I wrote a poem called I woke up in a box, then I decided to adapt it into a short story.
I’ll be writing part of the short story based on one stanza of the poem each day, with the relevant stanza at the end of each piece.
I woke up with the unfamiliar feeling of a hard wooden surface underneath me, rather than the relative comfort of my much softer mattress. I reached out and could almost stretch my arms out all the way before they reached the edges. I lifted both arms, it was the same outcome. So I concluded it was some kind of box. I wasn’t in any pain, although I didn’t feel over overly comfortable either.
I sat up and pushed at the top. It didn’t budge. I noticed little rays of light seeping through and realised there were small holes in my box. Not big enough to see through when I tried, but enough so I could breath. I took in a lungful of air as if to double-check. I felt something soft against my feet and managed to manoeuvre myself around so that I could find out what it was. It felt soft and was square-shaped, a cushion then. I felt around and found three more. I placed them along the surface and lay back down. I had no idea what was going on, but I couldn’t open the box and I didn’t know where I was, or if the holes would be enough for me to be able to breathe forever. I’ve always been a logical person. Logic told me that it was useless to use up air screaming for help, unless someone was out there to hear me. Logic also told me that without food and water I would become weaker, so it was best to conserve my energy. I closed my eyes and went back to sleep.
Day one, I wake up in a box
But there is space to move
And holes to breath
Cushions are spread beneath me
So I go back to sleep