Gretchen adjusted her goggles, squinting at the heap of bicycle parts, old clock gears, and a suspiciously alive rubber chicken. ‘This time, it’ll work,’ she muttered, tightening a bolt that squeaked like a disgruntled cat. Her garage reeked of motor oil and ambition.
The plan: a kinetic sculpture that spun to the sound of her favorite 80s power ballad. The reality: the rubber chicken clucked rhythmically, while the gears jammed like a fussy toddler. Gretchen yanked a wire, sparking a tiny fire that smelled like burnt popcorn.
‘Come on, you overgrown toaster,’ she yelled at the contraption. It shuddered, then launched a spoon into the air, where it twirled above her head like a confused helicopter. The chicken clucked louder.
Her neighbor, Mr. Pritchett, peered through the window. ‘You’re turning my garage into a circus,’ he called. Gretchen waved a greasy wrench. ‘It’s *art*, sir! A symphony of chaos!’
The sculpture lurched, knocking over a tower of soup cans that exploded into a metallic rain. The chicken took flight, perching on her shoulder. Gretchen laughed, covered in grease and glory, as the song hit a crescendo and the gears spun so fast they made a noise like a thousand angry seagulls. ‘Maybe I’ll call it… *The Chicken’s Revenge*,’ she said, dodging a flying spatula.
