After the flood waters came, the sharks swam into town. You could see the sharp edges of their dorsal fins cutting the surface, passing by stop signs. Most were smaller than the kayak I paddled around in, but some were bigger and the largest one swam right underneath me. It was beautiful in a way that only something terrifying could be.

The first day of the flood was the best one. The water was clear and you could imagine it was somehow cleansing, that it could somehow absorb the sins of the town. The second day and after, the water grew cloudy and filmy, as it began to dissolve the grime off the streets and poison from the factories. This was sin absorbed and it was sin retained and there was no looking away from it, even if you closed your eyes, the smell still got in. You could still see sharks, but now only their fins, not their bodies.

Once the water lost its clarity it was time to abandon other hopes. The hope that I could paddle around town forever, never worrying about my dwindling supply of bottled water and candy bars. The hope that whales and sea turtles would follow the sharks in and the hope that coral reefs would establish themselves on the pothole-ridden streets that cars used to drive on. The hope that a fertile world could spring from our mistakes and ruin. That we could be delivered, that we could be rescued, that we could get better.

Dominica Phetteplace is a MacDowell Fellow and a 2017 Rona Jaffe Foundation Awardee. Her stories have appeared in Asimov's, Zyzzyva and others.

Read her postcard.

Detail of photo on main page courtesy of Amayzun.

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