The World We Knew

The world is buzzing. Roaring. It’s subtle, oh so subtle, yet I feel it in my bones. Like a million tiny flies hatching in my marrow, clambering for the exit. For release.

I watch those fly catchers snap up gnats into their swift brown beaks. Gulp. Gone. Out for more. They’re stocking up, filling bellies with bite-sized morsels.

They know. They sense it, too.

“Analise,” my mother calls, “come quickly now.” She’s worried. She scans golden layered knolls, shifting her hands into sun-drenched pockets. Tumbling meadows mix with craggy headings, jagged peaks. Mists swirl in the distance.

Waves prickle the shore with angry staccato notes. They’re dancing to a furious beat, maturing with each strike.

Whoosh. Sand flecks my eyes, tension mounting.

Villagers stir from their homes, dotting the coastline like nervous pacing mice. Murmurs rising on the wings of golden-eyed sea birds.

It’s coming.

Soaring birds, nervous squawks. Land creatures tumble past my wind-whipped legs.


The roar deepens, echoing in my ears.

“The water! Look at the water!”

Alive. Fluid. Twisting. Churning. It’s a rattlesnake aiming to strike.

The waters crest the narrow straits, drowning our history with every bead, every seep of mirth-roused tears.


Copyright © 2015 by Emily Clayton
Originally appeared on Flash!Friday:

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