The Iron Sheave

Marched up the porch steps to scout the perimeter rail. Bolted right to the cedar post was a heavy cast-iron rope pulley, its grooved sheave frozen tight with dried lichen. Jammed wheels don't stand on my watch! I braced my silver boots against the scarred wood, jammed the curved tip of my hook into the pulley's slotted wheel spoke, and threw my full weight down. *Scrr-chunk!* The crusty seam snapped clean. The iron wheel rumbled half a turn, drawing the weathered guide rope dead taut through the channel. I gave the metal casing one sharp rap with my hook—*tink!* Line unlocked, gear turning freely under command.