NEW FICTION:

He walked along the pavement in shoes that didn't fit. His gaze was blistered and distorted, but he was facing forward, and the street was straight - so there was no distraction. His fingertips gently tapped against his thigh, a small drum beat from the outer edge of heaven's gate, and he hummed a rolling chorus that was probably on the lips of the angels who waited there - always waited there, like hustlers on a street corner. He smiled at his innervision sight of it all - angels, past their best, with their rolling necks and saggy bellies, waiting for the next soul trick. Well they can fucking well wait, he was in no hurry. With his other hand he swept away the invisible threads of fate before him. He started to whistle loudly as he picked up the pace in shoes that really didn't fit.