A Rusted Padlock

The breeze nudged the screen door open, and I slipped out toward the garden shed. Hanging from the wooden door latch was a heavy, tarnished brass padlock. I froze in front of it, cocking my head at a sharp angle to examine the round shackle. Setting my black plastic sack down in the grass, I raised my miniature saw and gently pressed the teeth against the rusted curve of the lock. It yielded nothing, only making a faint scrape. I gave the shackle a firm downward tug with both hands, feeling its stubborn weight. Satisfied with its sturdiness, I offered a silent, theatrical clap and scooped my sack back up.