For as long as I can remember, I have been afraid of the damaging power that water can have. I once lived in an old home where it was a real concern. This would often bring dreams. I still occasionally have such dreams to this day.

This is the first one I remember having written in the way I remember it feeling.


I’m standing in water.

Ankle deep.

It’s always day, but no one knows where the sun is anymore. Inside, you can see the sky. There is no roof on this house. I live here under the openness.

There’s a black mass that creeps up the walls. The damp growing to reclaim everything. It climbs and branches its way up. Never quite reaching the top, but always moving upward. Slow. Silent. The walls try to crumble, but it holds them.

The street is quiet. Empty. This is the only house left.

It’s me. Alone in this single room. This uncovered box. The only thing standing for miles in every direction. Every block now its own little, flat marsh.

Gray. Rotten.


I should not have fed it.

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