I keep wanting to write something tied to Supernatural. This almost became it, but I felt throwing a werewolf hunt in would feel like I was writing two separate stories in one area. So this is where we are. I’m not stressed. Not at all.
Jimmy whittled the piece of wood in his hands. Beside him there was a pile of handmade toothpicks, the white, hand crafted wood a beautiful sight to behold. Some were more jagged than others, a few were too fat, a sign of his thinning patience. But there he sat, pocket knife out, picking up sticks to whittle down. He had a whetstone he would use to hone the blade when it became dull. Then he swallowed so hard, chucking the newly finished piece to the side, letting it clank on the pile of other toothpicks.
The toothpicks weren’t intentional. They were covered in mud and doused in rain now. It was just something easy to create, something that required little focus, something Jimmy was greatly lacking. There was a snap as he prepared another branch for the same treatment. He cussed, “Shelly, get out here already.” He knew where she was, though. She was near him. Not Jimmy. The other guy.
“But I love you, Jimmy,” she said when she walked out the door. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back.”
He cursed again and started to slice through the bark more vigorously. This tree was still very much so alive, the wood a light green color, difficult to cut through as the moisture gave it life and resistance. That didn’t matter, though. All that mattered was his aggression, his insecurity hidden behind a mask of anger and egotism, his fears being cut away as he focused on one task that was not at all related to everything on his mind. And so he continued to whittle.
...like butta' on your toast!
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