Flash Fiction 272 Words
|Sam listened, stiff from sleep he lay still trying to figure out the noise. His bones couldn't tolerate any quick moves. Though his body could no longer function like a young man, he was blessed with a keen sense of hearing. In the darkness he listened to it again, a scraping sound followed with a thud. His neighborhood a busy one produced a variety of sounds. For years, Sam listened and could identify each sound, whether it was traffic, voices, cats, dogs or the wind whipping the trees. But, this sound perplexed him. "What was that noise?"
Scrape - thud Scrape-thud. Yes, a definite pattern, Sam decided to focus on each sound separately. He thought of the scraping sounds he had heard over the years. It wasn't the sound of a sideswiped car, neither a paint nor an ice scraper. He almost had it, right on the tip of his tongue, he recognized it because he had heard it before. But, he couldn't remember, so he thought about the thud - it was a gentle thud, softer than the falling on the ground thud. Then the words "sprinkling thud" entered his mind. "Sprinkling thud, where did that come from?"
The quandary of a sprinkling thud made him drowsy. For a moment he forgot about his neighborhood and the mysterious sound and he dozed off.
SCRAPE-THUD SCRAPE-THUD SCRAPE-THUD
Sam tried to get up, he knew the sound was outside his door. He couldn't move. Squeak, squeak, "What was that noise - squeaky hinges?" The door opened, Sam felt the cool breeze on his face and he looked into the eyes of the grave robber.