Part two available now, it’s a bit on the short side, but eh, all in good fun, I hope. Let me know what you think!
If you missed part 1, you can find it here.
Trude painted. Since the unfortunate connection between her torso and a bullet five years ago, Trude had given up much of the things in her life that had made her, well, her. So instead of fighting back the forces of half-assed evil as a private detective, she fought back the forces of high-brow art with her “masterpieces.”
Trude dipped the brush carefully into the pot of red paint, watch as the paint settled deeper into the bristles.
She gently, almost with trepidation, raised the brush to the canvas, and let one smooth line of acrylic glance across the surface. She set the brush down in triumph, stood up, and admired the piece in front of her. It was done. It was perfect. It would bring accolades from around the world.
“Yes, dear.” Trude looked up the stairs of the misplaced antebellum mansion at Clair, her newly-teenaged, and dreadfully morose daughter.
“You didn’t hear a word I said to you!” Clair stomped her feet while screeching the words. It was one last reminiscence of her just-passed youth, and she felt red-faced for having succumbed to it.
“Of course I did.” Trude looked back to her masterpiece. Still perfect. Still done. “Now what was it you were saying?”
The refrain of Steppenwolf’s “Magic Carpet Ride” had just started blaring through the in-home stereo system, and Clair had to shout to be heard, “Dina wants me to come over for a sleepover tonight, and I need you to say no!”
Trude rolled her eyes, “Why on earth would I do that? It’s the weekend, go have fun for a change.” Trude looked back at her painting and smiled. “What do you think, Clair? A masterpiece, right?”
“It’s a paint-by-numbers.” Clair said, “Of a clown. Mom. Tryouts for first chair are on Monday. If I don’t practice, I won’t be assured to beat Brittany.”
“Oh, Brittany, of course!” Trude looked up at her daughter with utter confusion. She could never understand how cello could overtake the life of a kid, and make it more important than sleepovers, sneaking booze, and chatting about dangerous boys. “You should go anyway. You’ve practiced enough. Go have fun! Get rowdy!”
“You know what? I am just going to tell her you said no, because obviously anyone who does paint-by-numbers would never understand what it is to suffer for her art!” Clair stormed into her room and slammed the door.
Trude rolled her eyes and removed the clown painting from the easel. She would frame it later. Maybe she would give it to Clair for her upcoming graduation from middle school. She rolled her eyes and giggled at the thought. “Teenagers.”