the-watched-pot

You're caught. At last. The court's a cast of thousands, a sea of faces, I see, of faces I should know, and do, but don't; they won't come clear through tears that blur my eyes and blurs that tear my mind, and where's the Tin Man? There. I recognise the smile he smiles with his eyes, that's just for me. Raynz, in chains. Alone. His face is stony and his eyes are cruel and, though the court is cool, he shines with sweat. The lines across his brow are new - the creases deepen as the chatter ceases and the judge arrives. We rise (who can) and every man and woman in the jury (we are ten) display the silver lines of our authority. 'A zipper-head