American Graffiti
By: Meghan Coley
Jeremiah stood on the sidewalk and stared at the brightly painted wall. To the dozens of people that passed him by, it appeared that he was admiring the graffiti, even studying it with some deeper purpose.
But Jeremiah was staring in utter shock and confusion.
The wall was a part of a large restaurant on the main street of the small town he called home. He had walked past it hundreds of times and knew for a fact that the graffiti had not been there until this very morning.
And how unusual it was.
More incredibly, however, was that it pictured a view from Jeremiah’s flat downtown. It was as if he was looking out of his window now, down at the city, multicolored cars, and the small park across the street. The intricate brushwork and coloring had turned Jeremiah’s head and stopped him in his tracks.
“How is this…” he muttered under his breath, reaching out a hand to touch the wall.
He looked around warily, feeling that there was only one solution for this strange occurrence: Someone had been in his room and painted his view. It gave him the shivers.
As he turned to look behind him, Jeremiah spotted a man dressed all in black across the street. He was carrying a paint bucket in each hand; they both appeared to be empty.
The man lowered his Rayband sunglasses, set one of the cans down, and slowly rose his hand to wave at Jeremiah. Jeremiah stiffened and blinked, wondering if the man was waving at him, and knowing in the core of his being that he was looking at the artist of the graffiti behind him.
He had never seen the man before in his life.
Jeremiah stood on the sidewalk and stared at the brightly painted wall. To the dozens of people that passed him by, it appeared that he was admiring the graffiti, even studying it with some deeper purpose.
But Jeremiah was staring in utter shock and confusion.
The wall was a part of a large restaurant on the main street of the small town he called home. He had walked past it hundreds of times and knew for a fact that the graffiti had not been there until this very morning.
And how unusual it was.
More incredibly, however, was that it pictured a view from Jeremiah’s flat downtown. It was as if he was looking out of his window now, down at the city, multicolored cars, and the small park across the street. The intricate brushwork and coloring had turned Jeremiah’s head and stopped him in his tracks.
“How is this…” he muttered under his breath, reaching out a hand to touch the wall.
He looked around warily, feeling that there was only one solution for this strange occurrence: Someone had been in his room and painted his view. It gave him the shivers.
As he turned to look behind him, Jeremiah spotted a man dressed all in black across the street. He was carrying a paint bucket in each hand; they both appeared to be empty.
The man lowered his Rayband sunglasses, set one of the cans down, and slowly rose his hand to wave at Jeremiah. Jeremiah stiffened and blinked, wondering if the man was waving at him, and knowing in the core of his being that he was looking at the artist of the graffiti behind him.
He had never seen the man before in his life.
All Text Copyright (C) 2023 Meghan Coley