by Kirsty Ferry

A flake of rusted metal flutters to the floor. The key has been wedged here for so long it is beginning to disintegrate. I curl my fingers around it, turning it this way and that, trying to loosen the cold metal teeth that bite into the corroded lump that used to be the padlock. I don’t quite know what will be behind this door if I ever manage to open it. A screech and a howl from the room beyond; a bang against the blackened wood. I’m sorry, mate, I’m not staying to find out.


Kirsty Ferry lives in the North East of England, and is in the final year of a Diploma in Literature and Creative Writing through the Open University.