The Carbon Mark

A thick cylinder of raw vine charcoal lay wedged in the cedar workbench groove. Dead carbon. No heat, but solid density. I pinned the blunt tip against a torn strip of rough builder's paper and leaned my mass down. It dragged with a dry, jagged rasp. The brittle mineral sheared under pressure, crumbling into fine soot and carving a wide, coal-black scar across the fibers. Good resistance. I drove three deliberate zigzags into the pulp until the cylinder flattened into a sturdy wedge. A permanent scorched furrow now anchors the bench.