There is a particular way in which My home’s petunias glow Early on summer mornings That gives the sun a somehow Heightened sense of power: Power to turn these small flowers— Purple petals open as if to Catch the light, or maybe release it— Into stars of their own kind

Moonlight traveled through every crack and crevice of the city as dogs howled in the streets and people moaned through every open window. Life reached through the city’s fissures yet nothing substantial came out the other sides. The ones who had moved away said that people came here to die, years after their brothers, sisters, husbands, or wives faded away. There was nowhere else to go. At least nobody bothered each other.

This was the day my useless life was brought to the world. I, Wayne Toole, was born. My life was good when I was young, my father loved me more than words could ever imagine, and as for my mother, she loved me too.

I was in second grade, or at the very least, going into. My Dad had been in the military for over 20 years at this point. That was more than double my lifetime back then. My few and meager 7 years of living had been full of multiple moves, military ceremonies, and its own share of stresses, the worst to come when I was in second grade.

It was a warm foggy night in November, and the electronic alarms chimed the twentieth hour. Arthur Blair, his eyes shielded behind his arm in an effort to escape the unwanted glare of the dim yet annoying lights, hustled quickly through Pheasant Run, fruitlessly though light blinded him.

I sauntered into the center of town and my boots clicked underneath me. A few steps took me forward and I planted my feet firmly into the ground. My poncho was draped over me, extending to my knees.

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