Chalk Drawings
5-year-old Melissa sat on her parents’ patio, inconsolable. The overnight rains had washed away her chalk drawings.
Her dad squatted down next to her. “It’s all right, sweetheart,” he said. “Now it’s all clean, so you can draw more pictures. You want to draw more pictures?”
“No!” Melissa retorted.
Her dad reached out and scratched the back of her neck. “I’ll get the chalk bucket. And you know what I’m going to do?”
Melissa sniffled. “What?”
“When you’re all done with your drawing, you tell me, and I’ll take a picture of it.”
Melissa broke into fresh sobs. Her dad squeezed her against him.
“Honey! We can line up the pictures on the fridge, and we can look at them forever!”
“I want the drawings!” Melissa wailed. “Bring the drawings in the house!”
Melissa’s dad chuckled. “We can’t do that, sweetheart. We would have to dig up the patio.”
Melissa brightened. “Okay!” she said.
Melissa’s dad looked up at the second floor of the house. Melissa did have a pretty big room...
• • •
The first drawing slated to be dug up was a celebration, in chalk, commemorating the occasion. A stick figure in pigtails and a blue dress hugged her stick figure dad while a stick figure in a hard hat pried up the patio with a shovel.
“Not a bad likeness of me,” said the contractor. “I especially like how skinny she made me!”
Within the chalk-drawing version of the patio, you could make out the same drawing, repeated - a tinier chalk Melissa, chalk dad, and chalk contractor. An interesting glimpse into infinity, or meta-art, or postmodernism.
The contractor asked, “Did you use spray fixant on this?”
“Hm? Oh. Yeah, I sprayed it down with hairspray,” replied Melissa’s dad.
“That ought to do it.”
“After you pour the new patio, how long before she can draw on it again?”
“Should be about a day or two.”
“That’s fine.” Melissa’s dad looked up to the second floor, where Melissa was grinning down at them. She waved.
“They just own you at that age, don’t they?” asked the contractor.
“Yeah,” replied Melissa’s dad.
“You don’t have to tell me. I got a little girl of my own,” said the contractor. “Do you know ‘American Girl’? I swear, I know more about Samantha Parkington than I do about a lot of real people in my life. She’s an orphan in 1904 New York. She lives with her grandparents.”
“Yeah. Let me know when you’re ready to bring it inside, okay?”
• • •
More and more concrete slabs lined the walls of Melissa’s room. She was fond of walking among them, remembering the day she drew each, pressing her face up close then retreating to the other side of the room. She loved running her fingers along the chalk lines and marveling that they didn’t smear. Sometimes she would touch up areas to improve them, or add details.
And at night, dizzy and half-conscious in the dark, breathing a suspension of hairspray and chalk dust, surrounded by heavy and looming objects, she watched visions swim at her like moray eels through the thick and delirious atmosphere.
• • •
The chalk drawings began to worry Melissa’s dad.
“What’s the teddy bear doing, sweetheart?” he asked her.
“Peeing teeth,” Melissa replied.
Melissa’s dad thought as much. A teddy bear hovered above a bridge, its face contorted in fury. A torrent of fangs gushed from a hose between its legs and splashed into the pink river beneath, where a school of fish fought over them.
• • •
Dear Parenthood Advisor,
I have a five-year-old daughter who has quite suddenly taken to drawing some highly disturbing pictures. I know that a lot of times abused kids draw creepy pictures, but there isn’t any abuse, so please save that theory - I don’t want to hear it. What I’m wondering is, what can I do to set her mind to happier subjects?
As an example, she drew one this morning that portrayed a unicorn with its hoof caught in a bear trap, and it’s being eaten alive by the rest of its herd. All the unicorns that are doing the eating look very happy - you can see their ribs, so it’s been a while since they ate. But the look of ecstasy on the face of the unicorn that’s being eaten is what threatens to finish me. The drawings are full of details like that.
The pictures are highly intricate, and there’s a lot of artistic talent there.
Sincerely,
Father of a Young Artist.
Dear Father,
It sounds like your daughter simply has some fascinating thoughts to share. It’s important to allow her to express her creativity, and to let her know that she will not be stifled. All children develop their own ways of shaping their world.
Rejoice in her creativity. She will have plenty of time to be hemmed in by society later on in life!
That said, is it possible that there is some abuse going on?
Best wishes,
The Parenthood Advisor
• • •
“These are rousing,” said Stan Perplexo of Perplexo Galleries. He was in Melissa’s room, looking at a drawing of a swarm of hearts attacking a group of picnickers. Each picnicker’s heart was being coaxed out of its chest to join the swarm, which stretched for miles into the distance, and the hearts’ owners were dying in agony.
Perplexo had read Melissa’s dad’s letter and asked to be put in contact. He held a handkerchief to his nose to keep out the hairspray fumes. “Where is the girl now?” he asked.
“At school,” replied Melissa’s father.
“I am not blowing smoke, sir. I believe there is a show in these. Your little girl is extraordinary.”
“I’m glad you like them.”
“Many of these pieces would command a healthy sum,” Perplexo continued. “If you would be willing to part with them.”
“I have to be honest, Mr. Perplexo. I’d really like to get them out of the house.”
• • •
5-year-old Melissa sat on her parents’ patio, inconsolable. “My drawings stay in my room!” she shrieked.
“Sweetheart,” said her dad. “Some of these will sell for a lot of money. And we can buy all new chalk! And draw some happier drawings!”
“I will gut you!” screamed Melissa. “I will gut you and wear your stomach like a beret!” She stood up and ran inside, slamming the door behind her.
“Oh boy, I’ve lived through that phase,” said the contractor. He continued chiseling away at the concrete.
• • •
That night, Melissa’s dad awoke to a massive thud that shook the entire house. He burst into Melissa’s room and saw only her two little hands sticking out from under one of the slabs of concrete.
The drawing that had fallen on her was of a crouching man whose skin was made entirely of eyeballs. The man gingerly kept every finger, every limb, stretched as far apart as he could, so as not to crush any of his eyes. But despite his best efforts, tears pooled at his feet.
Later that night, in Melissa’s room, the police eyed Melissa’s dad as he drank coffee and pulled a blanket around his shoulders. The head detective approached him.
“We found these in her hands,” the detective said, holding up a baggie containing several industrial-sized screws. “Any idea where they came from?”
Melissa’s dad gaped at the screws, then looked up at the ceiling. They were the screws that had held the top of the slab in place.
The detective followed his glance, then directed another officer to take some photos of the ceiling. He then knelt down and continued outlining Melissa’s body in chalk.
Her dad squatted down next to her. “It’s all right, sweetheart,” he said. “Now it’s all clean, so you can draw more pictures. You want to draw more pictures?”
“No!” Melissa retorted.
Her dad reached out and scratched the back of her neck. “I’ll get the chalk bucket. And you know what I’m going to do?”
Melissa sniffled. “What?”
“When you’re all done with your drawing, you tell me, and I’ll take a picture of it.”
Melissa broke into fresh sobs. Her dad squeezed her against him.
“Honey! We can line up the pictures on the fridge, and we can look at them forever!”
“I want the drawings!” Melissa wailed. “Bring the drawings in the house!”
Melissa’s dad chuckled. “We can’t do that, sweetheart. We would have to dig up the patio.”
Melissa brightened. “Okay!” she said.
Melissa’s dad looked up at the second floor of the house. Melissa did have a pretty big room...
• • •
The first drawing slated to be dug up was a celebration, in chalk, commemorating the occasion. A stick figure in pigtails and a blue dress hugged her stick figure dad while a stick figure in a hard hat pried up the patio with a shovel.
“Not a bad likeness of me,” said the contractor. “I especially like how skinny she made me!”
Within the chalk-drawing version of the patio, you could make out the same drawing, repeated - a tinier chalk Melissa, chalk dad, and chalk contractor. An interesting glimpse into infinity, or meta-art, or postmodernism.
The contractor asked, “Did you use spray fixant on this?”
“Hm? Oh. Yeah, I sprayed it down with hairspray,” replied Melissa’s dad.
“That ought to do it.”
“After you pour the new patio, how long before she can draw on it again?”
“Should be about a day or two.”
“That’s fine.” Melissa’s dad looked up to the second floor, where Melissa was grinning down at them. She waved.
“They just own you at that age, don’t they?” asked the contractor.
“Yeah,” replied Melissa’s dad.
“You don’t have to tell me. I got a little girl of my own,” said the contractor. “Do you know ‘American Girl’? I swear, I know more about Samantha Parkington than I do about a lot of real people in my life. She’s an orphan in 1904 New York. She lives with her grandparents.”
“Yeah. Let me know when you’re ready to bring it inside, okay?”
• • •
More and more concrete slabs lined the walls of Melissa’s room. She was fond of walking among them, remembering the day she drew each, pressing her face up close then retreating to the other side of the room. She loved running her fingers along the chalk lines and marveling that they didn’t smear. Sometimes she would touch up areas to improve them, or add details.
And at night, dizzy and half-conscious in the dark, breathing a suspension of hairspray and chalk dust, surrounded by heavy and looming objects, she watched visions swim at her like moray eels through the thick and delirious atmosphere.
• • •
The chalk drawings began to worry Melissa’s dad.
“What’s the teddy bear doing, sweetheart?” he asked her.
“Peeing teeth,” Melissa replied.
Melissa’s dad thought as much. A teddy bear hovered above a bridge, its face contorted in fury. A torrent of fangs gushed from a hose between its legs and splashed into the pink river beneath, where a school of fish fought over them.
• • •
Dear Parenthood Advisor,
I have a five-year-old daughter who has quite suddenly taken to drawing some highly disturbing pictures. I know that a lot of times abused kids draw creepy pictures, but there isn’t any abuse, so please save that theory - I don’t want to hear it. What I’m wondering is, what can I do to set her mind to happier subjects?
As an example, she drew one this morning that portrayed a unicorn with its hoof caught in a bear trap, and it’s being eaten alive by the rest of its herd. All the unicorns that are doing the eating look very happy - you can see their ribs, so it’s been a while since they ate. But the look of ecstasy on the face of the unicorn that’s being eaten is what threatens to finish me. The drawings are full of details like that.
The pictures are highly intricate, and there’s a lot of artistic talent there.
Sincerely,
Father of a Young Artist.
Dear Father,
It sounds like your daughter simply has some fascinating thoughts to share. It’s important to allow her to express her creativity, and to let her know that she will not be stifled. All children develop their own ways of shaping their world.
Rejoice in her creativity. She will have plenty of time to be hemmed in by society later on in life!
That said, is it possible that there is some abuse going on?
Best wishes,
The Parenthood Advisor
• • •
“These are rousing,” said Stan Perplexo of Perplexo Galleries. He was in Melissa’s room, looking at a drawing of a swarm of hearts attacking a group of picnickers. Each picnicker’s heart was being coaxed out of its chest to join the swarm, which stretched for miles into the distance, and the hearts’ owners were dying in agony.
Perplexo had read Melissa’s dad’s letter and asked to be put in contact. He held a handkerchief to his nose to keep out the hairspray fumes. “Where is the girl now?” he asked.
“At school,” replied Melissa’s father.
“I am not blowing smoke, sir. I believe there is a show in these. Your little girl is extraordinary.”
“I’m glad you like them.”
“Many of these pieces would command a healthy sum,” Perplexo continued. “If you would be willing to part with them.”
“I have to be honest, Mr. Perplexo. I’d really like to get them out of the house.”
• • •
5-year-old Melissa sat on her parents’ patio, inconsolable. “My drawings stay in my room!” she shrieked.
“Sweetheart,” said her dad. “Some of these will sell for a lot of money. And we can buy all new chalk! And draw some happier drawings!”
“I will gut you!” screamed Melissa. “I will gut you and wear your stomach like a beret!” She stood up and ran inside, slamming the door behind her.
“Oh boy, I’ve lived through that phase,” said the contractor. He continued chiseling away at the concrete.
• • •
That night, Melissa’s dad awoke to a massive thud that shook the entire house. He burst into Melissa’s room and saw only her two little hands sticking out from under one of the slabs of concrete.
The drawing that had fallen on her was of a crouching man whose skin was made entirely of eyeballs. The man gingerly kept every finger, every limb, stretched as far apart as he could, so as not to crush any of his eyes. But despite his best efforts, tears pooled at his feet.
Later that night, in Melissa’s room, the police eyed Melissa’s dad as he drank coffee and pulled a blanket around his shoulders. The head detective approached him.
“We found these in her hands,” the detective said, holding up a baggie containing several industrial-sized screws. “Any idea where they came from?”
Melissa’s dad gaped at the screws, then looked up at the ceiling. They were the screws that had held the top of the slab in place.
The detective followed his glance, then directed another officer to take some photos of the ceiling. He then knelt down and continued outlining Melissa’s body in chalk.