By Evan Burkin

It rained so long that all of us tried to become fish. We bent our bodies to have one ear and a portion of our mouth submerged, a swimmer’s breath. Evolution would have to take hold, we thought. We adapted quickly to the new landscape. Belongings were stacked into pyramids—favorite items on top. Anything good at floating was strung up to trees and intersections so people could pause in their daily efforts.

But when we realized we wouldn’t grow gills, and the rain still came, causing kitchen windows to burst, we ran for the mountains. Or rather, we rowed, swam, and bounded for as long as we could. Some families were coordinated, rowing ahead of everyone, ready to settle in the mountain towns they vacationed in when it snowed. Others seemed to be playing the game Pong. A dad with a toddler on his shoulders would push another child clinging to pool spaghetti. The child would spin and float for a moment or two before a mom would catch him and bounce him back.

It looked exhausting. But it was better than the families who realized a little one had strayed a football field away and claimed their arms were too tired. 

I was alone. Floating on my back and sending my arms into orbits every few moments. I felt like the world was trying to tell everyone something as I let my ears soak in gravity, time, and salt: slow down; you’re water. Not birds. Not fish. Water—a single body. No need to fight for your flesh. Let it all out: become external and immersed.

Watching the others in their siloed groups, often arguing with one another, I couldn’t tell if they had heard the message. Maybe they had, and giving voice to every thought was their release. But then the voices should have been building into an endless stream of sound, something akin to the ever-present pressure of water, not staccato bursts.

I tried to bring up the idea of just stopping to a few; they quickly moved on. Instead of trying to exert the force of an idea on others any further, I kept the back of my head submerged and imagined my bone slowly dissolving until my thoughts were released.

The longer I did this, the less I felt alone. Countless sounds from below tickled my ears and washed over my fears of drowning. Yet, vulnerability permeated me. The people slapping their arms and legs had no concern for the body of water they were thrashing. Their egos were threats. For someone to approach me became synonymous with danger. If somebody asked if I was alone, I would say my wife and kid headed up earlier, couldn’t wait to see them. A part of my gut had curled up, knotted with some level of distrust.

Before we made it to the mountains, things took a turn for the worse. Someone said, “Ow,” which wasn’t new. But then he went under, replaced by a red plume that ripped across the water’s surface. Panic descended and a lot more were taken under.

I survived because I could hear the need for stillness. The water had become dense, almost congealed, and plugged my ears. Rightfully so, I chose to drift without movement. Whatever was below found thrill in the chase. I bobbed along the water’s current as nothing more than a piece of driftwood, maybe nothing more than water itself.

By the time we survivors reached the mountains, we realized there would be no safety. The mountain was nothing more than a small white triangle, a small extension of earth. Soon, the mountain was gone. There were only the clouds and the sun and then the stars and the moon. 

The water kept rising until we pressed into the sky. Held against an invisible bubble, the few remaining either slipped outside and floated away, or like me, became fluid, dispersed, and found a cacophony of language in the wetness.