What "Traditional Knife" are ya totin' today?

WinMag775 said:
Is your fixie a Russell? That thing is a banger!
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It is, and thank you! It’s one of their patch knifes I modified to be a mini nessmuck style. It’s scaled with stabilized giraffe bone I hand jigged with a round ball hi speed cutter attachment for a dremel. To carry it I had to make a couple pocket sheaths. The below is the most recent and best iteration so far.

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Somewhat silly slipjoint Sunday, checking out this mind bending "Crooked Knife" by Charlie Aycocks under the pseudonym "Charlie Bronson"🤯
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PenisMightier said:
It is, and thank you! It’s one of their patch knifes I modified to be a mini nessmuck style. It’s scaled with stabilized giraffe bone I hand jigged with a round ball hi speed cutter attachment for a dremel. To carry it I had to make a couple pocket sheaths. The below is the most recent and best iteration so far.

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Nice work my friend. Everything about this one looks perfect for a good field knife.
 
Drawing a Blank

The cursor blinked like a slow heartbeat on the computer screen, mocking BrotherJim. Third cup of coffee, fifth false start, each one feeling more futile than the last. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the Maserin Plow on the desk. The stonewashed D2 blade and canvas micarta scales caught soft light from the computer screen. It wasn’t a flashy knife. No pocket clip. No tactical bravado. Just solid, stubborn steel built for work. Still, he couldn’t seem to come up with a story to go along with his choice of carry for Micarta Monday.

BrotherJim picked up the Plow and turned it over in his hand. Maybe it belonged to a drifter in a small town. He trades stories for smokes. Disappears before sunrise. Or a mechanic running errands for the wrong kind of people. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the kind of knife that didn't need a story to prove its worth. A knife built to be used, not talked about. The ideas itched at the edge of his brain, but he couldn’t quite grasp them.

Ah-ha, BrotherJim thought, a spark of inspiration flickering to life. Out past the last gravel road, where the trees lean in, a man alone in the woods. No signal. No noise. Just the Plow in his pocket and a job that needed doing.

BrotherJim set the knife down, cracked his knuckles, and started typing. The cursor blinked once, then disappeared behind the first line. But despite the good ideas stirring in his mind, the words still would not come. Writer's block wasn't a lack of ideas, it was the oppressive weight of silence, louder than any words he could put on the page.

All he managed to type before completely giving up was: The cursor blinked like a slow heartbeat on the computer screen, mocking BrotherJim.

The blinking cursor didn’t care. But the Maserin Plow waited, patient as ever.
Maybe tomorrow, the Plow would cut through something other than silence.


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