The Locksmith’s Chance

Writing Royale Runner-up

Alex Salazar ’25

A locksmith sat alone at his shop’s counter, picking a padlock. He was practicing on this lock in particular because it was a new design.

In his work, he accidentally snapped his pick in half. “Was that my last one?” he asked himself. The thought of having to buy a new set was unpleasant. The locksmith searched his drawers until he found a replacement pick.

A breeze wafted in through the open windows of his shop and touched the locks that lined his shop’s walls on hooks, making them swing back and forth. This caused a chime of sorts to resound throughout the entire building. This chime was quite loud. So loud that the locksmith’s neighbors had complained to the landlord about the noise. After that, he only opened the windows when he was sure his neighbors were out.

There was no one to complain about the noise today. The shop was totally empty, which lowered the poor locksmith’s spirits.

Every lock that hung on a hook was unlocked. From bike locks to chest locks, padlocks to door locks, all were unlocked without a key in sight. A few ancient locks stood out in particular. They were made of copper and shone in the sun rays that passed through the windows. They dimmed briefly as a man walked by the window nearest to them before returning to their original brilliance after he passed.

The man entered the shop. “Good morning,” the locksmith said, excited to have a customer.

The just-entered man grunted, nodded his head, and started scanning the rows of locks. His eyes moved to the ancient copper locks, and the man stopped. “Have you picked all these locks?”

“Pretty much.”

“Even these?” The man pointed to the ancient locks.

“Yes,” the smith said. This was true, though the locksmith had spent many weeks and broken many lockpicks trying to learn how to open those locks. He could proudly say that they were the most advanced ones he knew how to unlock.

The man turned around and walked to the doorway. The locksmith was sad to see him go. The man seemed to sense this, because he looked back at the locksmith and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll be back.”

The locksmith did not have to wait long. In less than a quarter of an hour, the man came back in a car, and an archeologist was with him. The locksmith went to the entrance to meet them.

“My associate tells me that you have some very old locks and that you have the skill to pick them. Is that correct?” The archeologist raised his brow inquiringly.

“Yes,” the locksmith said. “Here they are.” He pointed to them on the wall.

“May I examine them?” the archeologist asked.

“Of course,” the locksmith said.

The posh archeologist removed the first ancient lock from the wall and took out a magnifying glass. He looked closely at the lock and wrote something down in a notebook. Then the archeologist put the lock back on the wall and repeated the process for all four of the ancient locks on the wall.

Upon finishing the examination, the archaeologist turned to the locksmith and asked, “Would you be willing to give us a demonstration of picking one of these locks, mister…?”

“Elsher. Yes, I’ll show you now.” Elsher the locksmith walked over to his work desk and collected a three-notched pick. The locksmith took the first lock off its hook and picked it very carefully. He wanted to make a good impression on these potential customers. The posh archeologist smiled when the lock clicked open. “Mr. Elsher, I have a job for you.”

“A job?” Elsher was caught off-guard.

“Yes. We need a lock picked. One like these locks.”

The posh archeologist explained the job to Elsher. The locksmith would have to pick an old lock to open a door at an archeological excavation site. The archeologist mentioned the significance of the dig for historical study, the importance of the artifacts they were excavating, and so on. He said that if Elsher could not pick the lock quickly (the excavation deadline was soon), the archeology team’s alternate plan was to blow up the door with a controlled detonation. It would be safe, but could potentially damage the artifacts inside the room. “Because this is on such short notice and is so specialized,” he concluded, “if you can pick the lock, we’ll pay you ten times the normal commission.”

The locksmith’s eyes widened in surprise. This could be his big break! With that much money, he would not have to worry about the price of breaking his lockpicks or buying equipment. He would be able to run his lockpicking business without fear of going bankrupt.

Needless to say, Elsher agreed to do the job.

At the excavation site, Elsher approached the door in question. Adorned with detailed metal etchings, it looked more like a tombstone than a door. Elsher examined the lock and concluded that if he hit each pin inside the lock correctly, it would click and open. Elsher set to work with his three-pronged pick. He heard one click, and then a second click, and then a third click. But the lock didn’t open. Elsher moved his pick around and heard a fourth click, but the lock stayed closed. “It must be a five-pin variant,” he said. He moved his pick to where he thought a fifth pin should be and heard a scraping sound. Elsher ignored it and moved to click the pin. He put pressure on it and . . . snap . His pick snapped in half and fell out of the lock.

“What’s wrong?” the archeologist asked. He saw the destroyed lockpick. “Is the lock too diffcult for you?”

“No,” said Elsher. “I can make a new pick. One that will be able to unlock this door without any damage.”

“We’re running out of time,” the archeologist said. “How long will that take?”

“I know how the internal mechanics of the lock work now, so I can have it made by tomorrow morning.”

The archeologist agreed but stipulated that if the locksmith was not back by noon, they would have to move forward with their alternate plan.

Elsher went back to his workshop and began building the new pick. It was slow going. He turned the lights on in his workshop before he was even a quarter done with the project. But eventually, he machined a new lockpick and held up the creation in the early sunlight. The light glistened over its many edges and revealed the silhouette of a large, double-sided pick with five notches.

It was already sunrise. Elsher did not bother going to bed; instead, he returned to the excavation site. The archeologist was up already, examining some heirloom or another. Elsher showed his new creation to the archeologist. “This matches the general design of the lock’s mechanics, so it should be able to unlock your door.”

Elsher the locksmith put the pick in the lock. He activated the first click without much trouble. Then the second, third, and fourth. Right afterward, he heard the same suspicious scraping that he had heard right before his pick broke when he first tried picking this lock. Elsher stopped, afraid to continue. The locksmith breathed in deeply and closed his eyes. He could not see inside the lock anyway. He heard the squeak of his pick as he moved it over to the last pin and pressed. Click.

Writing Royale Runner-up

Too Fast; Too Close Tim

Wong ’23

“I have been bent and broken, but—I hope—into a better shape.”

— Charles Dickens,

The Smith Street Bridge, much like me, is extremely ordinary. Faded aquamarine paint reveals a rusted metal interior. It stands about fortyfive feet above the Brightstone River, bridging across two plains of forest. Strangely enough, nobody ever thought to question why it was called the Smith Street Bridge despite being a mile from town. The soles of my shoes squeak as they rub against the wet rails. I gaze out into a vast wilderness. Billions of leaves disguising twisted and gnarly branches on the hundreds of trees. A breeze gently blows in my face, the air damp with the mist from the river. I pause for a moment, as if I were about to hear someone say “wait” or “stop.” But no such voice is heard. Somewhere there are children playing. There are people laughing. There are parties, but

Great Expectations

Too Fast; Too Close

Tim Wong ’23

I do not hear them as my feet leave the ground for the last time. Why did I do this?

I’m trapped. That’s what I am. I am trapped. Not literally. I’m not in a bear trap or something like that. I’m more . . . stuck. Maybe that’s a better word for it. I am stuck in a perpetual cycle of hope and disappointment. Stuck in a series of love and heartbreak. Stuck in a loop of misery. Stuck with my head down. Stuck being the person whose most exciting feature is his distinct lack of excitement. Stuck being the punchline. Stuck in failing relationships. Stuck with mounting debt that seems to be closing in. Stuck drowning in a sea of worries, with no way out.

I should close my eyes. I am still staring outward. Or downward I guess. I see the river below.

The Brightstone River was a staple of my childhood. My boy scout troop would hike along the banks listening to longforgotten lectures about geology and erosion. My friends and I would come to play here often. We played Marco Polo. We tried to grab the occasional small fish that would wiggle by our feet. We would swim from side to side. Those days, those people, felt like my whole world, and to a certain extent they were. Small specks of light in the dark. We lived, unencumbered by the crushing weight of reality. Enjoying, loving, feeling everything. It doesn’t matter now. It’s just me. Only me.

As I accelerate towards the river, I can’t feel anything. I can’t feel a thing anymore. Haven’t for a long time. It doesn’t matter. It never did. My eyes, still locked on the river, see nothing but black. A gently flowing black abyss. Not the clear stream that had defined my youth.

As if my eyes had suddenly just told the rest of my body what was happening. I recognize that I am too fast and too close to the ground. I feel a sharp shock run through my body. I feel a rush of wind brush against my face. I feel my stomach drop as the ground grows closer, as if something is trying to shoot my soul back up through my legs.

Oh God.

That it. That stupid, indescribable it . It has caused me more misery than any lost opportunity or person. It made me think that I could be more. That I was better than I thought. That I could persevere. It returns. It brings warmth throughout my body, battling the cold, misty, air. It tells me that I might make it. It convinces me to close my eyes and breathe.

I briefly imagine being atop the bridge once more. I take a step back, then another, and another, until I reach my car. I drive back into town with a childlike wonder, filled with relief at the sight of every person I pass. A renewed sense of purpose fills my heart as I enter my tiny apartment and laugh with gleet. I go on dates, I get a job, I listen to music, I eat pizza, I take baths, I watch TV, I enjoy the moment of unwinding when I get home and take off my shoes. I live.

The fantasy allows me to crack a smile. A tear of joy forms in my eye. For the first time in a long time, I can see clearly. I tighten my body as I brace for impact.

Just when I expect everything to go black, it all goes white. I will never be too close and too fast ever again.