The Uncherished Sword This sword is an ugly, meaty tool. Not one for pageants and ceremonies, not one for a collector’s wall, not one to show the grandkids. It has no scabbard, no tassel, no craftsman has left his mark. The handle is cracked and dry, the metal has lost its shine. Dull and dirty, pitted with age, dried blood caked at the hilt. Once it held a razor’s edge, and shone with the light of the sun. But now it sits unused, forgotten. When beheading time comes, I know right where it is. But beheading time is over. Why read about another’s sword? It’s your head that’s still attached. Jed
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