by John Leahy
Sentience.
My first sensation is the shudder of a collapsing volcano, the ancient Cumbre Vieja of La Palma, slipping into the Atlantic like a dying beast into its grave. A trillion metric tons of land is swallowed by the sea, but from this death, I am born—a wave, moving inexorably toward the horizon.
I am not aware, at first, of my full form. I know only the violent rhythm of the earth cracking beneath me, a sensation not of thought but of the profound, unshakable force that births me. I am not a ripple in the water; I am the water. The very ocean trembles in my wake as I rise, my power swelling with every moment, filling the vast expanse between the island and the world beyond. I feel the land around me, broken and cast adrift, but I do not stop. I gather speed, the shockwaves spreading like a thread unwinding from a spool, and yet I am a singularity—a force of nature that cannot be halted.
I taste the Caribbean, fleeting islands passing beneath me, their trembling edges brushing against my vastness, and they are swallowed. I am hunger incarnate. I feel the Bahamas before I reach them, a gentle hint of their existence, and then they are gone. The water surges over them, a wall of salt and rage that consumes everything. The islands crumble, swallowed without a moment’s hesitation. I am an unstoppable thing, and I move on.
The sun hangs heavy in the sky, the day stretching beneath me like a hand reaching for an unreachable horizon. The ocean bears me forward, and I can feel the pulse of the land, the countries that lie in my path. I pass the delicate archipelago of the Turks and Caicos—an idyllic thing, so fragile. There is no mercy, only the relentless pull of the ocean. The islands, so picturesque, crumble into me, torn apart by the very sea they once belonged to. The sounds of their destruction are distant, lost beneath the roar of the water. I take them—take everything—and continue.
The next great stop is the eastern coastline of the United States. My path is set, my course unalterable. As I approach the shores of Florida, Georgia, and the Carolinas, I feel the pulse of humanity—the cities, the towns, the lives built precariously along the edge of the water.
Fort Lauderdale first. Its buildings glitter in the afternoon sun. I crest, rising, and then crash. It is as if the world has opened its mouth and swallowed the city whole. The water is unstoppable, a massive surge that consumes the municipal shores with brutal precision. I break its delicate structures into pieces, sending them to the deep, erasing them from existence. The glass shatters, the streets buckle, the earth groans as I tear it apart. In the face of a force like mine, there is only the inevitable. I roll over everything, crushing all beneath my weight.
And I move on. The air is thick with the scent of salt, of destruction.
Miami lies ahead. It is grander, taller, more elaborate, but no more prepared for what is coming. The skyscrapers, reaching so high, seem like frail, translucent giants before my oncoming flood. I am nearly upon it now, and I sense the panic, the final stirrings of a city that cannot know its end.
I strike with a terrible finality. I hit downtown with a force that rips through its streets like a knife. The water rises rapidly, overwhelming the structures that were once meant to withstand nature’s wrath. The skyline bends, creaks, and then falls—steel and glass crushed beneath the overwhelming tide. Cars are carried away as if they were toys, buildings collapse in slow motion, their sharp, angular bodies twisting and buckling under the pressure of the water. Miami, in all its beauty and excess, is reduced to rubble in seconds, disappearing under the surge.
I do not stop. The ocean is mine. I am not a visitor to this world; I am the embodiment of it. I continue my journey northward, the water rising with every moment, each pulse of my form stronger than the last.
Palm Beach, then Charleston, Savannah, and finally, I reach the shores of the Carolinas. The beaches are nothing but memories now, the cities but broken shells. The people scream, but their voices are swallowed, unheard, beneath the growing, endless roar of the sea. I touch the coasts like a hand falling upon them, and they fall to dust.
I feel the tremors of New York, its skyline, so distant now, but not invulnerable. Washington, Boston, the cities of the north—they will feel me. They will not escape.
So many will learn what it means to meet their maker. In this moment, the ocean and I are one—united by death, reborn in fury. I was born from the final convulsion of a volcano. Born to destroy, to consume. I will not stop. Not until there is nothing left but the sea.
~
Bio:
John Leahy has had three novels published – Harvest, CROGIAN, and Unity. His story The Tale In The Attic attained an honorable mention in L Ron Hubbard’s Writers Of The Future Contest. His short story Singers has been included in Flame Tree Publishing’s 2017 Pirates and Ghosts anthology, alongside tales by literary greats such as Homer, Joseph Conrad, Rudyard Kipling, Arthur Conan Doyle, Robert Louis Stevenson, H.P. Lovecraft, and H.G. Wells. When not writing he spends his time teaching and performing music, working out, and keeping abreast of the stock market and current affairs. He lives in Killarney, Ireland.
