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Fantasy Island
by
Neville deAngelou
I wasn't supposed to be on the island. In fact, when I awoke I didn't know where I was. I got up, looked through the window and thought I was in a dream. I saw a gorrila then slumped like a Sunday afternoon drunk back to sleep.
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This time, it was a dream. The cold snake under my sheet was no thrill; my eyes snapped open. A forked-tongue in your face will drain your blood. It drained mine.
Where am I? How the heck did I get here?
I searched around.
I recognized the rack of clothing. The wallet was mine. Yes, that's me, Ulrick. The turd could've snapped a better mug shot, but no. Bitch!
I stepped out onto the veranda.
Birds were singing. Lots. Not the black bird diving toward a dusty brown
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butterfly.
Good God! Take it easy.
Swoop. Flutter. Pick. Pick. Gulp. Butterfly gone. Black bird scattered back into the singing green maze.
The trees were huge. Flowers were everywhere. The brook was rippling clean. I heard a noise. Then I heard giggles rising from the lower side of the hill in the vicinity of a banana patch. I decided to investigate.
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