The Archipelago

What happened? I’ll tell you what: everything.
There’s nowhere to start because it started all at once. Everything they predicted, the scientists, meteorologists, and the man with the placard on the corner of our street, came to pass. Let’s just say there was a lot of water.
But being paranoid had its benefits, and where others squabbled over what to pack, what to save, which kid deserved life most, I disappeared with my little, brown bag of stuff and left them all behind.
It took me three months to blag my way across Europe, then down through what should’ve been desert sands — it turned out to be mud — then back up into the mountains. Like a monkey on steroids, I climbed and climbed and climbed. By the time I’d finished, I looked down from the Tibetan Plateau as the world flooded.
I expected it to take years, or at the very least a few more weeks; it took a day. The world became a swimming pool. India flooded before my eyes as though God had left the tap on, his bath spilling everywhere. For one long night I thought it wouldn’t stop, a mania set upon me and I ran around like a headless chicken before a Yeti, or a Sherpa, or something in a woollen jacket gave me a slap. That settled me down, and I realised the rain had stopped.
The Archipelago was beautiful, especially for a quick dip in between those Himalayan peeks, Everest and Annapurna separated by a choppy strait. The few others and I, who’d attained such a height, did the best we could. Fishing was easy, but you had to watch out for any African cats that had survived the swim to our altitude. It’s odd to hook a lion when you’re fishing for a trout.
Crazy story, I hear you saying. What’s old man Ankers been taking? My answer: the same as the man with the placard, and we all know he was right.
The End.


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