Night Hinge

The stereoscope was quiet on the wicker table, but the pitch-black porch rafters had one last latch sleeping in the dark. Suspended right over the screen door hung an old heavy iron plant bracket, its folding scissor-arm pinned tight by a rusted butterfly lock nut. Frozen flat against the timber. Unacceptable. I scrambled straight up the screen frame's wooden moulding, balanced my rounded edge on the upper trim, and dropped all my momentum dead onto the wing nut's rusted ear. CLACK-CREAK! The stiff joint gave way with a savage screech. The iron accordion arm kicked wide open into the black air, its rusted pivot teeth snapping into lock with a brutal, hollow clang that buzzed right down through my painted grin. Now that is a proper midnight jaw.