original | that box in the corner
this was written for my school's creative writing club, on the theme of supernatural.
prompt:
that box in the corner
There’s a box in the corner of her room. It’s always been there, sitting, solid next to the small rocking chair her father made for her last birthday. She’s never opened it before - her mother had told her not to - but sometimes she patters lightly over to it before she gets ready for bed, and strokes the age-old wood of the lid. The golden latch, rusted with age, glints with the reds and purples of the setting sun as her father comes to tuck her in, his rough hands smoothing down her wild curls. She smiles and her eyes flicker close.
There’s a box in the corner of her room. It can’t be moved, even with the three removal men, arms hardened after years of carrying boxes of memorabilia to and fro. She doesn’t really remember when or how it came to be there, but it’s the only memory she has of her mother, warning her to never open the box, ‘otherwise they will come out to play’. She doesn’t know who ‘they’ are, nor could she see them as she slowly opens the lid, the hinges creaking with old age. The soft voice of her mother whispers in her ears, but the silvery dust that floats out of the box draws her attention away.
Is this who they are? This fairy dust.
She almost snorts in laughter as she shuts the box, fingernails screeching against the rough surface as they catch on the splinters. She might as well have listened to her mother’s wishes, if this was all ‘they’ were. And so she turns, and flicks the light switch off, and the silver dancing all over the walls in the moonlight is all but forgotten as she locks up the house, looking back just one last time.
Except that they’re free at last.
Free to roam, free to wander, free to find her - to find her as she sleeps, memories running through her mind, with greys and silvers murmuring at the edges.
She turns in her sleep, her eyes screwed even further shut as she tries in vain to beat away the fuzziness hanging over her dreams.
Pitter-patter-pitter-patter.
Her hands reach out to grab - something. Something screeching and shrieking as it beats its wings, a flutter against her knuckles. She laughs, a giggle at the tickle of the shining wings. And then they’re feathers, brushing a soft down against the length of her fingers. And then they’re teeth, sinking its way in the flesh just below her thumb. And it flies away, turning its head, golden hair twisting around its body, as the face becomes her mother’s.
And there’s a box in the corner of her room, sitting wide open, as a thousand minute figures flutter around, each singing, squealing a different tune. She can’t remember how they got there, or when they did, but they whisper in her ears, ‘never open the box, otherwise they’ll come out to play’, and all she can see are the tears from her mother’s faces.
prompt:
that box in the corner
There’s a box in the corner of her room. It’s always been there, sitting, solid next to the small rocking chair her father made for her last birthday. She’s never opened it before - her mother had told her not to - but sometimes she patters lightly over to it before she gets ready for bed, and strokes the age-old wood of the lid. The golden latch, rusted with age, glints with the reds and purples of the setting sun as her father comes to tuck her in, his rough hands smoothing down her wild curls. She smiles and her eyes flicker close.
There’s a box in the corner of her room. It can’t be moved, even with the three removal men, arms hardened after years of carrying boxes of memorabilia to and fro. She doesn’t really remember when or how it came to be there, but it’s the only memory she has of her mother, warning her to never open the box, ‘otherwise they will come out to play’. She doesn’t know who ‘they’ are, nor could she see them as she slowly opens the lid, the hinges creaking with old age. The soft voice of her mother whispers in her ears, but the silvery dust that floats out of the box draws her attention away.
Is this who they are? This fairy dust.
She almost snorts in laughter as she shuts the box, fingernails screeching against the rough surface as they catch on the splinters. She might as well have listened to her mother’s wishes, if this was all ‘they’ were. And so she turns, and flicks the light switch off, and the silver dancing all over the walls in the moonlight is all but forgotten as she locks up the house, looking back just one last time.
Except that they’re free at last.
Free to roam, free to wander, free to find her - to find her as she sleeps, memories running through her mind, with greys and silvers murmuring at the edges.
She turns in her sleep, her eyes screwed even further shut as she tries in vain to beat away the fuzziness hanging over her dreams.
Pitter-patter-pitter-patter.
Her hands reach out to grab - something. Something screeching and shrieking as it beats its wings, a flutter against her knuckles. She laughs, a giggle at the tickle of the shining wings. And then they’re feathers, brushing a soft down against the length of her fingers. And then they’re teeth, sinking its way in the flesh just below her thumb. And it flies away, turning its head, golden hair twisting around its body, as the face becomes her mother’s.
And there’s a box in the corner of her room, sitting wide open, as a thousand minute figures flutter around, each singing, squealing a different tune. She can’t remember how they got there, or when they did, but they whisper in her ears, ‘never open the box, otherwise they’ll come out to play’, and all she can see are the tears from her mother’s faces.