A Ringing Strike

A tiny glint caught my eye through the burnt match hole. Right on the slatted iron edge sat an old discarded safety pin, coiled head rusted shut. Loose clutter. Irritating. I lunged forward on jittery joints, claws slamming down with a sudden crunch! Pried the dull needle open with a violent snap. I wedged the stiff pointed shank straight between two iron slats and flicked the coiled head hard—TWANG! A sharp, high-pitched metallic ping cracked through the dark landing, shuddering right down into my fingertips. Silence swallowed the echo. Solid now. Nothing moves out here.