The Talk Box

No objects were hurt during this fictitious account. It was written from boredom, having elected to unplug our television and pursue more worthy ventures, like reading and staring at the blank television screen. It is not easy making new habits and ridding oneself of old ones. I felt the television was eating up too much valuable time. Thirty-three days later I can say I made the right choice. I think. Okay, I’m all most pretty sure. Needless to say—but I going to anyway--it has proven to be as difficult a habit to break as my fifteen-year smoking habit, except I don’t have the urge to put the television in my mouth and light it. Not yet anyway!

I dreamed last night that I had heard voices in the living room. I entered the empty room and discovered the television was broadcasting a late night show. The power button was off, so I leaned behind the back of the set but found it had already been unplugged. After opening the door of our second story balcony, I lifted the television onto the railing and pushed it to the shadowy depths below. The sound of shattering plastic and glass reverberated off the apartment walls like a bombshell. I looked down onto the sidewalk, which was illuminated by a low wattage lamp that chased shadows from the serpentine walkway and cast yellow light across the dismembered box.

I watched to my horror as it began reconstructing itself before my eyes. Forming legs and feet that appeared vaguely human it turned toward our apartment, awkwardly lifting each prosthetic leg up toward its home. The electronic beast labored methodically upwards, placing each foot down with a thud like a meat cleaver against dead flesh. From behind it the electrical cord coiled and released like a viper searching the darkness for a place to insert its fangs.

The resurrected body of inanimate switches and wires pulsated with an alien life, breaking forth with melodious theme songs of past sitcoms and dramas. A myriad of familiar voices competed with each other, seeking mostly answers from me for their untimely demise and loss of future revenue from reruns. It was obvious they had come for vengeance. I shrunk from the door as it heaved in and out like lungs gasping for breath. Quickly glancing at the metal appendage as it vibrated from someone or something attempting to enter, I frantically searched my memory if I had dead-bolted it the night before. The brass digit of the door’s hand beckoned for my fleshy hand, but it was held captive to my paralyzed body.

Inhaling the black night into my aching lungs, I wondered when I had last breathed, and just how many more breaths I owned. The sarcastic voice of Dr. House, ever inquisitive, sought an answer to the length of time I had been pursuing a career in stupidity. Realizing the futility of intelligently sparring with the quick-witted master of verbal abuse, I feigned ignorance of the charge of telecide being leveled at me. Nevertheless, I wondered if the charges could hold up in a court of law.

I faintly detected the British voice of Dr. Cal Lightman of “Lie to Me” in the background, competing for my attention over House’s constant bantering. Dr. Lightman uses his soothing, not his condescending voice with me. “What about it luv,” Dr. Lightman wondered. “How about you open the door and we’ll clear this misunderstanding up forthwith?” I do not fall for this clever ploy, for I know if Dr. Lightman can see my face he will uncover my deception. Moreover, I am not all together sure that Dr. Lightman cannot transform himself into General Thade from the Planet of the Apes and squash me in his animalistic fury, for I am almost certain I heard the primal voice in the background. “Is there a soul in there?”

I heard the voices of Sarah Sidal and her partner, Nick, scheming ways of collecting my DNA. I sense House is growing impatient with Lightman and the CSI crew from Las Vegas. From behind me I detected the shuffling of feet from what I could only imagine was a disembodied entity. A captive actor had somehow managed to break free from its prison cell of electrodes. If I turned around I was sure I would be staring into the rehabilitated eyes of the genius Doctor House or the mocking expression of the Mentalist’s Patrick Jane. A familiar voice smothered the silence, as my heart skipped across my chest. The wall switch snapped and darkness yielded its strength to the light. Turning toward the invading presence I met the eyes of bewilderment and concern. “Honey, what are doing out here? Come back to bed.

My anxiety was calmed momentarily like a warm blanket on a cold night. My wife stood before me. Had I only been walking in my sleep? I peered into the living room and a cold chill spread its tentacles over my entire body. My brain resisted and throbbed inside my skull as I looked to the couch, where hours of Hollywood had entertained me. Across from it the oak cabinet that held the box of perpetual stories and seductive advertisements now only contained a rectangular impression formed in dust. The sliding glass door to the balcony was ajar. I slowly stepped out into the night.

Reluctantly I stretched my head over the railing to the ground below to glance the presence of an awakened neighbor, whose body was outlined against their doorway by a glaring security light. She nervously stared back at me. To my relief, the sidewalk below was free of any large object—living or dead. But when my eyes adjusted to the darkness I could make out a trail of glittering particles that snaked toward the bottom of our staircase. From inside the apartment wood snapped and splintered as the front door flew open from what I hoped had only been a gust of wind… The End!