Iron Anchor

A massive steel railroad spike jutted upright from a rotting wooden crosstie in the ditch. Thick square shaft. Rusted solid. It dared to plant itself in my line. I did not look away. I slammed both boots deep into the ballast stones, locked both fists under the flared head, and hauled straight upward with a violent heave. Timber groaned. Dried wood splinters shot into the air with a deafening crack. The iron pulled free two inches, tilting jagged against the gravel bed. My fists thrummed with the shock. It stays broken. The line is mine.