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.