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Writing Contest #26 What's In The Box Entries Here!!!
Meeow“Meeow”
“Be quiet Schrodinger, I am trying to listen”
I placed my ear carefully on the smooth, cool, structure. It appeared to suck everything out of the air, like a black hole at the edge of reality.
I was sure I could hear someone inside, but perhaps my mind was playing tricks with me.
“No, nothing”
I placed my eye up to the intricate keyhole to see if anything was moving inside. I heard a rustle from inside. No, just the cat dealing with a rogue flea.
Puzzled and unnerved I asked Schrodinger “Who is inside the locked box?”
Of course cats can’t talk but my faithful feline considered my question. If he was able to talk he would have sympathetically replied -
“Everyone”
Where is safe?The spring clean is due, I know it! Smell spring in the air. Afterwards a veritable feasts of flies, but first how to survive cleaning?
Maid Alice, is a stickler for doing her job, bless her. But that's hardly good for me. She even dusts under figurines. I know that only too well. I was a newly hatched egg, under the skirts of the Toby jug; the only one to survive.
Where doesn't Alice dust? Um, inside the ornamental box! I happen to know the key is lost down the mouse hole in the skirting board. Not even Alice can dust in there. No, I'm not going to be mouse dinner?
Perhaps I squeeze through the lock? What a splendid thought. Here goes, no harm in trying. None return from the Hoover Monster, that's bound to suck all mother's webs away.
Oooff, ouch, scrapped a leg or three, but at least they remain attached. Wow! Inside is really unexpected room of doors, a three legged table, with a bottle and a key for . . . this tiny door. Creek! Through is a wonderful garden, with flies galore. If only I fitted. What shall I do?>
The Last Locked Box in History“There’s no point in arguing with me.”
“I disagree.”
“Well that’s you’re problem.”
“If you don’t open it I will be forced to press this button.”
This little conversation is sadly how it all began. It could so easily have been avoided. The first statement above, “There’s no point in arguing with me.” Was made by a mostly unknown, yet very bright, physicist named Phallic Bulgakov. He is Russian but speaks fluent English. The second person involved, the one who said, “I disagree.” Is a politician. He will remain nameless. Politicians have had enough time in the limelight and it’s about time someone put a stop to it. Even if he is involved in this pinnacle point in our history.
“I’m not opening it,” said Phallic, holding the box behind his back.
“Well you can’t say I didn’t warn you.” And with a shrug, a sigh, and a flippant gesture he pressed the button.
There was a flash so bright that even sounds were cast into shadow. The floor rumbled. The air began to whistle. A cloud made of pure heat mushroomed into the sky. A shockwave hit them and the air seemed to explode all around.
“I’m still not opening it.”
LOCKED INClarice tried not to look as Georgina bustled around with the roll of masking tape looped over her arm, popping open flattened boxes and gustily filling them.
She’s going to find my treasure.
She looked at her heavy hands, mapped with ragged brown islands and swollen rivers, and winced at the thought. ‘Getting warmer…’ she would have said if it was a game.
‘I just don’t know how you’ve accumulated all this stuff, Mum.’ Georgina was huffing and puffing now. ‘You won’t be able to keep it all. I’m going to have to take a load of rubbish to the dump.’
Rubbish, thought Clarice. She heard the familiar creak of the stool lid being opened and the flap of magazines being discarded. Hot, thought Clarice.
‘What’s this?’ Georgina fumbled with the catch. ‘It’s locked and I’ve no idea where the key is.’ She shook it. ‘And empty.’
It’s not empty, Clarice mouthed.
‘It may as well go out with the rubbish.’
It’s my treasure.
A hot tear wound down the crease in Clarice’s face. In that box was the last bit of George. The bit she’d saved as he lay dying. His final tears, kept safe in a scrunched-up tissue.
Moment of TruthHis fingers shook nervously, his palms sweated and itchy a sure sign that he was expecting to come into money. He grasped the key tightly to counteract the nervous tension that caused the shaking. He inserted into the lock and turned, hearing the sound of the mechanism opening brought a smile. One of fear, trepidation or expectation, he couldn’t really decide himself. He paused before lifting the lid, clearly watching Indiana Jones a few hours earlier had been a big mistake.
He shook his head to dispel such foolishness, he should’ve known better than to transpose such fiction into his present reality. He grasped the lid and tentatively began to lift it. What could he expect? Gold? Silver? His past, present and future, all memories, neurosis and psychosis lay bare? Only time would tell, he thought. He also thought enough with such procrastination, it wasn’t like him to be so indecisive but he had been mulling over the gift ever since he received the key earlier and now his moment of truth was here.
He lifted up the lid and let it drop to the desk, peered into the box and there it was inside, everything he wanted and feared.
Tom"And this one is Tom."
She eased a thermometer into the young man's mouth. He didn't seem to notice. His eyes were fixed on the window and through it to the hospital grounds.
"Tom's a real war hero. Aren't you, love?"
She took a reading from the thermometer, wiped it and slipped it back into her top pocket.
"Tom's as good as gold. I wish all our patients were like him."
Picking up the clipboard from the end of the bed, she scribbled a figure. I couldn't help noticing that she stuck a little pink tongue out as she wrote.
"There's nothing wrong with him physically. Fine strapping fella, aren't you, Tom? All the young girls fancy him. If he was right again he could have his pick."
She picked up his thin wrist, felt for a pulse, then counted ten seconds from the fob watch attached to her uniform.
"That's temperature and pulse four times a day. Check his pants for accidents. And keep the curtains open. You like that, don't you, Tom?"
A glob of spittle formed on his lips and rolled unnoticed down his chin. I took a tissue from my pocket and wiped it clean.
GranddadGranddad’s fingers were among her earliest memories: holding up the coin, closing over it. Then both hands opening, empty, and one reaching behind her ear. And the coin was always there. She must have been about eight before the magic stopped working, but he still did things with cards that mystified her.
He loved her in a different way from Mummy and Daddy, didn’t seem so grown-up. When she was six she made him promise not to die. He laughed and said he’d always be with her.
She was fourteen now. They hadn’t done things together for ages. So when he died, she felt sad but not surprised.
After the funeral, Mummy gave her a little box with a tiny key. Its label said ‘From Granddad, with love’. She unlocked it, slid back the lid and out bobbed a tiny hand on a spring. It was clutching a coin. As she looked at it, she felt the sorrow swell in her chest, rise into her throat. The tears came, and the sobs, and in that little coin she saw everything she’d lost. But she also felt an overwhelming love and knew that Granddad was right. He’d always be with her.
The Gray BoxGarrett tried to shove it. "Gotta be pirate treasure."
"Don't be a doofus." Ryan thumped the box, releasing a hollow echo. "We're too far from the ocean."
Bobby kicked at the smooth gray cube, shiny as his mom's new stainless steel refrigerator. "Stagecoach robbery?"
"No way," Ryan said. "It's not that old."
The rift in the ground left by last week's earthquake had revealed it, buried four feet beneath the surface on the edge of Bakers Hill in southern California. Ryan spotted the metallic sheen in the cracked earth and the three boys quickly ditched their bikes in favor of digging it out.
Even with their combined efforts, it was too heavy to budge.
Ryan thumped it again. "Sure sounds empty."
There were no hinges. No seams. A solid cube, three feet square.
"My dad's got a pickaxe in the garage," Garrett said. "We can bust it open."
"Yeah!" the boys cried in unison, scrambling for their bikes.
When they pedaled back an hour later, they found the box broken open like an eggshell. Feather-light, the pieces crumbled to dust in their hands. Deep-set three-toed footprints trailed up the hill. And the shadow came up from behind.
The LetterI headed to my desk and the comforting privacy of my pen and diary, grateful for the silence and solitude at last. I opened the locked box and saw an unforeseen letter inside. I held my breath and read.
My Dearest Mistress,
My hand trembles as I write this letter. I humbly entreat you to consider it a token of my eternal loyalty and adoration. I can no longer wait in silence while I watch you suffer unjustly. You are not alone. The place I most cherish is by your side or better still, in your shadow. For you alone, I live, I hope, and pray. I will do anything to alleviate your distress and contribute to your contentment. My only wish is to remain as close to you as I should be allowed.
I await a sign that you are not displeased with these words and will allow me to obey you. Your most faithful and dedicated servant, who must remain unnamed, because he has no name save yours, no hands save yours, no lips save yours, no life save that which you will grant by accepting his service.
I wiped away a tear and forced myself to breathe.
A Terrible Thing“What’s in the box?” Jody asked her husband who sat at the kitchen table, covering his face.
He mumbled something behind his hands.
“What?” Jody asked. She took a seat and looked at the ochre box, which was no larger than a sleeve of crackers. She titled her head and noticed a dented lock on its side.
“I don’t know,” her husband said. When he removed his hands, there were tears in his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Jody asked. She rushed up and rubbed his back, only to find that his shirt was soaked. “You’re wet.”
“Are the kids home?” he asked, his eyes on the box.
“Roger, what’s wrong?” She leaned down and saw that his eyes were glazed over.
“Are the kids home?” he asked again, this time more slowly. He looked at her with distant eyes.
“Oh, God, Roger. What happened? You’re scaring me.”
He looked back at the box and started crying again, this time, more forcefully. His back shook.
“I’ve done a terrible thing,” he said through his sobbing.
“What?” Jody asked.
“A terrible thing,” he repeated. And they looked at the box again, both deeply afraid.
Grandma's BoxI couldn’t wait to arrive at my grandma’s house. She had all sorts of special trinkets I liked to look at. I would often imagine myself as a princess and all of my grandma’s trinkets as my treasure. Last time I was at my grandma’s she promised me that the next time I came round she would show me what was inside the locked box. I was never allowed near the locked box, but grandma said because it was my thirteenth birthday, I was finally old enough to see inside the box. I had always wondered what could be in there. My imagination often ran wild with thoughts of gold and rubies glittering through the keyhole, but no matter how close my eyes came I could never see inside.
When I arrived at grandma’s she sat me down and just as promised she started to open the box. I was so excited to finally see what was inside that I knocked grandma’s tea all over the place. Grandma looked at me with angry eyes, as I buried my head in shame. Then she sat beside me.
‘I think we will wait for your fourteenth birthday to see what’s inside the box’.
What is inside the locked box?'Well, it certainly has an ornate design etched into it,' the locksmith mumbled as he turned the rectangular wooden box over to examine the small brass lock. 'Looks like a simple lock though, so shouldn't take too long,' he added as he set to work with his tools.
Mark nodded as he watched the delicate operation in progress before him.
'My uncle was always into this weird stuff, but he passed away last week. We're clearing out his place and I'm intrigued as to what's inside,' he mumbled as the small brass lock let out a click and the locksmith stood upright, placing the box down on the counter.
With eagerness, Mark flipped the lid open and his fingers delved within to retrieve a single eyeball, still moist to the touch as he pulled it free from it's captivity.
A gut-wrenching sensation passed through his entire being as he held the gruesome item in his hand, forcing him to close his eyes momentarily before opening them slowly.
All about him were shadowy figures, their faces gaunt but turning towards him.
He dropped the eyeball back into the box, in fear.
I Wish I'd Never LookedMy granddad lived in Mereflete Hall. It was practically a stately home, and as he had only one son, my father, I might have expected to own this place myself one day. Great Expectations, you might say. Granddad was a man who knew his own mind, however. He and my father had a row which, to the rest of us, seemed trivial, and never became reconciled. He died thirty years ago and left the whole thing to his brother’s youngest, in a fit of pique.
When the young man became old enough to come into his inheritance, he started to make improvements and renovations using the huge amount of money which came with the house. In an attic room, he found a beautiful marquetry box which was firmly locked. It was such a gorgeous box and so valuable in its own right, that the cousin didn’t want to break it open. I had some skill as a locksmith so he asked if I could pick the lock. We found a later will in which Granddad had had second thoughts and left it all to me. Too late now not to cause a family row. I wish I’d never known.
Have a browse of the entries, I'll let you know when the Poll's up :)
Cripes! A lot of entries this month. I'm gonna put the kettle on.
Wow. I've just read through the other entries above.There're a good few I would choose, with great difficulty out of the whole bunch. How to refine those few down to just one? I don't know... more Tea must be consumed I think ;-)
Oooh, they're good! I'm going to have to read them over and over...
When are the results revealed? There's some cracking little stories in there!
Wow! I've read them all and I can't decide!
A very strong field this time. Lots of entries and high quality too.Frankly - well done to everyone. Thoroughly enjoyed reading those.
So we have 14 entries. Can I please ask that all those who have entered please take the time to vote - preferably for someone else.We have been known to have less votes than entries on occasion.
Patti can see who has voted so she can name and shame you if you don't vote - no pressure :)
Just voted!Sorry to keep you waiting - I've just got in.
My vote is in, although I do wish I could vote for them all, to decide upon one single entry from such a high quality selection is horrendous! :-)I am having to cast my vote and walk away quickly... not to return until voting has closed.
No...I have chosen.....
or have I.....
Ohhh....that one is good too......
AAARGH!...... put mouse down and walk away.....
My vote has been cast, but only by the narrowest of margins. It could have gone to any one of them.
I'm going to have to read them again at weekend.
I sorted the poll but haven't read any of the entries yet.I suggest 'spank the mod' as the next contest topic.
I have voted. The other mod is such a part-timer!
Thanks for bumping this Sarah!I still haven't voted!
Simon (Highwayman) wrote: "I have voted. The other mod is such a part-timer!"Hilarious.
When is Results Day - and, more to the point, will there be cake?
There's always cake.Week Wednesday is results day, I believe.
I really need to vote.
It's Feb 18th - are we on American time?
Just wanted to bump it but we are on American time and I have never worked out when the polls actually cut off.
I am awake and it's Feb 20th. Have I missed anything?*holds cake fork and tucks napkin into collar*
Well done everyone and to our winner Bill :)
I'm astonished and confused. There were so many excellent stories and such variety in subjects and approaches. As so many voters said, it was an impossible choice. I obviously got lucky. Thanks to everyone who voted (for me and for the others) and congratulations to all who entered the contest. All I need to do now is expand the story by 79,800 words and I'll have a viable novel.
Bill, if you pm your email address to me I will send you a £5 Amazon voucher as a prize. It's group funds raised from a couple of anthologies we published. Not much but it's a gesture!
Congratulations, Bill!As they were judged anonymously, are we allowed to be reminded of Bill's title?
Thanks Kath and Helen. I've now reread some of my favourites here and am even more astonished and confused.
https://www.goodreads.com/poll/show/1...It's Granddad, Helen. You can get the results by looking at the Poll link - and the asterisked on it the one you voted for - because I always forget by results day! ;)
Congratulations, Bill! Fame, fortune and flame-coloured Ferraris await.I'm happy with third place in such a strong field. Some very good entries there.
When's the next one? Bill - you get to choose the topic.
It’s not a big box nor a beautiful one, but it’s been in my family for generations: an heirloom passed down from my father when I turned eighteen.
“This belongs to you now, my son,” proclaimed my father so proudly.
My parents are divorced due to my father’s infidelity and I’ve never – beneath the surface – forgiven him for hurting my mother like that. Now I had the perfect opportunity to get back at him and hurt him where it mattered most. There is no key for the box, only a rusty padlock and there is definitely something inside, it thuds against the wood when you shake it.
A few days after receiving the box I Skype with my father and after five minutes I put the box on the table along with a hammer.
“What are you doing? Don’t do it, please.”
His begging only encourages me and I smash the lock off. Slowly I open it, smiling at my father as I do. What’s inside immediately erases my smile: a human skull. I scream.
My father sighs and says: “I know what’s in the box. We have a family secret. Let me explain…”