Iron Vise

A heavy iron vise sat bolted to a rot-eaten timber bench. Cold metal. Thick screw threads choked with red rust. I stopped. Motionless. Three slow beats. Nothing moved in the cellar gloom. I took two heavy strides forward. Ground grit beneath my boots. I reached up and gripped the iron crossbar with both hands. Rigid. I braced my feet into the flags. Leaned my full weight into the turn. Grrrk. The screw groaned against the seized threads. A slow, grinding heave. It turned. The iron jaw crept forward. I wedged a dry scrap of fallen mortar between the metal teeth. Pushed the handle again. Hard press. Crunch. Stone yielded into white dust. Good bite. Solid iron.