Gretchen stared at the half-finished birdhouse, its roof slanted like a drunken hat. She’d promised to make a ‘cozy retreat for sparrows,’ but the thing looked like a geometric nightmare. Her cat, Mr. Whiskers, surveyed the chaos from a pile of yarn, unimpressed.
‘You’re overcomplicating it,’ Gretchen muttered, wedging a neon-green pipe cleaner into a slot. The structure groaned, its legs splayed like a drunk spider. She’d used 37 glue sticks, 12 empty yogurt cups, and a sock from her ex’s last visit. The scent of Mod Podge hung thick in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of burnt toast (from the toaster oven she’d repurposed as a kiln).
A knock echoed. Her neighbor, Mrs. Pudelwick, peered in, her face a mix of horror and fascination. ‘Is that… a birdhouse?’
‘A *statement* piece,’ Gretchen said, patting a wobbly pillar. ‘It’s called *Avian Ambition*.’
Mrs. Pudelwick blinked. ‘The sparrows are fleeing.’
‘They’re *appreciating* the avant-garde,’ Gretchen insisted, as a stray paintbrush flew off the table, striking Mr. Whiskers. The cat yowled, knocking over a tower of soup cans. They clattered like a drum solo.
By dusk, the birdhouse stood 12 feet tall, its roof adorned with a disco ball and a garden gnome wearing sunglasses. Gretchen stepped back, dusting glue off her hands. ‘Perfect,’ she whispered.
The next morning, the neighborhood kids arrived, eyes wide. ‘Can we take it apart?’ one asked.
‘Absolutely not!’ Gretchen hissed, protective of her ‘collaboration with nature.’
Mr. Whiskers stared at the chaos, then yawned. The sparrows, meanwhile, had taken up residence in a nearby bush, plotting revenge with a stick and a very serious expression.
