The Skies Discrowned

Art, like a lot of things, is a lost art.

When the story was finished, Orcrist shook his head wonderingly.

“The Fates must have something planned for you, Frank.”

“I hope it’s something quiet.”

“This fruit syrup stuff is no good for smoking; it’s only fit for impressing ignorant girls.”

Tyler shrugged, as if to say that that was reason enough to smoke it right there.

What would Dad say, Frank wondered briefly, if he knew I was making a living as an art forger? He’d understand. As he once told me, while squinting against the hideous sunlight of a cold morning, “Frankie, if it was easy they'd have got somebody else to do it.”