Jamelia Johnson
Stories (2)
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"Final Masterpiece in a box"
Somewhere in NYC, Amber Thorne threw splashes of fushcia and clementine at an canvas with the mood of a frustrated toddler. She wasnt getting anywhere and she had five hours left. She had been so engrossed in her futile attempt of working an artistic miracle, that she would have missed the sound of the doorbell had it not been for the sudden ending of her “inspirational” playlist. Putting down her paintbrush, Amber made her way to her front door, glad of the sudden distraction. She opened it and looked out to find no one there. Confused, she leaned her head out, turning it to the right and and left. No one was in the sight. Those stupid middle schoolers up to their antics again. As she began to come back inside, her foot hit something solid. Looking down,it was a box. It was like any other box that Amazon or UPS delivered. Brown, and plain looking. Had to be a mistake Amber concluded. She didnt remember ordering anything as of late. Probably was her neighbors, They were often mixing their packages up with hers. She would take it over to them after she finished her art piece. If she finished it that is. Her agent wanted a piece by the end of today. Based on shitty work she kept producing, Amber had a very strong feeling that wouldnt be happening. Bending down, Amber picked it up. Surprise flickered across her face when she found it to be as light as a feather. Especially for the size it was. It was a medium size box. Big enough for a toddler or puppy to fit in. Having more important things to do, Amber shrugged and brought it into the house. She closed the door amd walked over to her art area, dropping the box on the table as she passed by. It was then that she saw it. And when she did, an uneasy feeling came over her. Written in a fine script was her name. Amber Celine Thorne. The font reminded Amber of a fancy wedding invitation. It was disconcerting to see on such a plain package as this one. What the hell? thought Amber. Who would send this? Without touching it, Amber's eyes roved all over the package looking for any clues as to where or who it came from. There was none. No address, no label. Just her name. Anxiety leaked into Amber like a dripping faucet. Was it a bomb? She took her cell phone out of her pocket. She should call 911. Let the police and Bomb Squad deal with it. As she began to dial, hesitation swooped in. What if it was just a prank? Or mistake? She would have called authorities for nothing. They would look at her and just see the Black crazy artist who was probably high on some “recreational” stuff. The mere thought of her neighbors and the police looking at her with suspicion and stereotypical judgment was enough for her to close the phone. NOPE. She took some deep breaths. She would handle this herself. She was a college educated grown woman. She could handle this. All she had to do was open the box. That's it. It was a stupid prank probably... Everything would turn out fine… Yet, she couldn't get herself to do it. She reached for it only to quickly pull her hand back as if she got burned. Something wasn't right. But like most, curiosity gnawed alongside her uneasiness like a dance partner. Moving in tandem with her amounting anxiety.
By Jamelia Johnson3 years ago in Fiction
