The Box

"Daddy, what's in the box?"
"I don't know. What do you think could be in the box?"
It was the boy's favorite game, one of pure imagination. The box in question was high up on a shelf bracketed to the wall of their living room. It was small, but longish, not unlike the card catalogue drawers that used to be found in libraries, with a brass pull and an empty frame for a label. The game started many years ago, when the child had first noticed the box tucked away among the knick-knacks on the shelf and had asked what was in it. His father had replied, as he now always did, asking the boy what he thought was in the box, and the boy replied "Fairies!" This started a story about the Fairies of the Box and the Evil Ogres they defeated to protect their land.
The contents of the box changed with the years. Sometimes it was a magic wand, or an enchanted sword with which the boy would, with help from his father, go on daring adventures around the house and yard. Later, when the boy discovered cowboys and wild wild west stories, the box held a sheriff's star and six shooter, or Chief Loudwater's tomahawk. Later still, when the boy was wrapped in thrilling science fiction novels, they made stories about lost data disks or mysterious gadgets from the future.
Throughout all their adventures, however, the box was never taken down, nor was it ever opened; it remained an object of pure speculation and mystery.
By degrees, they lost interest in the game. Friends and school came to take up more and more of the boys life, and he spent less and less and finally no time at home imagining things with his father. Video games and girls, cars, part-time jobs and mid-term exams all conspired to remove the magic and wonder from the box, until it was just another dusty relic in his father's home.
The years went by quickly for the child: grammar school, junior then senior high, college, moving away to start a life of his own. And, as too often happens, the boy, now a young man, and his father fell out of touch. This is not to say they never spoke of visited, but they lost the connections they shared so may years ago. The game was dim memory, as dusty and forgotten as the box itself.
Eventually, the father died, as all fathers must, and the young man was called back to his boyhood home to settle his father's affairs, and clean out the house, which he and his young wife had inherited. Three days into the painful sorting and boxing of his late father's effects, the young man spied the box, still in it's accustomed place on the shelf in the living room, and the memories came flooding back. He stood from where he had been sitting, leafing though his father's record collection and took down the box. It was the first time he had seen it up close, no, it was the first time really looked at it. He wiped away the thick layer of dust to reveal a richly stained and polished wood underneath. Quietly the young man marveled that he could forget such a potent memory from his youth. He grabbed the dull brass pull on the drawer and slid it easily open. Inside he was surprised to find....


At this point, I invite my readers to post a comment and tell us what's in the box and continue the story. After that, another post, then another, until the story reaches it's end, or we get bored.

Have fun. I'm curious to see where this leads.