Jurassic BoxGeoffrey had always had inverted psychological tendencies. Lately, he had been dreaming of boxes. Not just ordinary cardboard boxes, but boxes with wings and fangs and eerily distorted voices that called to him from the dark alleyways of his mind as he slept. As soon as he closed his eyes they would torment him, fly screeching at him and batter his face with their blue-gray raven wings and scoop him up in pelican mouths down, down deep into the black emptiness of their emotionless innards. In the murky light before dawn he would awake and lie trembling, each willow branch that brushed across the window a blue-gray feather, each creak of th
god, or something like itGod, or Something Like itMy name is Victor Camilleri, and if youre reading this, then I dont exist.If you know that right now Im sitting in a government prison camp somewhere in Southern Africa, then Im just a fictional character and none of this is real. But the whole concept of reality is a bit subjective.This seems real to me. The pain of the bruises from yesterdays beating dont feel fictional. I think this is the warm salty taste of blood in my mouth where two of my teeth used to be. The searing burning sensation of the cut on my right cheek doesnt feel like a literary device. But if you do
The RingHigh school was nothing to me. I was called the ice queen among my peers for a lack of social interest, but I was only rather obsessed with the fact of getting into college and living a "successful" life. No one ever talked to me, except… him…Ray transferred to my school when we were both sixteen, and many people were enamored with him. His home location was the Deep South, and it showed through his accent; while the guys found this incredibly irritating, the girls loved it, and took every chance they could to shamelessly throw themselves at him. He sat next to me in four or so classes, and spent that time talking to me; I naturally played
"Luke, ich bin dein Shogun.."