Metal heads : a novel by Tom Maremaa

By Tom Maremaa

"A surreal tale of the Iraq warfare, instructed via a tender American veteran being taken care of for disturbing mind harm in a California medical institution the place the sufferers are handled as items for experimentation within the construction of a brand new super-soldier"--Provided by way of publisher.

summary: "A surreal tale of the Iraq struggle, instructed by means of a tender American veteran being handled for worrying mind damage in a California clinic the place the sufferers are handled as items for experimentation within the production of a brand new super-soldier"--Provided by way of writer

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Their dreams are always in color, with big splashes of red and blue and yellow projected on the walls of their rooms. I hear lots of explosions, particularly the ones occurring when roadside bombs go off. This is hard to take, and I’ve been begging My Doc to help me find a way to sleep. He’s not too sympathetic, I can tell you that. Says it’s all my fault and any drugs he might prescribe would only make things worse. I can’t follow his logic. They’ve got a list of things, scratched out on a board, for which they’ll treat us.

I’m not excusing my complicity with Skank in terms of what he did. He was brought in as a private contractor, a former soldier of fortune, a warrior from the last Gulf War, under the pretext of doing the dirty work we weren’t supposed to do. We never thought he’d go insane, but he did. And we paid the price, all of us becoming in one night the worst of the worst––criminals of war. a THE LONE RANGER IS THE ONLY SOLDIER on the ward with a silver metal plate attached to his gulliver. I mean, it looks like silver but could be some other metal, maybe a compound, that shines brilliantly when polished, reflecting light almost as sharp as a mirror.

The man is a god on earth (not true); he stands tall (a hope and a wish), walks with great confidence (when he doesn’t wobble), carries a big stick (yes, a sharp needle). I’m down on myself. I’m waiting for whatever because whatever’s got to be better than what’s now. Who’s the bird? Where is he or she? A dream of flight is what I’m having, or had. Or will have, if all goes well. The other night I’m lying on my bed, half awake, eyes shut tight, lips sealed, body stiff. I am soaring in the sky and viddy myself reflected in a shimmering silver cloud.

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