Four Towers, One Morning

The four crayon towers of Crayon Mare Mansion caught the morning sun and threw long colored shadows across the rooftop garden — red, yellow, green, and orange stripes stretching over the potted sunflowers like a painted rug.

Crayon Mare was up early, balancing on the garden railing in her blue-and-black supersuit, her bright blue mane flapping in the breeze. She held her giant glowing blue crayon loosely in one hand and a tablet in the other, scrolling through the Art Gallery City morning news.

"Ohhh." She tilted her head. "The Grand Crayon Cup. City-wide drawing competition. One winner gets a golden easel and the title of Art Gallery City's Greatest Artist." She read it twice.

Her assistant, Biscuit — a small, round-bellied raccoon in a yellow vest — waddled up beside her with a tray of orange juice.

"You've got that look," Biscuit said flatly.

"What look?"

"The jumping-in look."

Ink Before You Think

Biscuit — the round-bellied raccoon in the yellow vest — set the orange juice tray down carefully and waited.

"I'm not jumping in," Crayon Mare said. "I'm simply registering."

Twenty minutes later, they were at City Registration Hall, a wide brick building with banners hanging outside that read GRAND CRAYON CUP — ENTRIES OPEN. A long line of contestants snaked out the front door. Painters, sculptors, doodlers of every kind shuffled forward with their entry forms.

Crayon Mare filled out her form at counter twelve. She wrote her name neatly: Mare, C.

Behind her in line stood a tall parrot in a sequined jacket — emerald green feathers, sharp gold eyes, and a smirk that hadn't moved once. He was watching the other contestants, not looking at his own form. His entry tag read: VOLT BEAK.

Then something odd happened. The artist two spots ahead of Volt Beak dropped his entire portfolio — hundreds of drawings — and every single one went blank. Empty white paper, like they'd never been touched.

The man stared at his empty sheets and said nothing. Just stood there, blinking.