The Red Box

Brrrring… Brrrring…BRRRRING!

Did you hear that? There is it again. What’s that sound?

The Red Box.  Parked alone in the scurrying head-bent crowds, each face glow with beams from a smartphone’s white sun. Trudging to the office, on the way to lunch with the girls; a million and one possible destinations.

But one stands still – The Red Box.

It rings again.

But no one looks up. No one hears.

You’re a fossil yet to be excavated dear Red Box, you act as your own museum. Tickets for sale! But no one looks up. No one hears.

The audience changes with every passing second; bolting past your shrilling shrieks. Brrrring! You are the Box of Ghosts and long dead whisperers.

But wait.

Who’s this?

A man approaches, veiled with black. He looks out from the corner of his hood. But no one looks up. No one hears.

He comes to you in a time of desperation. He needs you now Red Box.

What could he be up to?

Who comes to stand in a grave?

He takes the receiver, alien hands briefly fumble with the foreignness of your handle. You do not know what to make of him Red Box, and the same with him of you. He punches in a number and holds your heart to his ear.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

It seems to go on for an age. New folks flock past smeared glass, the man begins to panic.

But no one looks up. No one hears.

“Hello? Hello, are you there?”

You wait with excitement Red Box. Is he on the run? Who is on the other end?

“Yeah. Hi mum. My phone died. Can you come and get me?” Pause. “Yeah. Thanks. See you in a bit.”

Rings off. And he’s gone. You sigh.

Red Box. Box of Ghosts. Your time will come. One day they will pay to see you. The graves will be built over. New ‘affordable’ housing most likely. And you will sit behind the barrier; flashes will snap, your very own paparazzi.

But for now your watch continues Red Box. Your cries getting softer. More footsteps will clip past.

But no one looks up. No one hears.

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