A Stray Plectrum

A sliver of textured plastic caught my eye from under a battered spiral sketchbook. Tch. Leaving gear pinned down like trash is asking for it. I dug my claws under the wire binding, shoved the cover back, and dragged out a heavy matte black guitar pick. The tip was frayed from heavy strumming, and the raised grip had a serrated crosshatch pattern that actually felt decent. I balanced it against my thumb and gave it a sharp flick across the desk. It skittered over the dark wood with a crisp clatter before banking off an empty soda can. Not completely useless junk after all.