The Box (A Quick, Modern-y Story) · 3:28am Mar 7th, 2014
A small box. Unassuming, dark, made of wood or plastic, metal or tinted glass. A box, sitting before us, small, incapable of holding anything, yet filled to the brim.
A box
A small box. Seen time and time again. Impossible small. Perilously full. Of good things. Full of evil.
It rattles.
Silently, it shakes and the good and the evil bounce and crash against themselves and the others and the wood, plastic, metal, glass, and noise! Insufferably loud noise courses out. The box hakes and everything tumbles and bounces against everything and nothing and noise, shaking, trembling, the lid creaking open just a crack, just a crack, just enough to show us.
Words and pictures and movement and noise pour out, still shaking, boiling, sweeping, pushing and drowning, filling and destroying and replenishing. Floods of Egypt. Words and pictures flowing, broken dams, pouring peace and anger and depression and war, love, happiness, hate, churning. Flowing ink, a rain of words, thunderclaps of fingers against keys, of pen on paper, of oil on canvas, chisel on marble, bow on string. Beauty from the ugly, the hideous from the gorgeous, David from flawed marble, love, hate, good, evil, light, dark, living land, Wasteland, all from the box the small box in here he raps his head all in here. The box, small packaging, good thing. The box. Pandora's. Pestilence and plague, hunger, disease, hope, the evils of the world. Terror and beauty of the world all here another tap all in here. In the box, rattling loud looking searching finding a way out a way through into the paper canvas air a way out if we could only—
If we could only—
The box shuts, locks, the top nailed and screwed and wrapped. A coffin, urn. A present, pretty and bowed, still under the tree, taunting and... and...
It's gone. The flow of words and sound and pictures, cut off by a tightly wound lid. Always held, no matter how we pry or beg.
And we wait for the box, sit and wait, a child at Christmas, waiting for it to open, to pour it. We wait for truth and lies to come flowing out, to fill us and to guide our hands and minds. We wait and we create without the flow, but it's never as good, as... as...
We wait for the force to take a hold again.
We sit and we wait.
Here's a short thing while I try to work out my writer's block.
A box of evil? Where do I pay?
I totally need one of those for the feng shui of my apartment.
it is the Xbox One isn't it?