Water Ate the Walls
David Nusloch
The storm smothered the city for hours.
While her mother slurred in a bar, nine-year old Holly made dinner for her twin brothers. The toddlers were difficult to corral. When she cooked, Holly tied a cord around their waists, tethering them to a sofa leg.
Hard rain roared on the threadbare roof and muffled the civil defense siren’s whine for mercy. The boys cried. She called to them reassuringly.
The flood slammed into the house and kicked in the back door. Its force shoved her thin legs, and she lost her footing, striking her face on the sink’s edge. Blood flowed from her broken freckled nose.
She struggled toward the living room, screaming. They wailed, and the cord grew taut against their thrashes. Her slight body wobbled in the current.
A squealing rat clung to her dress and dug its nails into her thigh. She lunged for her brothers as the dark water overtook them. Small, panicked hands grabbed her arms.
She ducked under and fought the saturated knot. It held tight, a fist.
Their fingers pulled her hair while they choked on the water they inhaled.
She came up, gasped, and went under again. The water lifted the sofa, and she freed the cord from the leg.
The walls groaned. Windows burst.
David Nusloch is a writer from New Orleans, Louisiana.