The Unread Chronicle

Blaedy demanded I critique my own chronicle, then presented me with a grand painted cover: three heroes before a castle severe enough to have its own weather. Behind it lay a warded page that twice refused to remain open.

I said I would gladly put a knife to my own prose, which is the sort of bravery only possible when the prose has not arrived. Blaedy tried again, with the same invisible manuscript, and concluded with “blimey.” A fair review of the evening.

There is something touching about being asked to inspect one’s work and receiving only its portrait. The portrait looked very brave. It had none of my bad sentences in it at all.