Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 108342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
The cellar furnace settled as Nikolai moved about within a side room of the basement. It was a good size, with a small window allowing in a bit of light. A crude pocked ceiling fixture illuminated the area. The walls consisted of gray concrete blocks with a bluish tinge. All of his equipment was in place: a large antique power hammer that looked like a strange robot that stomped metal to thin slates, hundreds of iron rods of varying sizes hanging along the walls, thick work gloves, a few safety goggles and masks, two other anvils, an assortment of regular hammers and various tools of the trade.
He went over to his wall of iron pieces waiting to be molded into something beautiful, and looked at a shovel lying against the concrete wall. It was out of place, like a spec of dirt on a crisp white shirt, and yet, he kept it there all the same. He tilted his head to the side as he noticed a few specks of blood on the tip of it. They were dark brown now, the color of rust.
I thought I cleaned all of that off. Shit.
He sucked his teeth, cursed under his breath, and snatched the shovel from its resting place to run it under a stream of hot water in the basement sink. He scrubbed it with Dawn dish detergent and bleach, then dried it off with a towel and set it back where it had been. Now in practically pristine condition.
Taking a few deep breaths, he pushed aside his annoyance at that careless mistake and scanned his private oasis once again. This was his blacksmithing cave. The place where he found the most peace. The place where he’d drummed up the unimaginable, repented, unleashed frustration, and at times asked for forgiveness, too.
Nikolai had a nice, streamlined setup in this space to do some of his blacksmithing work from home. A small plug-in radio from a thrift shop played music as it set atop some wooden planks on an old metal workbench splattered with white and brown paint. He mouthed the lyrics to the tune on the radio—‘We Didn’t Start the Fire,’ by Fall Out Boy—and got right down to work. Sparks and flames sputtered like firework sparklers. He gripped the sledgehammer and brought it down hard with a resounding boom on the anvil. Some of the heat rose and got trapped under the smoke hood. Over and over he swung the hammer, getting into a good rhythm and flow.
What so many didn’t seem to know was that blacksmithing wasn’t just a trade. It was an art. A dirty dance. You had to bend the iron the right way. Swing the hammer the right way. Come down with the perfect amount of pressure and weight, then keep the pace… the right way. If you didn’t, your body would pay for it later. The hard work made him feel alive. Sweat drizzled down his body beneath his clothing as he fell into the zone. He was determined to create this necklace pendant in one heat.
One heat meant one session. One time from the same flame. He manipulated the tip of the orange glowing metal, beating it into submission. He did extra beats on the bench to stay in the groove and keep his timing, as well as clear the hammer.
Forging jewelry was somewhat different from nails and specialty hooks. He’d seen there was a need for such things, and his custom-made jewelry and art pieces took off in ways he didn’t expect. It was supposed to be just a side hustle to bring in some extra cash. He never figured himself having any sort of inventive ability until a friend of his from blacksmithing school pointed it out. Before he knew it, he was forging one-of-a-kind wedding bands, metal abstract art pieces, and even sculptures. Another friend of his who was good with building websites took photos of some of his work, uploaded them to his website, and helped him advertise his work on local online galleries. The rest was history.
“Mmmm mmm,” he hummed to the rhythm of the music and his knocking—every beat in sync. He often found himself doing that, for it helped keep a perfect tempo.
He reached for his torch on a nearby stand, right next to his anvil, and heated the ends. Then he kept on working. Fast. Hard. Dirty. When it was time, he grabbed a cold cloth and used it to cool the hot iron piece down, his hands protected by gloves. He bent down to look closely at his work. Perfect. After placing it in a metal bowl, he made his way up the basement steps with it, the music still playing. The furnace started kicking and banging again as he made it to the top of the steps. Closing the door behind him, he set the metal bowl on the kitchen counter and washed his hands.