Yesterday, I plucked up the planet and dropped it into a colander. I shook it through, taking out all the ships and lifeboats, the yachts and canoes. Putt-putt boats and blow-up rafts. Every life vest and floating device was carefully removed.
Today, I cried for twenty-four years. The oceans began to rise and the coastal towns fell off the shorelines. Everyone fled the coasts, but it did not matter. After twenty-four years the world was covered and all things green with life were drowned and flooded. When my tears slowed, I scooped out each eyeball, wrung them out, and then placed them back into their sockets.
Tomorrow, the water will recede for twenty-four years before I find any solid ground. When I do, I will crawl out from the sea and let the sand scrape at my body. The tide will wash over me until I am sprawled out, absorbing the rays on my speck of land in this ocean-world.
The sun will sink into my skin. I will dry out. My brittle remains will crack and flake away when the sea reclaims its only island.