Flash Fiction #194 – When the Bell Tolls

We hold hands around a ten-foot-tall hourglass. My husband turns to me as sand shhhs through. “You are the hourglass,” he says.

That is when I wake.

Dank air.

Smell of pine.

I’m in a box…

this is my coffin.

The shhhing is dirt slipping through.

Strings are tied to my hands and feet.

If I’m buried, there must be a bell!

But I’m paralyzed and can’t pull strings!

Shhhshhh, goes the earth.

Finally, my right hand moves.

The muffled bell rings.

I wait,


and pray.

But what if the nightwatchman is away?


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