a frayed flag smoking with blood

Kitano Tsunetomi

Pale, it stirs on the small, hard cot. The air is thick and still, and far too warm for dawn. The pale thing stares for a moment at the ceiling, and then it rises. What will today be? Seconds that pass like hammers on steel. Hours like death. Every day is another eternity. It opens the small window and peers out between the steel bars. B…