by J.W. Huff
Penelope sits on a splintered old stool, balancing colours on her knees. She cradles a little boy’s face in her palms, and he wants to be a dog or a demon or Michelangelo the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. His mother jams a hand into her giant purse and says, “I’m not paying more than two dollars for this, you know.” Penelope doesn’t respond. Her stained finger traces a shadow across his soft pink cheek and they both smile. Their illusions are priceless.
J.W. Huff is a Canadian freelance writer. He blogs about pop culture here.