The Artist ( Short Story)

The results were a given of course, the best of the best leading the rest and the best she was not. One had to actually care about such things if they hoped to hear their names whispered with awe and jealousy in the halls between classes and Shellie just couldn’t summon that level narcissism.

In fact she often had to remind teachers and classmates it was fortunate she showed up at all. 

Not to say she was a failure, she was passing all of her courses, even if some were by the preverbal whisker. Still, it was enough to keep her parents happy and since they payed the bills that was all that mattered.

Creativity was her true passion. It didn’t matter what it was, drawing, writing, or sewing her own clothes. She thought to be a singer once, (until the neighbors threatened to jab their own eardrums out  with something really, really dull at which point her mother kindly suggested trying something a tad quieter. She then tried to learn to play the trumpet but it was accidentally  crushed beneath the wheels of her father’s car when he ran over it… several times.)

She dreams of opening a showing at some promenade gallery in the city…

Now, if she can find a way to work all the crying and pleas for mercy into an interactive display…

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