Maggie taped a banana peel to her ceiling fan, convinced it would “add rustic charm.” Her garage smelled of glue and regret. She’d spent three hours crafting a wind spinner from popsicle sticks, bottle caps, and a stolen office chair wheel. It looked like a demented mobile.
“This is art,” she muttered, tightening a bolt with a wrench. The spinner whirred to life, sending a ruler flying into a stack of old textbooks. One book bonked her on the head. “Ow!”
The fan’s hum crescendoed. Maggie’s spinner spun so fast, it sucked her hair into the mechanism. She tugged it free, only to find the chair wheel had detached and was now rolling toward the door.
“No! My masterpiece!” she yelled, chasing it. The wheel clipped a paint can, which sprayed neon green across her prized DIY “Abstract Expressionism” canvas.
Her neighbor, Mr. Pudelwick, appeared, squinting at the chaos. “You’ve gone full Da Vinci,” he said, eyeing the spinner’s trail of destruction.
Maggie froze. The spinner had lodged itself in the garage door opener. The door groaned open, revealing a sunset sky. The spinner spun wildly, launching a rubber chicken into the air. It soared over the fence, landing in Mrs. Pudelwick’s hydrangeas.
“Artistic integrity,” Maggie said, as the chicken wobbled in the breeze. “It’s… conceptual.”
Mr. Pudelwick nodded. “Next time, maybe stick to origami.”
The spinner, now a makeshift weathervane, creaked in the wind. Maggie sighed. Her garage was a disaster. But the chicken? That was a conversation starter.
