Honeycomb by Joanne Harris (book series for 12 year olds .txt) 📕

fine painter, they said, should not restrict his art to still-life. They wanted pictures of living things: animals, birds, and butterflies. And so, with some reluctance, the artist set to painting living things: horses caught mid-gallop with the sweat still cooling on their flanks; birds that seemed ready to burst into song; hunting dogs with lolling tongues; cats that almost seemed to purr.

And seeing his work, the people agreed that he was a wonderful artist. “But why do you not paint people?” they said. “Surely, the art of portraiture is the noblest art of all!”

And so, once more, after much hesitation, the artist set about painting a great canvas. It was to be the culmination of his life’s work; a vast portrait of all his friends, family, and neighbours. He brought all his expertise to the task; lingered over details; fretted over the bloom of a cheek; the waxy gleam of an eyelid. For months he laboured in secret, allowing no one to enter his studio. And when the work was finished, he opened his doors to the eager crowds, and stood by as they came to watch, proudly awaiting their applause.

For a long time, the onlookers stared at the enormous canvas. Here they were, all of them: the artist’s friends and family, his neighbours and his countrymen, looking out from the picture-frame like reflections in a mirror. All were stunned into silence as they saw themselves immortalized.

Then a fat woman spoke up, “Your painting gives me a double chin!”

A man who never changed his clothes said, “You’ve made me look like a beggar!”

A faded beauty stamped her foot. “How dare you make me look so old!”

And a bald man touched the three long hairs pasted over his forehead and said, “You’ve made me into a laughing-stock! I look nothing like this caricature!”

One by one, the people came to vent their displeasure at the work. The artist protested, filled with dismay: “But all I did was paint what I saw!”

“Well, you saw wrong!” the people replied, and, flinging themselves at the canvas, tore it into a thousand pieces and scattered them to the four winds. The man himself withdrew in haste, lest he suffer the same fate. And when the people had dispersed, he looked out at the carnage, and shrugged.

“Well, that went well,” he said to himself, and, gathering what was left of his things, went back to painting apples.

92

T

HE

E

DITOR

There was a man whose life was dull, and who was very lonely. Every day he awoke to the same drab and repetitive routine. He would get out of bed in his dull house, put on one of his dull grey suits, and take the bus through the dull grey streets to his place of work.

The man was an editor of scientific manuals, and he worked in a dull little office, reading other people’s writing. Occasionally he would take his pen and change a bad word to a better one. He would work there all day, stopping only once for lunch, where he always had the same rather dull meal—a single cheese sandwich, a cup of tea, an apple, and a piece of cake—then he would take the bus back home, heat up a frozen dinner, and watch dull television shows for exactly three hours before going to bed.

He had a secretary at work, whose life was as dull and lonely as his own, but it never occurred to him to talk to her. Instead, he dreamed of changing his life and leaving town, and falling in love and seeing the world and having wild adventures. But he had no idea where to start. The daily routine was all he knew.

And then one day, he had an idea. “I will correct my life,” he said, “just as I correct my work. I will rename everything dull to something far more interesting.”

He looked around for something to change. The first thing he saw was his bed.

“What a dull word is bed,” he said. “Instead of saying bed, I will henceforth say rocket ship.” And he smiled to himself at the thought of sleeping in a rocket ship, and thought how much more exciting it would sound.

The next day, he decided that, instead of “taking the bus to work,” he would “take the space shuttle” to “explore an alien planet.” It sounded so much better that way that he smiled to himself all day.

The next day, he decided that instead of “editing,” he would “fight aliens,” and that his “secretary” would henceforth be known (albeit secretly) as a “beautiful alien temptress.” Instead of a cheese sandwich, a cup of tea, an apple, and a slice of cake, his lunch would now consist of “roast suckling-pig with truffles, wine, sugar-frosted Muscat grapes, and Queen of Puddings.” These were all the man’s favourite things (except for the Queen of Puddings, which was a dessert he had always longed to try but had never quite had the courage to make). Eating his lunch now became a totally new experience, and the beautiful alien temptress was surprised to hear him actually humming between mouthfuls of cake.

On the third day, he decided that “watching TV” would henceforth be called “making love.” It made things much more exciting.

Time passed. The man was very pleased at all this. His life had changed completely. Every morning he would take the space shuttle to explore an alien planet. He would fight aliens, and sometimes give orders to the alien temptress. He would dine on the most exotic foods. Then he would go home, make love for a few hours, and return to his rocket ship to sleep. It was all very exciting indeed.

“What an adventurous fellow I am!” thought the man. “How others will envy my exciting life!”

And yet, at certain times, alone in his rocket ship at night, he would feel a certain restlessness, a certain darkness of the soul; almost as if, in spite of it all, there might be something