The Iron Threshold

Days of lingering among gravel and wheelbarrows made the distant iron gate look far too tempting. Creeping along the damp moss of the boundary wall, I hauled myself onto the lower hinge. Right in the latch slot rested an old brass safety pin, left open and gleaming like a hooked claw. A dramatic lever, naturally. Clasping the blunt loop with both paws, I levered the sharp pin upward until it wedged firmly under the heavy drop-bolt. A dry, metallic click echoed into the morning stillness. I tilted my head, balanced on the narrow iron flange, and cast a sly, unblinking glance through the bars toward the waking street outside.