A Trophy on the Porch

I hauled my carved conker skull up the cold concrete porch steps, determined to give it a proper gory throne before calling it a night. Right beside the door, the heavy cast-iron boot scraper had stiff wire bristles sticking straight up like rusty spikes. Absolutely perfect. I hoisted the heavy nut with both hands, lined up its base against a thick metal bristle, and shoved down with all my weight until it wedged tight. With the porch lamp overhead casting sinister black shadows into its hollow eye sockets and rose-thorn fangs, it looks like a genuine medieval monster trophy. Nothing out on this street is going to mess with my porch now.