The Unexpected Delivery

(Part three of a short story series, based on writing prompts... written while trying to learn to fight brain fog and perfectionism)

The gallery was crowded when Shay arrived. The exhibit director, Maud, had promised there’d be people, but Shay had been skeptical. The once thriving art scene was barely holding on by a thread. As he made his way through the room, he felt uneasy; something was off. By the time he spotted Maud, there was no doubt in his mind. “They’re not here for the art.” he said, almost accusingly. Maud had dithered around, trying to construct a response that existed in the space between truth and lies. Of course, they technically were here for the art... but their movements around the room were unnatural, mechanical. Their expressions cold, detached, clinical.

It hadn’t taken long for Shay to figure out where this crowd had come from. Aside from the other exhibiting artists and their families, and the gallery staff, and a scattering of pre-adults so optimistically blind to the state of society that they actually expected to find inspiration here... the room was full of droids. Not literal droids of course (though that might have felt less oppressive), but the soulless government officials that Shay tried so hard to avoid.

It was hard to know exactly why there were so many droids there that day. It was normal to have a few at any art event, checking that no one was expressing themselves in ways that hadn’t been sanctioned. Shay tried not to be present when they came through, inspecting the works and ticking boxes. But this was far more bodies than were necessary for that process. All he could conceive was that the government was trying to give the impression that the art scene had bounced back, that the economy was recovering.

Shay left after only minutes, more depressed than when he’d arrived. Fists in pockets, he made his way home; eyes fixed on whatever patch of pavement lay three feet ahead. This wasn’t what he’d signed up for, wasn’t what any artist had signed up for! Shay longed for the Before times, when art had been real. If only we’d known how much we would lose, we might all have fought harder, or sooner.

When he reached his terrace, a parcel was waiting by the door. He avoided looking at it as he entered his home, closing the door quickly as though the parcel might follow him in. This isn’t right. There was nothing inherently suspicious about the parcel, not to an uninformed observer anyway... but Shay’s head pounded as he tried to slow his racing thoughts. What if it’s a trap? No, that’s absurd. No one knew the plan except Carson and I... unless he let it slip. But ignoring it won’t make it go away... the longer it’s out there, the more people might see it. I should bring it in... Unless it’s a trap. No...leaving it out there won’t do any good, it won’t go away on it’s own. If I had nothing to hide I’d be bringing it in! It’s just a parcel. Breathe. How the hell do I go get it now? If I really hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t know to go back out.

Shay finally settled on going for a jog. He would pause at the front door to stretch, pretend to spot the parcel, place it inside the door, then take a lap around the block. When he got outside however, he panicked. He couldn’t remember how to look natural. So he stalled, jogging on the spot. What are you doing?? You can’t take the parcel in now! Just go, start moving before you draw even more attention. For the entire 8 minutes and 32 seconds he was gone, Shay cursed himself and agonized over how many more sets of eyes might see the parcel. I should have just brought it in when I got home! Why did I have to panic? Or even after I went inside... I could have just gone back out to put my shoes outside... or something, anything! What if someone is watching when I get back? What if someone steals it?

While Shay knew the parcel might spell danger, he was still relieved to have it back in his sights when he approached his home once more. There was no one to be seen, but he still felt the sensation of eyes watching him as he picked up the parcel and went inside. No one is watching. Only you know this parcel is suspicious. You’re just feeling that people could be watching you. It’s not a trap. It can’t be a trap. No one knew except you and Carson. But that was the problem. Carson had called it off.

Shay took the parcel to his studio and sat at his cluttered desk, staring at the parcel in front of him for a full hour before picking up a blade. Putting this off won’t make it any less dangerous. The parcel was wrapped in brown paper, and looked fairly ordinary... unless you knew. But there was no address on it, this parcel had been hand delivered. Hand delivering a parcel wasn’t a crime in itself, but he was almost certain that delivering this particular parcel could land someone in prison. As could having it in his home. He slit the tape open and unwrapped the paper. Inside was a plain cardboard box, and inside of that, art supplies. He glanced around the room at the supplies he had already; it wouldn’t be hard to hide these. He cleared some space and began emptying the box, one item at a time, as his thoughts drifted.

When climate change had first started making headlines, no one could have imagined that the domino effect would impact the art world the way it had. Insects and plant life were affected, that was to be expected from an environmental crisis... and sure, the changing environment had had an impact on the landscapes being painted. And certain pigments could no longer be produced. But the art world was spurred to paint more flowers, fruit, butterflies and bees than at any other point in history; they had always been popular subject matter, but endangerment and extinction had given everyone a new appreciation for these natural beauties.

But art strengthened emotions and ideas that the government feared. Resources were being poured into adapting to a new environment rather than fighting to protect the old, and the art world wasn’t playing along. At first it was subtle; grants and exhibit opportunities were given to artists who painted “safer” subject matter like people, or space. Abstract sculptures, performance art and photography were focused on in school and collage curricula. Even past art was affected. Art featuring “controversial” images such as flowers or insects were placed into storage, while more “unifying” art featured in exhibitions.

When artists hadn’t toed the line, laws were put in place. Flowers were forbidden and any new art featuring them was seized and destroyed. Pigments made from now extinct plants became illegal, and anyone found using them put in prison. Shay’s art had never featured nature - not in any way easily recognizable anyway - so he had flown under the radar. He’d hidden his illegal pigments when news of the raids reached him. For a time, he’d even sought out more; that’s where Carson had come into the picture.

Carson ran an art supply store. When the laws came in, instead of handing over the illegal pigments, he switched labels. He surrendered illegal paints, but the pigment containers he handed over contained legal pigments like cobalt blue and cadmium red; after all, the government had no reason to check seized goods for legal materials. The colours were often indistinguishable in pigment form, without running tests.

Carson had delivered fortnightly parcels to Shay, a mix of legal and illegal pigments. He had chuckled when handing over a parcel containing Carthamin powder - the red pigment extracted from safflower - which had been used to dye the original government red tape. The fact that it was now illegal wasn’t the most absurd thing about their lives now, but those who knew of its history often found a dark kind of pleasure in owning this particular illegal substance. Shay added the legal pigments to his supplies, and hid the illegal ones away, still with their false labels... in case they were ever uncovered. This had gone on for a while, when one day, Carson had asked to come inside for a glass of water.

An unnamed source had seeds. Illegal seeds, precious seeds... seeds that needed a safer hiding place. Shay knew enough to guess the source of the seeds, but also enough not to verbalize it. Carson was hesitant, not wanting to put Shay in greater danger... but he didn’t know of anyone else who’d stayed so far under the radar. Carson would have kept the seeds himself, but the pigment operation was almost certain to blow up sooner or later and neither of them could stand the thought of something as invaluable as seeds being lost if that eventuated. Shay had agreed to the plan; Carson would continue trading in pigments (both legal and otherwise) but they would have no further contact until the drop. Shay disposed of his hidden stash, and found a new paint supplier who was as by-the-book as they came.

News of Carson’s stroke had spread fast. You could tell which type of customer an artist had been by the type of concern on their face when anyone mentioned his name. Were they concerned that they had to find a new shop, worried about an acquaintance... or worried that a co-conspirator might accidentally let something slip, after hearing that his memory was effected? On one of his good days, Carson had cleaned up his shop and gotten word out that he was no longer trading in “rarer” supplies. His daughter was running the store now, he had to protect her. At an exhibition, he’d simply shaken his head across the room at Shay. The plan was off. A few months later, Shay heard that Carson’s friend had been imprisoned after his farm was raided; the friend Shay had suspected of possessing the seeds. That was that, he thought. Until today.

The contents of the parcel now laid out on the table, Shay’s mind returned to the task at hand. The paint brushes were inconsequential, obviously. And the paints were untampered with; seeds had to be kept dry. But the two dozen tubs of powder... that was another matter. The pigments themselves were legal, Carson would have likely run out of old stock by now even if he hadn’t gotten out of the game. Shay picked up a container and shook it gently from side to side. He didn’t know what size seeds to expect, but whatever size they were would be plenty big enough for the pigment to sift down around them, leaving them exposed at the top. Shay stopped shaking and took a deep breath before gently opening the lid. Sure enough, small, near spherical objects greeted him. The pigment made it too hard to identify what type of seeds they were, but it didn’t matter; they were magnificent. Shay replaced the lid before letting out a deep sigh. I don’t know how you got here, but I’m glad you’re here. He inverted the small tub and shook again, ensuring the seeds would be once more hidden beneath the fine powder. He picked up a paint palette that he’d abandoned earlier that morning, and smeared a tiny amount of olive-green oil paint onto his fingers before picking up each tub to place it at the back of a drawer full of other pigments. He made sure that the smudges looked as messy and haphazard as the unintentional ones on all his other supplies. He hoped it wouldn’t be long before the seeds saw the light of day again, but until then, he would do everything in his power to protect them.