NEW FICTION:

He stood in the road. He gasped for air, but there was no breeze. His narrow hips swayed on a fixed spot, his bare feet stuck to the grizzled tarmac. His hands shifted in signs and motions, but nothing made sense, when did anything ever make sense? He sang off key, sang off key of angels on fire, sang of angels with burning wings and screams as they hurtled, like sparkling comets, towards the dusty spent earth. He swayed as ghost traffic sped by and through him. He searched the hot, clear skies with eyes that only looked inward. He was drunk, he was always drunk, but only with unsought visions in sightless eyes, and only with words that sat on his dry tongue in stupid anticipation. He hummed to himself, closed his eyes, smiled, and slowly rocked himself to sleep.