Melt Me Into the Floor

The heavy summer rain flooded the countryside. The communal house, where waterlogged tables no longer creaked, was a refuge for all inhabitants.

The heat pressed sour sweat from every pore. The old ones exuded an acid odor. Human emanations fogged the atmosphere. Nothing green, nothing fresh, nothing dry. Just sticky and oiled skins, trying not to get stung by the mosquitoes—and the other human souls who were there, trapped under that circumstance.

Every kiss curdled; each tongue met the rotten breath of their conquest. Sooner, the grimaced faces of young people competed with those of the old couples. Nobody wanted to be there; they rejected the storm’s reminder: sometimes, civility turns a rare commodity.

The water dripped and dropped for months, becoming the new, grey, and muddy attire for everyone. It was there, not like a murmuration, whisper, or song. It was there, spitting and jumping, shredding and smashing against the ground, the tiling, the walls, the ears, the heads, the sanity.

When the rain stopped, no one could recognize themselves: a chair leg dissolved beneath a child, skin slid off in muddy sheets. All was melted into a marshy mass—people, wood, pustules, mud, frogs, even hope.