end,fear,question

What is Fear

The image created for this story is a purchasable NFT art you can find on the OpenSea Marketplace and Crypto.com/NFT Marketplace.


Fitful, he ponders its meaning.

John hasn’t moved the object from his porch in three days, fear being his master. The package would seem normal to most people but our dear friend John is rather terrified. Now, this might be perplexing, unless you understood the horror this box causes dear John. See, it’s the holidays and packages mean fear, especially those not ordered by him.

He blockades himself inside the house and twists the lock to a satisfying click. Then he scampers into the coat closet adjacent to the front door. Days go by. The food dwindles. Apprehension rises.

“What can I do,” he thinks, nibbling at his nails.

On the fourth day, the answer seems as evasive as the rat he tried to catch last summer. He pokes his head out the front door and tip-toes over to sit down on the cold concrete steps, staring at his intruder with no less tension.

Finally, he dares a peek at the label. Oh, no. It’s true, the gift, if he may call it that.

His mother’s name scrawled over the ‘from’ portion of the label in thick Times New Roman font. Annabella Rosamunda Fredrickson. A chill shivers down his spine, chattering his teeth.

Hands shaking, he begins to disassemble the tape bindings of his fear as if this was some ticking bomb ready to enlarge his doorway along with other imaginative painful effects upon his physical well-being. Taking a deep breath, he clenches his eyes from the enemy and attempts the well-traveled, but bumpy road of control.

He gathers his wits, ready for the last step. The cardboard lid is lifted under his damp fingers. Again the demon of anticipation sucks at his soul, like an unknown parasite, tapping away at his energy with self-indulged delight.

How could he do this to himself? His mind races. Quick. He must act before he falls victim. With uncanny agility and speed for his extra girth, he leaps across the yard, around his finely pruned flowers, and almost trips over the lawn chair, until he reaches the gaping maw that will consume his fears. Sighing, he drops the contents into the trash.

Exhausted, he falls to the ground and pulls himself to the fence, sitting against it. He checks his watch. Damn. Three hours till the trash man arrives. Four minutes. He pinches his lips. Six minutes. He closes his eyes. Eight minutes. “Enough.”

With uncontrolled desire he lunges into the trash, tears falling across his stricken face. His hands grapple around the box of Twinkies and with devilish glee, he skips into his home and his defeat. His mother knows him too well.


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