Life is like a sharp stick, untimely ripped from the home of it’s oak branches. All it takes is a particularly strong gust of wind, or perhaps a child in search of a wooden staff on a walk. The causation is irrelevant. It doesn’t sway the abrupt nature of life.

The twinge from the snap of the branch leaves a jagged end — like a pinprick. The other side is blunt, abraded by the battle of the eleme...

Mother told me I was born exactly 17 minutes after the sun had set, 17 years previously. Apparently the last remnants of light had fizzled into dusk not long after, bathing the hospital room in a hazy glow.

I’d always miss the sun by a little bit. That was always my destiny, engraved into the night sky, if you will.

And that much was true even now, as I tore my hand away from my stomach, a mix...