NEW FICTION:

He wrote in segments in an old ring-bound notebook - gift from another space. He sat and wrote in frantic segments - naked but for dirty mismatched socks and faded over-large underwear. He wrote like he was running out of time. No. He wrote like he had run out of time, but something, somewhere let him continue anyway. His pen was cheap, the ink had long ago run out, so he carried on writing, digging into the lined paper like the pen was a stiletto, like it was a white hot needle, like it was a sharpened angel finger. He was writing in segments, writing in slabs of truth and anger, writing in excised slices of stupidity and forgetfulness. He murmured between blurred, shifting lips - over and over - as he wrote: "I am the fiery angel... I am the fiery angel... I am the fiery angel..."