NEW FICTION:

He didn't know what to say, didn't know what to do. He sat in the room, the sun shining down on his face from the high window. He squinted at its intensity, but his body warmed to its influence. His hands were stretched out nervously on his naked bony knees. He was making a conscious effort not to drum with his fingertips, not to rhythm, not to connect - just like he'd been told to. It was a habit, a nervous habit - three sessions and he could be fixed. But did he want to be fixed? Did he want to lose the rhythm, lose the connection? He pulled his hands into fists - still sitting on his bony knees. He breathed heavily, closed his eyes, searched for a vision - nothing, just the beating sunlight on his face. He breathed out, relaxed his fists back into gentle hands, and began to tap his fingers into a rhythm loop. He opened his eyes and the visions began. Visions were his, they were him. Nervous habit or not - why would anyone want to take them away from him? He relaxed - started to hum - settled into a cycle.