NEW FICTION:

He descended into bones. His narrow hips felt snug and new - as another; tight ribs slid across his back within motion, wrists cracked and ankles seared as he slid slowly into another. New body, new moves. He would dance in black t-shirt and long, tight jeans, he would dance in button-down shirt and underwear, he would dance in nothing but a cloying, invasive hold. He would be an angel with no wings, a god with no smile. He would be a saint with no halo, and a prophet with no book. He would partner with himself in a dance ladled with dirt and conformity. He would dance within a silver cage, with gold stuck on wings, and dance you your fortune, dance you your fate. He would glance at his reflection through the sharp glint of a knife, as his new bones stretched and seared across the landscape of another.