A Box with Seven Lids
By Dominic de Mattos



I have a box with seven lids, each with a letter or two on it and under the lids are pills. I have a daughter. She comes in on Saturdays. Or maybe Thursdays, or whichever day the news is on. She fills my box and sometimes scolds me, but I can’t remember why.


I’m supposed to take my pills regularly. The box will help me she says. I don’t remember taking any today. If there pills in it, I haven’t taken them. “You can remember that, can’t you Dad?” she said.

My favourites are the Tu ones. See how yellow and shiny they are? I used to buy a packet of these from the sweet shop on the corner and when the shop keeper turned his back to get the jar off the shelf, Fatty Turner used to shoplift a handful of chocolate bars right off the counter. Did I tell you I have a daughter? I have a photograph somewhere.

The blue W ones don’t taste of much. You’d think they would taste of, oh I don’t know, something blue. Do you eat anything blue? I don’t think I do. Except the W ones. Perhaps they taste like themselves?

The Sa and Su ones are boring. Bone white, like death. You’d think they would taste like chalk instead of squirrel poop. You might wonder what squirrel poop tastes like. You might ask. I used to have a son once, I think his name was Roger. He was a squirrel. Or was it a beaver? Had a uniform and everything. He runs an electrical shop now. Roger was younger than me and when we were boys, Roger and I dug a squirrel trap in the garden and covered it over with twigs and leaves. Didn’t catch any squirrels, but our Dad broke his leg. I wonder what happened to Roger.

The M ones are red and as bright as blood. Taste like it too. Never could stand the sight of blood.

The F ones are yellow. Or are they Tu ones? I can’t remember. They’re my favourites. Remind me of Fatty Turner for some reason.

The Th ones are pink. Not baby bottom pink, but flowery pink. What are they called? You see them on stalls outside the flower shops on Mother’s Day. I had a mother once. She made pancakes on Tuesday, with sugar and lemon and threw the flowers out. Wouldn’t have flowers in the house during Lent.

I’ve got a daughter, did I tell you? Haven’t seen her for years. She used to fill my little box with its seven lids, but it’s empty now. I have to fill it myself. I’ve got lots of plastic bottles with pills in. There, on the shelf. Or in the bathroom. A delivery man put them somewhere. I couldn’t get the tops off. It’s so hard to grip them with bent hands. They didn’t used to be bent. I don’t seem to have the strength for things any more. I asked the delivery man to take the tops off for me. He was delivering a meal. They do that, you know. I don’t eat much these days, but it saves me finding something in the fridge. The delivery man took the tops off and he put them on the shelf for me. He was very kind.

I can fill the little box myself. It has seven lids and each lid has a letter on it and under the lids are pills. If there pills in it, I haven’t taken them. Someone once said to me, “you can remember that, can’t you?”

I feel a bit funny. I don’t think I’ve taken my pills today.

The yellow Tu ones are my favourites. Fatty Turner gave them to me.


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Dominic de Mattos is a speculative fiction writer in the main, based in the bottom right hand corner of the UK. He has recently been exploring the worlds of Flash Fiction, Microfiction, and Haiku and has been accepted for publication in Trapeze, Scifaikuest, and Cuento Magazines. He lurks @DominicSFF