Beginning of a short story. Sounds like it might be horror, I never really know until it's done. Please tell me what you think- Scotty
Elvis belted out a new tune on the radio. I eased my foot down on the gas. It was an Otis Blackwell cover and he sounded just like he was colored himself. Everything happened in the span it took him to sing the word, "cruel." There was a sharp turn, no brakes, and the Edsel ricocheted out of a ditch and into the wrong lane. Headlights robbed my vision. The silhouette of a steering wheel came at me like a boxer's jab.
***
Darkness. I'm reminded of biology class where us boys would cut up frogs and the girls would shriek and look through cracks in their fingers. The smell reminds me, that is. Formaldehyde.
At first I think I'm paralyzed but then realize I could move were there enough space to do so. My ragged breath bounces back at me from a short ceiling. It occurs to me that I've been buried alive. I scream until my ears ring.
I'm bruised and battered, and not one part of me can budge more than an inch. Pressure bloats my insides. I try to move my bowels but can't. Time oozes and I think.
Sid Perleman. It had to be him. He's the reason I'm in a box. His goon Arthur is probably consoling Nancy about now. An epileptic fit seizes my body as I bang every part of it against the wood. Nothing happens.
Deserts hold more moisture than me. I keep my mouth open for the rare moment when condensation drips into it. It tastes like dirt and mildew. Enough time passes that I should be dead. Again.
It's so silent that the worms sound like an invading army when they come. They bore into my soft parts first. I feel them socializing in my belly.
Death taunts me like a cheating lover. I concentrate, but my heart will not stop beating, despite the holes in it.
I bash my head against the lid for the sensation. Pain is my only entertainment. Then, one day, the lid cracks and dirt spills in. I catch it in my mouth and roll my head to one side to dump it out. This continues until there is no more room and soil fills my mouth and ears.
In my memories, the inches of space I had seem like the hallways of a mansion. My existence becomes dirt. I am just another place for worms to raise families.
Thoughts become meaningless without action. With nothing to anchor them, they leave me. Eternity passes without my awareness.
Pounding draws me back into the world. It jars my bones. Giants stomp above on my grave. I'm angry for the interruption.
There is beeping and the roar of engines and guttural, animal noises that I used to know. After awhile I recognize them as speech. English if I'm not mistaken.
"Yeah, I know we're at six and a half, but I don't see wood. Keep digging. Just a little lower, it might have sunk after fifty years."
A crash and I'm jarred like a storm-tossed boat.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa! Ease up, buddy, we got it."
