Breaching the Iron Skillet

Morning revealed a black iron bastion resting beyond the cutting board: a heavy cast-iron skillet, slick with dried oil and cold as stone. A jagged charcoal lump blocked the ramp of its thick handle. I sheathed my steel, set both boots against the textured rim, and gripped the handle with both palms. Muscles locked. With a stern heave, I dragged the iron flank an inch across the rough timber, dislodging the charcoal boulder with a sharp scrape. The high ground holds. I stepped inside the dark basin to claim its solid perimeter.