My brain might be shrinking to fit my small town home. Is that how it works? The brain expands when you go traveling and shrinks if you stay put? Could it be the further you go, the bigger your brain gets? And conversely, if your world shrinks to the size of a pinhead, does your brain shrivel up to fit?
By that logic, if I were to be launched into outerspace, it’s possible by the time I got to Mars, my brain would have exploded the spaceship. Oops. So maybe my premise doesn’t hold up. As a thought experiment, this one is sadly lacking.
Speaking of sadly lacking, it’s time for another contribution to the literary world. Here are the five words for this week:
Suppose
Turn
Mastery
Acrylic
Fifteen
There were six of us at the meeting, so I was excused from tossing out a word. FYI, my word would have been zip. Either that or fizzle.
And here is what I wrote (sans typos):
Angie’s parents confronted her after school. Her father said, “Angie, now that you have turned fifteen, we think it’s time for you to choose a profession.”
Angie scowled. “But Daddy, you know I was meant to be an artist. It’s my life’s calling, my true northstar.”
“I suppose you think you have the right to freeload off the backs of hardworking citizens?”
“No, I just think artists are unique. I was born to paint. “
“So you are saying that your art is the most important thing, more important than earning a respectable living doing honest work?”
“But art is honest work, Mom. It’s just a matter of time before I have truly mastered oil painting. Acrylics are next. My teachers say I’m very talented.”
“We are calling in the authorities. We will abide by their decision.”
The next day three members of the citizens committee visited.
“So, Angie you believe other citizens should support you while you pursue the frivolous life of an artist?”
“Art is not frivolous!”
The committee members did not look impressed. “Explain to us, please.”
Angie described her artistic process, how when she was in the flow, paint simply flowed from the tip of her brush. Colors emerged like butterflies glistening the sun. She was born to be an artist! There was simply nothing else she could do.
“You couldn’t be perhaps a hair stylist or a floral designer?”
“No!”
“Thank you for your honesty. We have made our decision.”
The committee members took Angie by the arms and marched her out to their gray utility van.
“No, what are you doing? Where are you takking me? Mom, Dad, stop them!”
Her parents looked on with sad expressions as she was thrust into the van. A few minutes later, the van arrived at the top of the mountain. Angie had never been there before. As they invited her to step out of the van, she admired the sunset over the distant hills.
“I’d love to paint this. See how the gold edges the clouds? Isn’t it beautiful?”
“One last chance, Angie. Wouldn’t you prefer to be a manicurist? Maybe a makeup artist?”
“No! I was born to be an painter! There’s no greater calling in life. I would die for my art!”
The committee members shook their heads. One grabbed her arms, another grabbed her legs, and one took photos. “For our social media page,” he said. “To deter other artists from making the same mistake.”
“No, stop! What are you doing?”
They swung her, one, two, THREE and threw her over the cliff.
Angie fell a long ways. Something in her back snapped when she landed wrong.
“Ow,” she said.
“Who is that? Angie?” said a voice from behind a rock.
“Becky? What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to be a poet, but my parents said no. They didn’t even call the committee. They brought me up and threw me off themselves.”
“Hey, quiet, you two, I’m trying to compose a song over here. I need to concentrate. It takes more work because I can’t move my hands.”
Angie moaned as best she could. “Are we destined to die here then?”
Becky sighed. “My mother said that’s the price we pay for creativity.”
Perhaps a little too close to home.