A Solid Pick

The hopscotch lines led me toward the curb, where something sleek caught the midday glare. Wedged between the asphalt seam and the grass roots lay a heavy celluloid guitar pick, patterned like dark tortoiseshell. I dug my gloved fingers into the soil, locked my grip on the curved edge, and worked it free. It had good flex and a clean, tapered point. Bracing my stance, I flicked the rounded shoulder against the bronze ring of my belt buckle; it produced a crisp, resonant click with remarkable snap. It is light, sturdy, and built for music. I slid it securely beneath my belt beside my dagger.