The Artist

The little girl with the chocolate brown fringe was in full flow. Kitted out in her navy blue overalls, she dab-dab-dabbed onto the splotchy paper.


The sea of newspaper did little to protect the table from the army of rogue globules that ricocheted with each splat, stroke and squelch onto her increasingly fragile paper canvas. She swished the brush ferociously, oblivious to the streams of colour slicing into the walls, fridge and cooker. The mess affirmed the importance of her work. All around her, blue and red ponds soaked through to the aged wood underneath.


All around her paint bottles lay sideways, pouring their contents onto yesterday’s news. Choosing the last one standing, she squeezed a mighty squeeze into the blue willow china bowl. Her eyes lit up as emerald green cascaded into the bowl and over the edge. Scooping a dollop onto her brush, she flicked it at the page (and unwittingly, the ceiling) then swung her short arms diagonally to add stripes across it. The drizzled dog groaned as paint landed on his sleeping back.


She paused to assess her progress, pondering her options and casting a big green ‘L’ across her dimpled chin. There was something missing, but she couldn’t figure out what.  Twizzling her paint crusted pigtail, she scanned the kitchen for inspiration. An idea started to form.


Forgetting to wipe her hands on the multicoloured mayhem of her overalls, she padded to the larder, giving the cat a friendly emerald stroke on the way. She picked up the fattest potato she could find, turned it over and frowned.  It didn’t have a star shape on the bottom like the one at school did. Neither did the others. Hands on hips, she scanned beyond the multicoloured spuds for another idea.


She carefully carried the egg back to her workstation. Holding it high she squeezed it until it popped, clear and orange goo splatted down onto her paper.


She gripped her pointiest brush in a clenched fist and slowly lowered it until it touched the yolk. In one sweeping movement she made a big ‘O’ on the page.


She picked up the glue pot that was pebble-dashed in glitter and poured some onto the page to stick the egg in place. For the piece de resistance, she dunked both of her hands into the glitter, held her breath dramatically and emptied two entire handfuls onto the sticky swamp below.


Reaching the crescendo of creativity, she scrunched her face and bared her teeth like an animal possessed. She grabbed her biggest brush and raised it like a dagger about to strike the fatal blow. On impact, paint splattered in the air like fireworks celebrating her victory.


“There!” She exclaimed triumphantly.


Tossing her redundant brush to the un-newspapered floor, she admired her work. The untrained eye could mistake this paint-logged sagging piece as the work of a novice, but to her, it was a masterpiece of her favourite colours, toys and hobbies.


Delighted and with no time to waste before the sheer weight of toppings threatened to tear the masterpiece in half, she jumped off her chair and ran with it draped over her hand to show her mum in the next room, oozing a sticky trail of paint and egg all the way from the newspaper to the brand new carpet beyond.







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