I realized that I need to just write stories in order to get good at it. So I have devised a method of getting that practice. I hate writing prompts because I feel like they rob me of a premise I could come up with myself, but I still need that seed of an idea to make something. I found a website where I can randomly generate words. Over time I will post short stories that use each of the three words I generate. These three words plant separate seeds in my mind in order to create a story. This is the first of my Three Word Sketches.
“I always thought modern art was stupid. This lady welds random scraps of tubing and suddenly everyone calls it art?” A man in his mid thirties wearing a canvas jacket says to what I assume is his girlfriend. She seems just as dismissive of the art; her expression saying just about the same thing her boyfriend verbalized. They stand together each holding a glass of white wine. In front of them is an art piece of a stick person constructed out of HVAC metal tubing being displayed at a prestigious gallery in New York.
Anyone could do what Lady Dee does but only she has done it; that’s what makes it special. I contemplate walking over to them to give them my perspective but I hold back; instead I walk away to admire another piece among the exhibition. The piece I walk to has few people standing around it and is made of the same materials as before. Its a depiction of a large dog.
I contemplate it for a while. The dog stands firmly, almost making a triangle with his posture. He raises his head high. Out of pride or out of a wish to please his master?
“You were listening to that couple’s conversation too?” A short frail looking man walked up to me.
“Uh, yes.” I said, unsure of where this man was going with this interaction.
“I’m Dee’s husband.” He says.
“Oh, really?” I say.
“That’s my wife who made that dog.”
“I didn’t know Dee was married.” I say.
“They don’t cart me out to these sorts of events very often, given that I’m not the one really making the art.” He say.
“This piece’s name is Duke, does that mean anything?”
“Duke’s the name of our last dog who passed away.” He said, somewhat glumly.
“Oh, I’m sorry for your loss.”
“You know… she hated Duke until he got older.”
“Why’s that?”
“Dee needs order and young, chipper Duke brought chaos. He knocked all sorts of things over while running around the house like a madman.”
There was a short pause. I didn’t really know what to ask so I asked what his job was.
“Well I’m retired now. I was a victims advocate here in New York for the police department.”
“What was that like?” I ask.
“It was interesting. You hear the most intense things and you meet some very distressed people. Then you have to go home after all of that and pretend like everything is just fine.”
“Did it mess with your mind?”
“I stayed mostly the same.” He said half courageous and half with bravado.
“That’s good.” I say.
A loud sharp sound of laughter erupted from behind us. The couple was making their way over to ‘Duke’.
I look at the man and he looks at me. I know it is best to walk away but part of me wants to stay so I can defend the piece. But the way he looks at me almost says he has read my mind and says that there is no point. Those who wish to understand will and those who do not wish to understand will not. I walk away, saying goodbye to the man.
colindoesthings 
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