Story by Gregory M. Fox
from A Breath of Fiction’s archives
originally published November 21, 2010

* * *

Scrape … 

They would never think to look here, he thought.  And he was right.  None of them would ever stumble across the hiding place.  In fact, no one would lay eyes on the box for the next century and a half until it would be discovered by some kids who had never heard of Flint McGee.

Scrape …

The sound of metal against stones clawed at his ears.  It was annoyances like that which drove him to these extremes.  Some of them could be put up with.  Some, like this sound, had to be put up with.  But others needed to be taken care of.

Scrape …

Just a little farther … it will be perfect.  He was right.  It would be ten feet by ten feet by ten feet.  Overkill, certainly.  But some efforts are necessary, he thought.  Some things must be done properly. 

Scrape …

It was that sound again.  He was glad it would stop soon.  Just like the other: that incessant whine he had silenced.  But this one would stop more simply and gently than the last. 

Scrape …

Finished.  It was perfect.  He climbed the ladder, pulling it up behind him and said his last farewell to Flint McGee.

Scrape …

* * *

Photo by Paolo Chiabrando on Unsplash