Jake held up a garden gnome, squinting at its face. “This is the masterpiece of the century,” he declared, balancing it on a bicycle wheel. Lena tossed him a paint can. “You’re the guy who thinks ‘modern art’ means glitter and existential dread.”
They’d spent three hours rummaging through Mrs. Pritchard’s yard sale, hoarding mismatched furniture, rusty tools, and a live potted fern. Sam, crouched beside a stack of typewriters, muttered, “Why does this look like a robot’s brain?” Jake ignored him, stapling a lawnmower blade to a folding chair.
Mr. Grumble, the neighbor, stormed over, waving a garden hose. “You’re ruining my sidewalk!” Lena flicked paint at his shoes. “It’s called ‘abstract expressionism,’ sir. The 21st-century version of yelling.”
The sculpture—tentatively named *The Odyssey of Unwanted Things*—wobbled as Jake affixed a metal fan to its head. Sam slipped, knocking over a tower of teacups. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he yelled, as porcelain shards flew. Lena grabbed a mop, swiping at the mess. “We’re making history, Sam. History with a 20% chance of glass cuts.”
At sunset, they unveiled the artwork: a wobbly, glittery monstrosity with a lawnmower nose and bike-wheel eyes. Mrs. Pritchard clapped. “That’s the most fun I’ve had since my husband’s trombone recital!” Mr. Grumble grumbled, then snuck a paintbrush into the sculpture’s belly.
They sold it for $200. Jake pocketed his share, staring at the cash. “Next time,” he said, “we do taxidermy.” Lena threw a sponge at him. “You’re lucky we’re artists and not criminals.”
They left the yard sale site, trailing glitter and confusion. The sculpture, now titled *The Odyssey of Unwanted Things (Revised)*, stood proudly in the driveway—until a squirrel knocked it over.
“At least it’s iconic,” Sam said, as they fled the scene.
