Clive balanced a toaster oven on a stack of dictionaries, muttering, “This is *not* a crime scene. This is *art.*” His neighbor, Mrs. Puddlewick, squinted through binoculars from her porch, clutching a thermos of tea like a weapon. “That’s my old toaster!” she shouted. Clive waved a paintbrush like a conductor’s baton. “It’s reborn! Behold… the *Screaming Kettle of Dignity!*” A group of kids gathered, giggling as Clive rigged a bicycle wheel to spin using a lawnmower engine. Mrs. Puddlewick stomped over, her socks squeaking. “You’re turning my yard into a junkyard!” Clive grinned, smearing glue on a microwave door. “This isn’t junk—it’s *collage!*” Suddenly, the toaster oven sputtered, emitting a plume of smoke that smelled like burnt toast and ambition. The kids scattered. Mrs. Puddlewick’s tea hissed. “You’ve gone *mad!*” Clive yanked off his construction hat, revealing a mop of curly hair. “Mad? I’m *inspired!*” He pointed to a sculpture made of garden tools and a defunct blender. “This is *Modern Life!*” The smoke cleared, revealing a faint rainbow in the sky. Mrs. Puddlewick blinked. “…Is that a prism?” Clive nodded solemnly. “The people have spoken.” The next day, a gallery owner offered Clive a show. Mrs. Puddlewick, now wearing a beret, waved goodbye as he hauled his sculptures into a van. “Take the toaster!” she called. “But it’s *art!*” Clive yelled back. “Exactly!” The van sputtered off, leaving behind a single sock and the scent of possibility.
