NEW FICTION:

Angels spoke slowly and deliberately in the bone dry wind, murmuring between lips that had been bent and twisted by millennia of spite and dementia. Gods own choir had got old and stupid, and he knew it. He sat on the end of a sagging bed - roughed sheet, beaten down pillow - and listened to angelic words of nothing - of rambling and nothing. He sighed - long and slow - shifted his weight on the bed. What do you do when your god is dead and his minders are senile? He looked towards the window - a still view of broken trees and dusty sky. He hacked up a bitter dry cough in remembrance. He swore, closed his eyes. What do you do? He started to hum an old half-remembered fragile hymn. He didn't know.