Poole Hammer Factory; Factory Floor ~ fiction by Jim Meirose

The blanks feed in from the left side. Front ‘n center’s the drop forge. The rough stamped hammerheads, having been through some step of the process, ride off on the belt to the left side. Left to center to right left to center to right left to center to right all on then and on then for the full twelve hour overtime shift. Sod wore large cuffed fireproof insulated grimy well broken-in grey gloves. One day and-actual he counted up the total hammerheads he left to centered and center to righted and it added, to. Added too added, to—drop forge blank and drop forge left added to drop hammerhead in, forge it down, forge—left slidelong, whip it—to over one thousand three hundred actual ball peen style hammerheads more or less he created at his left drop right red hot forgering flat capped loud slammer, bit to wit he coughed, and. He had to calculate it all on his own because the hammer factory—at least his Poole Hammer Works factory—did not assign quotas for workers to reach. Oh, no so. Oh no. No so because each man had to keep up with the relentless flow of hammers and/or hammer components or raw materials from which will emerge hammers, or, the packing cases boxes and palletized shipments on the back dock which, in fact, Sod’d heard of but’d never seen, but—that was all right. He didn’t need to see it. Like the Eiffel tower leaner of Pisa or Roman Colosseum he did not have to see and in fact never would and yah yah why why do films of the Roman Colosseum always need to be minor variations or even exact reproductions of the car flow ‘round what seems t’ be a fast round curvy flow around the highest wall side of the Colosseum and he—he Sod—this left forge right red hot gloved up hammermaker of a Sod—would never drive his car or anyone’s at all because you do not need to own a car to be crushed to death in it; as a matter of fact, you don’t even need to be in a car to be crushed to death at all. Don’t even need clothes. Or even common decency—because when those stones at the top hear the rumor truth or lie that the Romans did not cement this big baggy roundy-top theatritrectresse hot-venue together it’s all just gravity and maybe a mirror or two, so, that stone will fall; followed by more numerous smaller stones, the size of each succeeding stone only measured by the rate of all previous fallen stone’s diminishments—into a car down that circle it will crash—it the instigator that became aware there was no mortar and hence leapt at its freedom to fall smash and gash down on that carflow, and then, the others—inspired by the first whose fall trumpeted over all of them also that there was no mortar no no no no mortar hey kids, hey kids—restraining them, followed. Down to the cars—closer now, closer—there—that one fall on that one there that blue one that Sod there that Martin there why is Sod Martin’s car gone here’s why; crushed; why is Sod Martin’s farm gone here’s why; crushed; why is Sod Martin’s house gone here’s why; crushed; here’s why; crushed; why; crushed; why? Why? Crushed.

Left center bang right, crushed, next; Say your name!

Rot Pederson, sir!

Condemned!

Stamps paper—turns to next—barks, next prisoner!

Here’s the next.

Say your name!

(Insert name here)

Condemned!

Here’s the next.

Say your name!

(Insert name here)

Condemned!

And so on in the movie, whose movie, Sod’s movie, the man at the desk—Sod—is filthy and stinks Say Your Name! because there is no condemned! A need to impress those whose only future is say your name death condemned! Like that fine day in the field say your when Sod had been in the back yard name! Condemned! and John Stocky, bless `his soul’d come running in with there’s been an accident say your name out at the men come Sod it’s condemned really bad Sod Say your bad bad Sod name Sod, say your name out there that that? No no can’t be—

Condemned!

Left center slam right there’s well over thirteen hundred now left right slam name say thirteen hundred and twenty’s more like it damn condemned left center look at that my God, no! Not today—not right now we are not ready—

Writhe, snap, go!

Condemned!

Left center slam right gone, go!

Condemned!

A lesser man would fold under the pressure of these days, but.

Sod could not.

Condemned!

He had work to do.

Condemned!

Why does the world need so many ballpeen hammers, anyway!

Goo-gah.

Jim Meirose’s short work has appeared in numerous venues. His novels include “Sunday Dinner with Father Dwyer” (Optional Books), “Understanding Franklin Thompson” (JEF), “Le Overgivers au Club de la Résurrection” (Mannequin Haus), and “No and Maybe – Maybe and No” (Pski’s Porch). Info: www.jimmeirose.com. Twitter: @jwmeirose.