Brent was a child of the universe.
Brent’s mother was born on a sunny October day, and was raised in a sleepy little town. When she was 19, she moved to the big city, found a job, and worked for another 18 years.
Then, in the middle of the night, she woke up pregnant.
Not a little pregnant, either. The day before, she had been as thin as a doweling – the smallest ones, to the right of the container. When she woke up, though, her stomach was extended, her breasts engorged with milk, and her back was already aching.
She carried the baby for the full nine months.
Brent was born on a cold, rainy March morning at exactly 8:45am. He entered the world silently, looked around, and yawned out a thousand tiny suns that sparkled and shimmered as they flew out the window, up and out of the atmosphere, and off to form their own galaxies.
As he grew, he found himself at odds with what was happening. Fellow toddlers would play with dolls, while Brent played with molecules. Teenagers smoked and had sex, while Brent considered balancing trinary solar systems.
When he graduated from University, Brent’s mother met him at the end of the stage, hugged him, and bid him farewell. He dispersed, now a million little motes of dust that flew into the sky and began to travel, seeking to understand that which had given birth to him, but had left so ignominiously.