Keystone

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.

6S

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.