James Holden: The Box

I’m making my way along like I normally do, eating dirt and whatever’s in it, crapping it out the other end, when I bump into something. Normally this only happens when I feel like coming to the surface and strike a brick wall, a concrete slab, or a pram wheel parked on the grass.

At first I think it’s a root – it had a woody quality to it. But there’s something odd about its texture, its surface. It’s not gnarled and knotty, but is flat, smooth and polished.

I work my way along its edge to see if I can find out more, in case there’s something I can feast on. There is a brass handle, attached to the wood with a fluted edge. I continue, and the surface suddenly turns away from me.

Instead of turning to follow its’ edge, I edge my way upwards to the top, which is also flat – a long, flat plane of wood buried under the earth.

After a while I get bored, and head in a different direction, working my way through the dirt, and I suddenly pop out into the open, wriggling on a bed of earth. Someone has carved out a hole in the ground, and I am about to delve back into the earth, when a box is suddenly dropped on me, my death instantaneous.


About James Holden

Brought up in Yorkshire, James has washed up on the shores of London. He spends his days working as a political geek. His short stories have previously been read by the Liars League.
This entry was posted in Flash Fiction, James Holden, Short Stories and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s