Clara’s garage smelled like burnt hair and ambition. She’d spent three days stitching together a life-sized sculpture of a raccoon wearing a top hat, using only duct tape, expired glue, and a handful of rubber chickens she’d bought on clearance. The thing looked like a taxidermied nightmare until she added the final touch: a tiny bow tie made from her cousin’s old socks.
“Perfection,” she whispered, backing away.
The raccoon wobbled. Then it collapsed, taking down a shelf of craft supplies in a cascade of pipe cleaners and mismatched buttons. Clara froze as the door creaked open.
“Is this your new pet?” said Mrs. Pudelwick, her neighbor, peering over the threshold. “It’s… *art*?”
“DIY,” Clara corrected, kneading her temples. “It’s a statement about consumerism!”
Mrs. Pudelwick eyed the chaos. “I used to make birdhouses. Until I realized birds hate craft fairs.”
Clara seized a glue gun. “Want to help? We’re gonna rebuild bigger!”
“Bigger?” Mrs. Pudelwick snorted. “I’m 72. My idea of ‘bigger’ is a second cup of coffee.”
But by noon, they’d fashioned a sentient sock puppet that recited Shakespeare. The raccoon’s head had fallen off, but the show must go on. Clara shouted lines over the sound of a squeaky wheelbarrow, while Mrs. Pudelwick attempted a monologue in a beret made from yarn.
The next day, the town paper called it “a local marvel.” Clara didn’t mention the raccoon’s missing eye—or the fact that Mrs. Pudelwick had glued her own hat to the puppet’s head. Some secrets were too crafty to share.
