The god of thunder claps his hands and lightning cleaves the sky in two. Another rock splits and crumbles, crashing somewhere below, out of sight, but firmly lodged in mind. They say don’t look down, but with waves charging like bulls against the roughed, granite surface I’m clinging to, my fate, should the next hold prove evasive, will be set in stone.

Somewhere beneath this narrow ledge, lies instant death at best, or at worst, a slow, drawn-out meeting with my own mortality. I cling like a baby monkey clings to its mother, but if the mother were made of sandpaper and the baby’s fingers of overripe fruit. Skin peels, and nails splinter with each crevice I dig them into. Bleeding toes frozen inside curved shoes try to wrap anything they can find, sharp, blunt, serrated. Adrenaline squeezes...

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