Marla clanked a paint can against her wrist, sending a spray of neon green across the garage wall. ‘This is *art*’, she hissed, ignoring the yowl of her neighbor, Mr. Pritchard, who’d just tripped over a discarded bicycle tire. Her latest project—a ‘sculpture’ made of lawnmower parts, old sink faucets, and a fully functional kazoo—wobbled dangerously on a stack of cinderblocks. ‘It’s avant-garde!’ she shouted, though the kazoo promptly honked in protest. Mr. Pritchard, clutching a broom like a sword, demanded, ‘What in tarnation is that?’ Marla grinned, paint dripping from her hair. ‘It’s called *The Triumph of Gears Over Gravity*.’ The sculpture lurched, toppling into a pile of discarded computer monitors. A spark flew. The garage smelled like burnt toast and ambition. By sunset, the neighbors had formed a committee. ‘We’re voting on a name,’ said Mrs. Lim, eyeing the smoldering mess. Marla wiped her hands on her overalls. ‘Call it *The Symphony of Screech*.’ The kazoo played a sad melody. Someone threw a tomato. It hit the sculpture, which promptly ejected a shower of glitter. Everyone paused. Then they cheered. Marla raised a paint-smeared fist. ‘See? *Art*.’,
