trees, meant to grow tall and proud but sentenced to life in pots that looked like oversized teacups. Their roots were as restricted as Medusa’s mindset, squeezed into a tiny bit of dry soil. They stretched their branches toward the sun, silently begging for freedom — dreaming of real earth just beyond the fence that protected Medusa’s carefully curated mediocrity.
The only thing breaking this symphony of boredom came from the playground nearby: two chickens. Highly intelligent creatures (with a much better sense of humour), they had developed a system.
The moment Medusa appeared in her robe, they started chatting.
“Look, the Sacred Laundry Show has begun,” clucked the first, like an art critic.
“Hmm… but today the underwear layout is less symmetrical. Is she losing her touch?” replied the second, pecking the ground.
They kept going, their constant chatter creating a kind of psychic noise Medusa couldn’t understand. She didn’t know if they were plotting something — or just trying to contact a mysterious third, invisible chicken… the one who might one day free the Prisoners.
Medusa went back inside, satisfied with her completed Solar Theory, unaware that the real artwork she had created… was herself.
A sharp, funny portrait of a world where oversized underwear is sacred, plants are prisoners, and a rusty camper is your most loyal friend.
Thanks for reading.