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Why I Hate Graffiti

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Photo via pixelbay

Photo via pixelbay

Photo via pixelbay

Ian Taylor, Creative Story Author

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I am just an average writer with a normal life living in New York, well, I had a normal life and I used to live in New York but that ended. My life as an average writer had been as mundane as ever; another book written, and another publisher rejecting it. I was used to being turned down by publishers, it happened often enough. But something about this rejection really got on my nerves. Maybe it was the fact that I really liked the book, or that they had rejected ten straight proposals or just the fact that I was in a mood. Whatever it was, I was steaming and couldn’t let it go.

After me and my broken spirit returned to my apartment, I went to my small desk, littered in leftovers and crumbled papers, and attempted to compose a bestselling novel, one that would make me an instant hit. But my efforts were fruitless and, to add insult to injury, my cat began to meow at the door. I begrudgingly grabbed the leash and took him out on a walk, hoping the air would clear my thoughts. I walked along the streets and back-alleys, going wherever my cat’s curiosity lead him.

As we entered yet another alley I frowned when he began to roll on the ground, knowing full well that I would have to clean his white fur spotless when we returned home. As I prepared to turn back and go home, something must have spooked him, and he darted into the alley, slipping out of his collar when he bolted. Frustrated, I walked down the alley after my cat, deciding not to give it the pleasure of knowing it made me run. As I passed under the looming shadows of skyscrapers, I heard the clattering of metal within the alley. I increased my pace to a slow jog as ran past the decrepit brick and wood that made up the back of various buildings until I reached the end of the alley, following the clanking and clattering of what sounded like a dumpster. However, to my surprise, I rounded the corner and reached end of the alley and found no dumpsters. There was however, a large collection of graffiti ornamenting the walls of the alley and one such piece of graffiti detailed a man diving into a dumpster.

Shrugging off the graffiti as mere coincidence, I continued the search for my cat, only to be disrupted by the someone sound of someone running, a strange yelp, and something clattering to the ground. I poked my head around the corner of the alley to see what the commotion was but found nothing but a graffiti image of a jogging teenager. The image, however, did not hold my attention as I noticed an unused spraycan rolling to a halt at the feet of the mural. I bent down and pick it up, only to drop it by the shock of a cat shrieking. Desperate to find whatever dared hurt my poor cat, I sprinted back toward the image of the dumpster at the end of the alley. As I skidded to a halt something caught my eye, something on the wall. It was an image of a cat that was strangely familiar with its white coat, discolored as if it had been rolling in the dirt and eyes the shade of a blue sapphire. Overcome by curiosity, I leaned in closer to inspect the collar on the image, it read ‘Felix.’ I backed away in horror and realized another small detail. A small string of numbers below the name, I didn’t need to read them to realize what they were, the numbers were my phone number. In my shock I began to feel dizzy, I saw the images shifting and moving in the wall. I leaned against a building to steady myself, then felt the wall itself morph around my body. I tried to pull back from the wall in a plea to escape, but I only seem to sink deeper. Realizing that this could be the end I used all my strength to save myself from an eternity trapped and broke free, bolting out of the alley and back to my apartment.

After I sprinted into my apartment I locked both of the locks on the door and stumbled into my room, passing out on my bed. I woke up to beams of yellow light poking through the blinds, hoping that events of the previous day had been a mere dream. I tried to go about my normal routine, but something kept bothering my out of the corner of my eye. It started when I saw graffiti scattered across the walls across the street that gave me the chills with their stare. It culminated when I walked out the door, a man was painted there, right on the doorstep, with a look of hatred in his eyes that continues to haunt my dreams to this days.

I moved out of that apartment, and New York City, that same day. I have been living a rather quiet live in a small town in upstate New York since. This new life has resurrected my writing career as well, with three of my books published since I moved. Something has been bothering me lately though, I have noticed more graffiti across town. Everyday I feel like the painting are getting closer and closer to my house, but I’m sure that it’s nothing to worry about and I’m just paranoid…

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1 Comment

One Response to “Why I Hate Graffiti”

  1. Grayson Sakell on February 14th, 2018 4:22 pm

    Spooky

    [Reply]

If you want a picture to show with your comment, go get a gravatar.




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