Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • By day my mother was the cleaner at a local school, but by night she was a great artist. She had a studio — an old shed — at the back of the garden, full of paint and oil and chicken-wire and clay. If you went anywhere near that shed you'd get paint on you. (Sometimes if you just thought hard enough about that shed you'd get paint on you — so watch out). She drew portraits of people from the village and sometimes she sculpted clay heads of the men she'd met along the way. And then, when we needed the money, she'd just forge a Renoir or a Degas or a fake Van Gogh.
    • Share

    Connected stories:

About

Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.