The air was rife with the deafening hiss of a dozen torches and the clamor of dropping metal plates. It was cold, damp, and -- aside from the dizzying display of sparks -- it was dark as well. Is this hell? I wondered, as I trudged through the ankle-deep muck on the floor. It was so early in the morning as to feel like it was still late at night, yet those who toiled away in that dismal place couldn't be concerned either way.
Hot sparks shot up my arm and clung to the crevices in my thin gloves as I cut away with my torch. Not only am I freezing, but I'm getting burned as well, I mused, as a cluster of fiery debris clouded my vision and stung my hands. The hole punched and the piece ready to be hauled away, I moved on.
"That one's punched, and what's next?" I called as I collected the burning line in my hands.
Later, pushing a steel-laden wheelbarrow through the mud in the dark, I laughed to myself. This is too ridiculous to be miserable about.
"When was the last time I played with a torch anyway? I can't believe I remembered how to use one at all," I said aloud to myself as I continued on my merry way.
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