What "Traditional Knife" are ya totin' today?

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Untied

As he brushed sand from the handle, the sun was just touching the horizon.

The sky had softened to a gentle wash of vibrant color. Waves rolled in rhythm, each one kissing the shore in applause. He sat cross-legged near the water’s edge, velvet sand beneath him, scent of salt and seaweed hanging in the air.

The Canal Street Pinch Lockback rested in the palm of his hand. Its sunset smooth-bone handle glistened. Its hue was not unlike the sky itself, a glowing, worn orange. He turned the knife slowly, watching as the polished steel caught the fading rays. There it was again: 226, stamped subtly into the edge of the bolster.

He didn’t know how many were made. There was just that number, and in that moment he didn’t feel a need to know. The knife had come with silence, and it deserved to keep it.

A gull called somewhere behind him. The wind moved through the dune grass with the hush of a lullaby. He closed the blade with a soft, satisfying click and set it beside him, letting his hands rest on his knees.

There was nothing to fix. Nothing to chase. No purpose or task awaited him. Only the slow, steady breath of the ocean and the warmth of finding a calm, soothing, peaceful, and meditative place.

He stayed until stars appeared, one by one, like old friends returning to greet him. After naming them all Eliot, a thought drifted in. “Ya know, I have no idea how to get back to the car.”


gUee8lT.jpeg
 
BrotherJim said:
Untied

As he brushed sand from the handle, the sun was just touching the horizon.

The sky had softened to a gentle wash of vibrant color. Waves rolled in rhythm, each one kissing the shore in applause. He sat cross-legged near the water’s edge, velvet sand beneath him, scent of salt and seaweed hanging in the air.

The Canal Street Pinch Lockback rested in the palm of his hand. Its sunset smooth-bone handle glistened. Its hue was not unlike the sky itself, a glowing, worn orange. He turned the knife slowly, watching as the polished steel caught the fading rays. There it was again: 226, stamped subtly into the edge of the bolster.

He didn’t know how many were made. There was just that number, and in that moment he didn’t feel a need to know. The knife had come with silence, and it deserved to keep it.

A gull called somewhere behind him. The wind moved through the dune grass with the hush of a lullaby. He closed the blade with a soft, satisfying click and set it beside him, letting his hands rest on his knees.

There was nothing to fix. Nothing to chase. No purpose or task awaited him. Only the slow, steady breath of the ocean and the warmth of finding a calm, soothing, peaceful, and meditative place.

He stayed until stars appeared, one by one, like old friends returning to greet him. After naming them all Eliot, a thought drifted in. “Ya know, I have no idea how to get back to the car.”


gUee8lT.jpeg
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Got a publisher yet???🤔.........

Thanx for sharing!!! Your nice.Canal Street and your prose....😉
 
Rufus1949 said:
You have very considerate children, letting mom sleep in.😃
The fixed blade looks like a useful kitchen knife.
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Thanks! They are pretty good kids, even if they do wake up early lol.

Yup, my wife calls it my pocket paring knife. I use it most mornings to help prep my wife’s lunches. Makes for a good excuse to build up the patina.
 
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