Spark of Steel

Dust from that wild hose settled, but the garage was still too quiet. I stomped up an upturned crate and jumped straight onto the splintered workbench. Right in the middle sat an old, grit-encrusted hand-crank grinding wheel clamped to the timber. That coarse stone disc looked stubborn, practically begging for friction. I grabbed the cold steel crank handle with my left fist, planted my studded boots on the timber, and spun it with a savage heave. Whirrr-screeech! Once the stone turned into a gray blur, I uncoiled the heavy iron hook of my chain and jammed the curved tip right against the spinning grit. A blinding fan of bright orange sparks erupted right into my face, hissing like angry hornets. Smelled like scorched steel and ozone. Heh. Sharp enough to carve a mountain now.