An Artist

An Artist

He was an artist. He knew his teacher – former teacher that was – didn’t think so. In fact he had spent years telling him everything he did wrong. But he knew he was an artist despite what that old goat might say.

And this was his first piece. Finished and perfectly imperfect. His teacher would have hated it. He loved that.

His teacher would have said that it wasn’t art. That it was a toy. And he would be partly right. It was a toy. But why should that mean it couldn’t also be art?

It was a fort. A single piece of wood carved out so it appeared to be several boxes, sticking out from each other. It was splattered with paint – every happy colour he’d been able to think of and with childish paintings. It was in three levels and if you climbed to the top level you’d find the secret treasure: A cave, where you could hide with all your books and secrets, pretending it was a little world of it own.

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