All of the art is fake. Everyone is clueless. It doesn’t take much to realise, they are painted with barely any effort and don’t match the originals. The people of the museum all have empty stares. To anyone who isn’t brainwashed this is horrifying. Only me and Raya are unaffected. This place is so big it’s overwhelming. My gown is stained a blood red as it shifts across the floor of the museum. “What now?” My question is thick with boredom and uninterested. I am not one for dramatics, just success. “We leave.” No shit. I mean how are we going to deal with this mess. I laugh maniacally. “I must say.. I’m actually pretty proud of myself. This entire place is in MY control, can you believe it?” She rolls her eyes at me. “Okay once we get to the bridge outside of town you can release them from this little… spell, of yours, okay?” Why does it have to wait so long? Oh who cares as long as we get our money everything will be fine. She leads me out of the building, hand in hand. Once we arrive at the truck she loads the back. As soon as the back shuts I drive. She yells after my car but I don’t care. All I care about is riches, she knew this when she married me. I will betray everyone for the life I deserve. The spell breaks and guards flood outside as I round the corner. She will be caught and I will get away… just like last time.

I don’t know how they couldn’t see it. All the subtle details that are off, one stroke going the wrong way, paint one shade too light. It seems so obvious but everyone else touring walks by like nothing is wrong. The guides talk about these works like their the authentic piece. I know the authentics used to be here, I’ve seen them before. But then what happened to them, were they stolen, did someone damage them and try and cover it up. The guard standing at the doorway to the famous artists room begins to fidget slightly. He notices how I examine the paintings and he knows they have been spotted for the fakes they are. He presses a button on his side and begins to approach me. “Oh no,”I muttered.

I was walking through the white walled, bland, boring art gallery that had some fancy pillars and some nice paintings. I was a local , off duty policeman on a school tour with my wife’s class. She had wanted help with looking after her class of 35 Primary school students. After walking around with them , I noticed something peculiar about the paintings. Every single painting was signed MJ. However it seemed to be colour coded. Some signatures were green while others were painted over in red. During our lunch break, I discussed this with my wife. “Hey, do you think there’s something strange with the colour coded signatures? They all have the same initials of M and J.” “Did Micheal Jordan pick up painting? First Basketball, then Baseball and now Painting? He amazes me with his raw talent.” “No, it’s probably not Micheal Jordan, I can’t imagine him painting those flowers over there.” “How about Mary Jane? The Actor?” “Now that you mention it, a few of the paintings did smell like Mary Jane.” “Wait, Honey, are you cheating on me!?” I leaned over and whispered: “No, I meant the drug.” She gave me a confused look and then said: “Why did you use the nickname for it?” “Well, there’s a handful of people here who should stay away from such substances…” “Like who?” “Like your whole class?” “Oh… that’s right.” “I’m afraid I’m now on duty again. I have to go and figure out why these paintings smell so much like Mary Jane.” Then the Art Gallery receptionist approached me and said, “I’m afraid you have no right to search this building without a permit.” I replied “Too bad, I have a permit,” as I lifted the permit out of my pocket.” I then found the ‘Mary Jane’ hiding behind the paintings that had a green ‘MJ’ signature there. I checked behind the paintings red MJ signatures and found nothing. “Sir, you are under arrest for the possession of that substance that I will not name due to there being children here. I’ll take you and the evidence to the police station for further questioning.” “Noooo my Marijuana stash!” He shouted as I pulled him towards the police car. “Miss, what’s a Marijuana stash?” Asked the student class representative as she gave my wife a confused look, she then continued to say : “ This happened during the field trip, so I believe that this is very very important for us to learn about.” The other 34 students followed accordingly and joined in and began chanting: “Yeah , Yeah, Tell us what a Marijuana stash is!” My wife had a very concerned and nervous reaction written across her face. She then facepalmed herself and uttered out:” Worst field trip ever.”

Today was a beautiful day and just the day to go to the local art gallery. There were two things that I loved most about the art gallery: seeing the beautiful paintings and watching the other people. My favorite people are the ones that try to flaunt their status by how much they know. They think they are better than everyone else because they find some deluded feeling towards a painting they know nothing about. I may be a little too judgmental on that. I mean, no one, even the people who study a piece of art for years can’t connect with the paintings in this gallery. Because every single painting is fake. Fake and replaced by a copy I made myself. “I bet you can’t switch out every painting in the gallery with one of your own.” The challenge was a joke. I was bored. I wanted to do something that would keep be busy while I was waiting for the perfect timing for a job I was doing. But then I did it. Just one at first. I wanted to see if I could. I watched all day to see people look at the Picasso painting with awe and insight. They had no idea the work put into it to make it exactly the same but they giving it the credit that it deserved. One by one, thanks to the lazy security guards and the security system that is way too easy to fool. Every painting is sitting in a storage unit under false name with the rest of my many treasures. I haven’t decided what I am going to do now. I could give them back, but I like keeping my winnings. I could sell them, but how much is someone going to really appreciate them like I do? Maybe I will keep them for a little longer. I walked over to the woman staring at one of the paintings with a curious look. “It’s a beautiful painting.” I said and she nodded. “Yes. I have looked at this painting so many times I think I see something different every time.” I smiled, looking at the painting. “I think it’s flawless.”

Something is weird about these paintings in this museum. I have a pretty good eye for art and I’ve studied it for years. Frankly, I’m disappointed and offended that the docent is pretending nothing is amiss. I can’t believe I had to pay admissions to this farce. Every painting is hopelessly fake. The crook that copied them didn’t even try. I think I will give a bad review once I can find an anonymous way of doing so. I don’t want to make waves. After all, the ignorant often attack you for being right. No, I’ll just stifle my disgust. No one likes a know it all. Instead, I will investigate this obvious crime clandestinely and bring this gallery of grift to justice!

The phone rang in her ear five times before he finally picked it up. "Hello?" His voice was cautious, concerned. Hers was mixed with laughter. "You really got them good, didn't you, Vanny?" "What? Who is this? How did you get this number?" "Oh, you know me." She patted the top of the payphone, as if it were a loyal pet. "I just pick a few numbers that seem like they'll give me the person I want on the other end." There was a heavy sigh in her ear. "Stats. What do you want?" "Just to congratulate you on a job well done. I was just wandering through the Hope City Art Museum when it occurred to me, if I were to steal all the paintings in the building - and you know I could - I wouldn't be able to make a dime off of any of it. Any fence worth their salt would know they were all fakes. You are quite the prolific fan artist!" "I'm not just some fan artist!" Yeah, she'd known that would get on his nerves. "My work is far superior to the originals!" "Well, those idiots at the museum can't tell the difference between your 'far superior' work and the originals you stole." "What do you want?!" "Is it really so hard to believe that I just want to chat with a colleague?" "Yes!" "Hm." Stats tugged at her headband. It was so strange to talk like Stats while she was dressed as Ava, but VanGogh couldn't see her, and no one outside of the phone booth could hear her. "You'll spend the rest of the week wondering and suspicious no matter what I say next, so I'll just leave it at that. Goodbye!" "Stats, you-" She hung up the phone, gave her reflection in the glass of the booth a little wink, and continued on her way.

Wait a minute, are these paintings really fake? How come no one else notices this? Whoever does the buying of images around here is going to be in a whole lot of trouble once their boss finds out about those paintings. I just don't understand how you can get into this type of business and not understand the value of your merchandise or can't even tell if it's real or fake. Hopefully, they will have great time finding a real job lol not a fake it really sucks the tour is coming to a end plus I will never find out who dumb ass brought all these fake paintings not drawn by Pablo Picasso

“Good morning, Miss Dalrymple. I’m sorry to have to bring you in today,” Vice Principal Greenleaf said in his most solemn voice. “Morning, sir. Don’t be sorry. My old auntie Daisy always said any day you wake up is a good day.” The young teacher’s cheerful disposition radiated in the shaded administrative office. Greenleaf adjusted his tie with nervous fingers. “So would you like to explain your side of the events from Friday’s field trip?” Greenleaf tented his hands, the picture of solemnity. Folding her arms, Dalrymple smiled sweetly. “No not really.” “What! You! what,” the vice principal spluttered. “I’ve been flooded with complaints from upset parents this morning. Don’t you want to defend yourself.” Dalrymple smiled more sweetly. “No, sir, not really.” They stared across Greenleaf’s nicely polished black walnut desktop. Greenleaf raked his hair then smoothed it. “Okay okay Miss Dalrymple, what happened at the gallery on Friday.” “I took my fifth grade class to the children’s book illustration exhibit at the Honeycutt Museum. Lovely exhibit and my kids will be making their own books this week. I want them to tell their own stories, sir. The installation was in the John William Wilcox room in the Norton wing and of course I explained how Wilcox was this county’s sheriff was known for letting Boss Man Norton get away with literal murder and these families both made money exploiting sharecroppers. And that money brought respectability and prestige.” The teacher continued smiling with serious cool eyes. “Now Miss Dalrymple can I call you Dahlia? Dahlia don’t you think that went too far? We don’t want to stir up bad feelings or make people uncomfortable.” “Well Nathan I wasn’t stirring. I was teaching local history. It’s important to know where we are by understanding where we come from. I’ve got 24 kids and they went home excited to write, excited to ask their families about their histories. Maybe one of my kids will be a writer or a historian maybe we will hear stories from people whose stories we never hear. I had over twenty positive emails this weekend so no stirring, just teaching Nathan.” Mouth agape, vice principal Greenleaf slumped back. “I better run along now. I have to prepare the paperwork for our next trip. We’re going to the library, the Robert E. Lee Memorial library. Morning Nathan.”

Peyton was a very curious young lady. She always loved art, and she was so excited to go to this art gallery. The gallery featured brand new, one of a kind pieces. The kind that collectors absolutely adored. When Peyton got to the gallery, she was toured by a man wearing a navy tux. He held a pointer stick in one hand, ready to point to all the paintings. Peyton’s white blonde hair was pulled back in high ponytail, and she wore her round glasses with light pink frames. The first piece was one of a tropical rainforest. There were toucans and monkeys everywhere around the trees. The sky was a pale blue colour, with a few faint clouds here and there. The painting looked familiar to her. Like an image she’s seen in a dream or something. It felt like dejavú to her. “Wait a minute…” she mumbled. “I’ve seen that painting before!” She quickly turned her head around to look at the other pieces. She recognized many of them. This gallery supposedly featured one of a kind pieces from just this month, but these pieces were years old, from places across the globe. “Excuse me miss?” I asked one lady. “Do you recognize any of these pieces?” “Gosh no! They’re nothing like I’ve ever seen before!” She exclaimed excitedly. “I’m thinking of buying a few of these already!” “Ma’am, I don’t think you should do that.” “Well, why not?” “Because they’re fakes. They’re just copies of paintings from a few years back,” She explained. The lady shook her head and walked away. She tried pointing it out to a few others, but they all walked away from me in disbelief. “You should take this more seriously,” one man told me. “Some of us actually care about quality art, so stop trying to dishonour these incredible artists,” another had said. Peyton felt like everything was warped. She cared so much about art, and these pieces were amazing, but they were fakes. She had to prove it somehow. Somehow, she had to expose this gallery.

I didn't notice anything odd at first. I'd joined the tour late and was paying more attention to the guide's lecture than the actual paintings. I'd seen them all before many times. I was a frequent visiter to this gallery. It was my Saturday tradition of sorts--morning in the park and afternoon at the gallery. This Saturday it was pouring and I'd forgone the park and headed across the street to the gallery earlier than usual. When I arrived, I was pleasantly surprised to see the group and attempted to slip into the tour without being noticed. I failed. Before I'd even managed to completely enter the room they were in, every single head turned towards me. That is, everyone except the guide, who continued on lecturing unaware the audience had grown by one. The tour members didn't pull their gaze from me for a few long seconds and I shifted on my feet self-consciously, afraid that I had interrupted a private tour and was unwelcome. I slowed my footsteps but joined none the less. Learning more about my favorite paintings was too tempting to pass up. They soon turned their attention back to the guide and seemed to forget about me. 30 minutes passed before something peculiar caught my eye--a signature that shouldn't be there. I'd sketched this painting only last weekend and I was sure that it did not have a signature then. After the guide finished his spiel about this particular painting and moved on to the next, I stayed behind and I stepped forward to get a closer look. Just as I was leaning down, someone spoke and I was interrupted. "Don't get too close." I looked up confused. I wasn't the only straggler. One of other tour members was standing not far behind me with a knowing smile on his face. "It's one of my favorites too." He explained and shifted his eyes over to examine the painting suddenly in deep thought. "It's the details, yes. I got too close one time and the security guard was not pleased." The man added and glanced back up at me. "Oh. Thanks for letting me know. I--" "We better catch up. The tour's moving on. Don't want to miss anything." He smiled and motioned to the adjoining room where the rest had gathered. Momentarily distracted, I turned and walked with the man to rejoin the group. Before I got too far away, I glanced back at the painting and reminded myself to inspect it later. As the guide continued, I shifted my focus to the paintings. Odd. In several of the paintings, tiny details where either added or changed. The additions and changes were so minute that only an expert or someone as familiar with them as I would have been able to pick them up. I peered up at the others in the group to see if they had caught eye of this. They hadn't. It seemed. But they were listening to the guide with a newfound attentiveness that had been absent up until now. Just as I went to glance back at the addition of a small seagull to a self-portrait, I noticed that the man from earlier was watching me. Peeking through his amiable indifferent mask was an unexpected weariness. Something was not right. In warning, my heart started to pick up and my skin became cold and clammy. I nervously wiped my palms on my jeans and averted my eyes from the painting. I was about to tiptoe away to take refuge in the restroom when a firm hand stopped me. I froze, startled, my eyes flashed helplessly to my wrist which was enclosed in a stranger's grasp. His eyes were hard and his tone even. "Want to know how we pulled off the heist?" I sucked in a sharp breath of air.