NEW FICTION:

His eyes ached, his body blistered. His lips stuck to each other in a bitter quarrel. He moved across the hot landscape at a slow gait, the air was so sullen, and so thick, that he felt like he was at the bottom of an ocean of molten silver and gold. His rough hewn robes flowed as he moved, drifting backwards across the landscape. There was silence around him, the air was still. The only real sound came from the scraping of his boots across the dry, broken bones, cinder and ash that covered everywhere he was, had been, and was yet to go. It was a plain of the dead, a space of names - and he was the angel of misrule - he knew the names, all of them - how could he forget.