NEW FICTION:

The temperature was high, his sweat was slow and glistening. His hands shook, even though his fingers were numb and blistered, while his feet lay heavy and swollen on the dusty plain. He moved his head from side to side in the blistering heat - it increased his visions, increased the scale of his dream events. The world around him was a constant swirl of dust and harsh shadows, set into angry bleak skies and sullen horizons. But his visions were always different, were always the comfort he needed. His visions were soft, verdant and full. He had visions that wrapped him in ecstatic pleasure, visions that dropped him to his knees with thankfulness and joy. His visions were of a different world, a world that was young, that was alive, that held laughter as cheap and abundant. He knew they were just dreams, dreams that overlay the panorama of dust and decay that surrounded him - but everything else had gone, everything else had been used, gorged on, then spat out - so visions were the only thing left in this world, the only thing that really mattered anymore. So he hugged himself in the bitter desiccated sunlight, and rocked himself into another oblivion.