Young Writers Society

September, 7

Damnville

Dear Dad,

Do you know what’s really wrong with teens? Everyone wants to be SOMEBODY and do something UNIQUE. And not like spooky-psycho-sick, but you know, POPULAR. So that everyone will double-tap, comment and follow it. I must have caught the wrong planet coz I’d rather be nobody. I think it gives me like freedom to be all I want, not just what’s streaming.

But anyway…

I dropped by Aidan’s the other day. He had his next absolutely *CRAZIEST IDEA* to paint his bedroom walls. I don’t mean paint like brush it with one colour, but draw a complete and utter masterpiece instead of using canvas as all normal painters do. I caught him climbing the helluva stepladder to do the mountain tops and helped him stay there, not plop down and do the grass instead.

His mom Daffodil (well, actually Annella but nobody calls her that) got *poof* possessed, but not by devils, LATIN PROVERBS. She kept telling me how it was important to BE somebody, DO something, ANYTHING, but try to LIVE not just exist. ‘Carpe diem, amica mia, carpe diem!’ she splashed out with a graceful swing of her hand.

I had no idea what she wanted from me, but I must have looked really boring and inexpressible coz the next very day she told Ma how really boring and inexpressible I looked. “My son is doing a full-sized mural,” she said with a proud nod. “He enjoys his life and brings colours to it while some teens can only climb trees and fall from them.” *A glance my way*

Ma was furious. I thought she’d bring THE SKIES down to Vengeance Her Kin! But she only barked, “You’re right, Daff, some teens are true vandals, not like our darlings. You know, we fixed the pipes and our bathroom is such a mess. My talented little girl was just about to cover the shower tiles with dolphins and mermaids!”

I started laughing but choked on it when Ma dragged me to the first art-n-hobby shop around. Then got me shut in the bathroom one on one with the blasted wall. “If some Aidan Rossetti can do it, you surely can,” she said and lighted a joss stick of patchouli.

“But Ma, Aidan was born with a brush in one hand, a guitar in the other, two right feet and a mouth full of languages! The best I can do is to draw a smiley on a stick,” I protested.

“Don’t be ridiculous! You’re a daughter of a witch. You can do anything. Now. Open your chakras, connect your spirit to the Space and bring it to life!” She slapped my cheeks and shoulders to bring some of my blood back to life too and was off for her daily shot of long-dead Poldark.

Dad, I sat there for HOURS, smudging paint by the cracked tiles. I cried I laughed I played with my cats and drew a Halloween makeup on my face. I honestly tried to paint dolphins too, but somehow, did deeply troubled octopuses instead. My mermaids have probably lived all their lives in Picasso seas and watched me now with all three eyes, on their bum. By the end of the day, all I wanted was to BURN THIS FRIGGED WALL and all the frigged house with it. Then RUN, RUN as fast, RUN as long as I could and only stop when somebody sees a painter’s brush in my hand and asks what that thingy’s for.

When Ma came to check on my progress, hands on hips, she found it nice, though. “Oh, I love it, Carma! So spiritual and symbolic. I expected a sea theme but your pterodactyls look even better.”

“Ma, they are dolphins.”

“As you say, Pumpkin. Now, clean the mess and let it dry. The paint tube says, for three full days…”

Three days, DAD!!! I haven’t had a shower for THREE! DAYS! I didn’t think I’d ever take it home, though. Those monsters went out truly creepy. I even had nightmares about them chasing me all the way to school. When Hecta saw my picture, she offered to film a horror flick in my bathroom. And when Aidan saw it, I thought he’d crack from laughing this loud.

Anyway, the funniest thing about it all is that I did have a shower there, just today. My usual steamy shower and you know what? That blasted paint just peeled off. IT PEELED OFF MY GOD! Like drops of wax from a glass. Ma was off her rockers calling the shop and blaming all dead and alive for selling her “fake snot” of paint. Then she bought me a chocolate cake to eat down the TRAGEDY but blimey, there’s no tragedy. I’m BEAMING! The tiles are clean, and I even have a cake for that. Yay!

Will write to you soon,

Yours (so ordinary) Skipper