Source: https://pixabay.com/illustrations/hom... Marty Dorset looked to be on the verge of tears, but Ms. Heidleman was unwilling to change her grade.

“I’m sorry, Marty. Your artwork shows talent beyond your grade level. The mountains and the lake are gorgeous. But the assignment was to paint your house, and I have to grade it based on that. We’ll cover surrealism and absurdism next semester, but for this work, I’m afraid your grade stands.”

Marty trudged out of the classroom, all the way to the bus. “You okay there, kid?” the bus driver asked, but Marty pushed past him.

He was dropped off, alone, at the final stop. He moped along the trail at the end of the road, through the forest, and down to the lake. Mr. Mouche was fly fishing, as usual.

“Bzz, bzz,” the old Muscanoid said, his proboscis bobbing.

“Sorry, Mr. Mouche. I’ll try not to affect the fish with my moping.”

Where the path entered the lake, an old Victrola sat on the back of a sunbathing terrapin. Marty cranked the flywheel and set the needle. When the music played, umbrellas flew from the bell. He caught one and rode it up to the massive stone hanging over the lake and the house perched on top of it. The umbrella popped as Marty stepped off.

“How was your day, Martin?” his mother asked. Her dress had a tabletop for a bustle, and his little sister sat atop it. Goldfish, hanging from tiny balloons, swum just out of reach, distracting her so that mother could spoon in mashed peas.

“Teacher called my painting absurd.”

“Why, of course it is!”

Mother didn’t understand. Martin rushed past her and into the house. “Dad!” he called.

Father turned in his chair, the green apple bobbing in front of his face to where all Martin could see was his bowler hat. “Yes, son?”

“Never mind.”

~~~~~~

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