NEW FICTION:

He had no name, had no real face. He was a mixture of shadow and empty life story. He stared unblinking at the wall opposite him - he saw nothing, but saw more than - a blank face, a blank face with shadows. He moved his head slowly, in comfort-rocking that was his own. It helped - colours shifted, lights flickered. He picked up the pace - his head was empty, but his hands stood in front of him, his fingers sporting shapes that couldn't be, but seemed more real than. His shifting head became a blur as he rocked in double-fast time. He saw the screams on the wall, saw the sneers, the laughter, the tears. The wall was the distorted mirror, the life lived hard and often. His head was a whirl - lost its shape, everything was fading into something else again - a maw, an open wound, a gateway. His fingers still sporting shapes that couldn't be, but were more than real, shifted their focus. He was now between worlds, between worlds with no identity - no name, no face - just where he was, where he wanted, needed to be.