A Found Plectrum

A sliver of mottled tortoiseshell caught the afternoon light between two wooden slats. I stepped along the iron armrest to get a closer look. It was a celluloid guitar pick, dropped and forgotten, wedged tight in the weathered grain. Bracing my boots against an iron bolt, I caught its curved edge with both hands and eased it loose from the timber. The plastic felt light, worn smooth along the bevel. I drew the thin tip across the strings of my electric guitar. A sharp, crisp chime rang out—far brighter than my bare hands could manage. I slid the pick beneath my guitar strap. A steady addition to my travel.