Little Wooden Box

That old little wooden box with a broken lock.

Dad opened it up, and there was an odd shape left behind from what once was. The look on Dad's face was unlike anything I had seen on him before.

It's hard to tell, but of course, the imagination will run absolutely wild.

"Where did you find it?" Mom asked.

"Dunno." Because I didn't.

"Whose is it?" Nila asked.

"Dunno." I said. Dad had just walked back outside from getting an old photo of Grandpa from the kitchen. It was the one we kept above his favourite yellow chair.

"Is it the same one?" I asked.

Dad hummed with uncertainty. The photo we had of Grandpa was of him and Grandma on their trip to South Africa. It didn't seem that far back in history, but Grandpa looked like a proper Indiana Jones with the hat and all.

In the photo, Grandma clung tightly to Grandpa's arm. Their smiles were contagious and remained as such, even in their photo. They were so happy together. In Grandpa's hand of his queezed arm, was a small wooden box.

Mom gasped, "Oh..."

"What!?" Nila raised her voice. I elbowed her in the rib.

Dad groaned again with uncertainty. His eyes shifted to the photo and back to the box several times.

"Honey..." Mom said sympathetically.

Uncertain groan.

"Daddy, daddy, what is it?! What is going on?!"

"Nila, hush!"

Dad studied the box even closer. He opened it up and put his hand inside, feeling the grooves of the strange shape. He closed it again, examining the outside and the broken lock.

"It's broken." He said, rubbing his thumb over the jagged metal pieces. "Busted."

"Sorry, honey." Mom put her hand on Dad's back.

"Yeah, sorry, Dad." I added, trying to understand what was going on.

Nila stood with confusion shadowing over her face. "Daddy...?" She said deep with concern.

"It's alright, Nilita. Come on." Mom said, shepherding her back into the house. I followed after. The house remained still and fragile that night.

That little wooden box with a broken lock.

It was the stuff of legends, that little wooden box with a broken lock. Grandpa used to tell us all sorts of stories from when they travelled around the world.

One in particular used to seem more like a myth than non-fiction. You see, Grandpa and Grandma met an elf along their travels, and the elf gave them a gift.

The conditions of the gift were that the wooden box with the little lock stay closed forever and ever, only to be passed on from father to son. Grandpa told of an elf, kind and fair. He talked of an elf who granted Grandma the gift of beauty unexplainable. She was gorgeous, after all.

If the box were opened with intention or by accident, a great storm would come to those who held it. In order to stop the storm or lessen the blow the holder of the box would be forced to find the elf and serve them until the elf was satisfied...if at all.

Thank you for reading! I appreciate your love and support more than you know.

Author's Note

I am loving flash fiction more and more. I once found it constricting with the word count restrictions and all, but I am finding so much joy in the challenge of packing a story in such few words.

I am growing and improving.

My inspirations come from the legendary Neil Geiman and his work Smoke and Mirrors and Ernest Hemingway's The Short and Happy Life of Francis Macomber.

I love the impact short fiction can have on the imagination. Whether it be all of the what-ifs or any number of alternative ending possibilities.

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