Mabel’s hands shook with concentration as she glued a cerulean saucer to the mural, her third attempt at a “modern interpretation of a sunset.” The town square buzzed with skeptics. “Art’s supposed to be pretty,” muttered Mr. Puddles, the baker, eyeing her 10-foot mosaic of broken dishes. Mabel ignored him. She’d spent three weeks collecting thrift-store ceramics, convinced her creation would “transcend mere utility.”
Then the wind arrived.
A rogue gust yanked a chipped teacup from the wall, sending it clattering into a pile of mismatched bowls. The mosaic groaned. A turquoise plate wobbled, then plummeted, hitting Mrs. Lark’s head. She screamed, swatting at the air like a startled chicken. “This is why we can’t have nice things!” she yelled, pointing at Mabel’s chaos.
Panicked, Mabel grabbed a glue stick and lunged for a rogue saucer. Her sleeve caught on a nail, yanking her backward into a bucket of paint. The bucket tipped, drenching the mural in neon green. The crowd gasped. Then laughed. A kid shouted, “It’s like a disco volcano!”
Mabel stared at the mess. Then she smiled. “Perfect,” she said, slapping a dented ladle onto the canvas. The townspeople leaned in, murmuring approval. By dusk, the mural had become a collaborative joke—a patchwork of absurdity. Mr. Puddles even donated his collection of 1980s salad bowls.
Mabel’s masterpiece now hangs in the town hall, forever incomplete. And if you squint, you can see the outline of a very angry duck.
