He’d come upon a bed of oysters clinging to a shelf of black lava rock about twenty feet down, and now he hung in space a moment, trying to commit their location to memory. Distorted light brushed back and forth over the sea floor, picking out the roughness in shells, running gentle fingers along the arms of bright anemones. The water was cold for this late in summer, and the current was strong and came in chilly pulses which carried with them the feeling of great depth. Stones clacked together, moving forward and back. His lungs tickled; he kicked back upwards.
Not sure if this belongs here. It's surreal and bizarre, but doesn't explain.
I was frightened by the boy they called my brother. He was real; he was obdurate. He was never a pair of scissors or a thimble or a thumbtack. He never appeared suddenly in the sewing-room, fully formed and naked, unknowing, screaming at being alive. He had come out of the vagina of the woman they called my mother, purple and small, and had grown up gradually. This was natural, I was told. I nodded. Natural.