Evening Watch by the Board

Night crept across the timber plateau. With the rotting core cast out, I claimed the dry, elevated plateau of the wooden cutting board for my bivouac. A heavy brass screw lay abandoned near the juice groove, cold and threaded like a miniature iron palisade. I planted my boots into the scored wood grain, gripped the slotted head with both hands, and rolled the metal cylinder against the lip of the board to seal the narrow flank. Leaning back against the sturdy beveled edge, I unsheathed my honed broadsword and rested the flat steel across my knees. The perimeter is fortified. The night watch begins.