popcornducky

I live for these, these few moments in the gray light of early morning when I am impervious to the eyes – the eyes of the world, the eyes of my country – piercing my back. The first meeting of my day, a rendezvous with the pavement, finds my breath steady as my pounding feet carry me in one direction while my brain flies off in a million others. I had hopes and dreams – I was going to make this country great.  I swear my mistakes were honest, my intentions good. But now my wife smokes in secret and my daughters rebel and the people I fought for mock me on Saturday Night Live. I’m not angry, I’m tired. Tired of seeking

When the gray light falls soft and hazy at the edges of the earth and I huddle beneath the patchwork quilt your clumsy fingers labored over, so long ago now that the scarlet splotch in the corner has faded to an obscure brown, I rest a fevered cheek against the chilled glass and murmur forlorn Spanish lullabies to the hovering snow, silent at our windowsill. Winter is hardest. Now and again I imagine hearing the whisper of your footsteps, slow in the hallway, or the lilt of your laughter from the kitchen – then the yearning seeps cold and clear, a shock of morning frost on a dormant heart. I’m not angry, my love, on

When did you fade? The luster you’ve lost, did it seep into the porcelain where your fingers clutched for desperate need in the time of your release? Why do you weep when you pinch the skin drawn tight over your brittle bones, as if a lover has broken your heart? Who told you to chip away at the shell, fussing over the delicate details until you were fragile like a teacup? And why, why does a silver spoon, smudged with the remnant of a morsel of peanut butter, seem to reflect the face of an apparition?

I hate Monday mornings. I hate the shrill shrieking of the alarm clock as it drags me unwillingly into another long week, the way the cheap instant coffee burns my throat as I forcibly swallow a cup. I hate the insistent tug on my heavy eyelids despite the bad coffee and I hate the dreadful train ride to the hospital. I hate Monday mornings and today seems to be no exception. It’s back to another five days of quiet inexistence, back to a place where the hum of fluorescent lights and the familiar whitewashed walls are friendlier than the doctors who snarl orders at me, the faceless intern. I am consumed with gloom at this thought, the we

                                           Prologue: The Weapon I remember the first time I laid eyes on her. She was little more than ten years of age, hardly old enough to be called anything more than a girl, yet old enough to kill – at least, in the eyes of the emperor. Yet next to the retinue of imperial soldiers who had been hired to lead her here to the Empire’s doorsteps, she seemed harmless. She was frightfully thin and very pale, her skin the milky white of a child who did not often see the light of day. Dark smudges lingered beneath her eyes and her slim, bare arms showed signs of recent bruising. Long years of captivity

"Please… You must not move," a gentle voice urged. Disoriented, I tried to open my eyes, but the light, searing after my prolonged time spent in the darkness of slumber, forced me to relinquish my effort and I groaned. "You must rest," the voice advised once more, compressing a damp cloth to my brow. My body weak, I desperately wanted to comply, yet the haze was slowly dissipating from my mind and I found myself attempting to open my eyes once more. Successful in my second endeavor, I gingerly held the side of my head with one hand as my sight adjusted, using my other arm to struggle to a sitting position. After a moment's rest, I found th