The First Artist’s Mom

Aerth was down by the stream when he heard his mother scream. He thought maybe a bear had wandered into the cave again until he ran in to see her looking at the wall.

“Again?” she said. “I thought you had stopped drawing on the walls when you were a baby?”

“It’s pretty,” Aerth said. “See, I drew pictures of Dad hunting deer.”

“Then what about this?” she asked, pointing to a group of handprints.

“I had some paint left over.”

“If you’re father wasn’t out mammoth hunting, we’d move today,” she said, sitting down and putting her head in her hands. “I’d be so embarrassed if the Neanderthals who live over by the big rock ever stopped by for a visit. We’re supposed to be the civilized ones.”

“Just leave it there,” Aerth said. “Maybe you’ll like it in a few days.”

“My son, the drawer of silly pictures,” his mother said. “Why can’t you be a shaman, like your sister?”