Page 19 of Soaring into the Midlife

"Neither did Nancy Drew!" Kendra added breathlessly.

"Less literary critique, more running!" Zara yelled from behind us.

The gallery seemed to stretch on forever, each new passageway lined with paintings eager to spill their contents into our path. Knights brandished swords, harlequins tumbled out with juggling pins in hand, and landscapes morphed before our eyes, their painted subjects hopping out with wild abandon.

"Does anyone else feel like we're inside a badly organized flash mob?" I asked, side-stepping a charging unicorn that had burst forth from a fantasy scene complete with rainbows and sparkles.

"Keep moving!" Kendra shoved me forward as a portrait of a serene lake decided it was time to try its hand at stormy weather, splattering us with droplets of paint rain.

"Seriously, where's the exit in this place?" I groaned, ready to leave this otherworldly art exhibit gone awry.

We skidded to a halt in front of what used to be a tranquil impressionist painting. Now, it was more like an abstract disaster scene. Gobs of thick, pastel paint oozed onto the floor, swirling into a slippery mess that looked like Monet's garden had melted in the sun.

"Watch your step." Kendra's eyes darted around for the best path through the colorful chaos.

"Or better yet, don't step at all." Zara leaped gracefully over a puddle of lilac and lime green.

Kendra tried to follow suit but wasn't as nimble. Her foot caught on the edge of a cobalt blue splotch, nearly sending her face-first into a dune of yellow ochre. I grabbed her just in time. "Who knew art could be so aggressive?" I regained our balance with a move that was less ballet and more slapstick.

Then a cacophony overhead drew our attention. A flock of animated birds, each one squawking louder than the last, burst from a nearby canvas. They swooped down, their wings a blur of vivid colors that rivaled any sunset.

"Seriously? Angry birds?" I couldn't help but giggle, ducking as an ornery cardinal took aim at my head.

"Those aren't the kind you can fling at pigs." Zara chuckled as she sidestepped a dive-bombing blue jay.

"Keep moving!" Kendra's tone brooked no argument as she dodged the aerial assault.

We zigzagged through the gallery, laughter mixing with the occasional yelp as we avoided both the avian attackers and another rogue fruit bowl that rolled along the floor like it was late for a very important date. Oranges and grapes tumbled out, creating a fresh obstacle course that made me grateful for every advanced vampire reflex I had.

"Anyone else craving a fruit salad?" I asked, vaulting over a runaway banana like it was the world's weirdest hurdle.

"Only if it comes without feathers." Zara swatted away a persistent finch.

"We need to find that exit." Kendra's lips twitched in amusement at our absurd situation.

"Watch out!" I yelled as a massive portrait of a knight erupted from its frame. The gallant figure towered over us, his armor clanking with each step. His face was obscured by the shadow of his helmet, but there was no mistaking the gleam of determination on his painted sword as it swung overhead.

We ducked under the arc of the blade, which cut through the air where our heads had been moments before.

We dodged another swing that sent a shockwave rippling across the room, toppling a nearby vase that shattered into a thousand porcelain pieces.

As we raced past a row of landscapes, one particularly tranquil scene caught my eye—a meadow dotted with wildflowers beneath a sky of soft blues and puffy whites. But as we watched, the clouds in the painting roiled and darkened, transforming into a menacing storm front right before our eyes.

"Uh, guys?" I pointed at the canvas. "I think we're about to get rained on."

"Seriously?" Zara groaned.

"Not just rain. Paint rain," Kendra corrected, as thick droplets splattered down from the once-serene painting, bursting into vibrant splotches of color upon impact with the floor.

"Run!" I hollered as the downpour turned torrential, streams of reds, yellows, and greens cascading down like a waterfall of paint.

"Here!" shouted Kendra, veering toward a large oak tree that had just stepped out of its pastoral scene. Its leaves rustled animatedly as it shook its branches, seemingly as disgruntled by the deluge as we were.

We huddled under the tree, which offered surprisingly good shelter, despite its leaves being a mix of impasto brushstrokes and autumnal hues.

"Nice tree," I complimented, patting its trunk. It responded with a shudder that might have been a thank you or simply a shiver from the cold paint.

"Add this to the list of 'things that only happen to us'." I peered out at the chaos of the gallery, now awash with rivers of paint.