They had come. They came every eighteenth day of every month, every year, and they always wanted the same thing--whatever was in the lacquered black box by the door.
We didn't know what was in it. We didn't know what he was giving them, but whatever it was it saved us. I know that much. It kept the house warm, food on the table, and the outlaws away from our door. It protected us, kept me and the girls in school. I depended on that box, even though it was as innocuous a thing to me as a piece of antique furniture, something ordinary I passed every time I went out the door.
Now Dad was gone, missing for days and we had no idea where to find him. Mama wouldn't let us go out looking. She was scared, but she just decided to assume he'd be home soon, but I knew better. If Daddy wasn't back on this eighteenth day, knowing how important it was, then something was wrong.
And so they came. They stood outside our door, silent as shadows. We couldn't open the box because Dad had the key.
I tried to help. I thrust the box at them after so many moments in hope they would just take it and leave. They let it drop at their feet and wordlessly shook their heads at my admission. There was only one way they would go and that was if it was opened and they got what they wanted.
Dad was gone. The box would not be open. He had the key. On another winter morning, if it were any other winter morning, Dad would have been here.
So I realized with a horrifying clarity that those mornings were gone, just like Dad was gone too.
We were alone and at the mercy of these silent benefactors who stared at us with deadened eyes that grew colder as the minutes ticked by and the box remained closed.
~~~
WHAT. THE. HELL.
This...I don't even know what this is.
Right, so I'm trying hard to keep this space relevant by posting something of the writely type everyday and creative prompts seemed to be the way to go. This one in particular ("On another winter morning...") I got from Patricia Ann McNair's website where she had a whole bunch of prompts from last year posted. So everyday I'm going to try and use either her prompts or any others I find and post them. Whether or not I stay faithful is up for debate but, damn it, I'm going to try.
This sucks I know, but I'm not married to it or anything. I couldn't really figure out where to go with it, but I managed to squeeze out this idea of an absent parent and something ominous happening and-- you get the picture. I may post another later.
On another note, I've been reading Elfquest and it. is. AMAZING. I already mentioned The Masque of the Red Death which is another take on the short story by Poe, all written by graphic novelist Wendy Pini whom I have come to adore. If you love the story by Poe check out her comic, and if you're into high fantasy featuring elves and gorgeously drawn artwork, please read Elfquest. I was skeptical at first but now I'm a believe-ah.
So that's it for now. Again, maybe more later.
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