The voices came, gurgling up the drain-pipes, snatched-at, growling, shadow-whispers.
The rain fell. The floodwaters rose.
The voices came, now indecipherable, like shattering glass, a guttural howling, a scratch against a pane of glass.
Still the waters rose.
We hunkered down, upstairs in our apartment block, surrounded by the recluse and his three cats, our next-door-but-downstairs neighbour, Raj, and his wife. She was heavily pregnant. She spoke no English, but filled the room with her bird-song native language, her swollen belly and the smell of bubbling curries. Bottled water and tinned beans, mixed with her spices.
We looked down, to watch the monsters swim in the streets; I had difficulty swallowing, as I watched them gorge outside, these new faces for the voices down the drains.
We waited. For the waters to subside, for the monsters to submerge.
For the food to run out. Theirs, or ours.
We eyed each other, hungrily, monsters upstairs and below.
Written for this week’s SciFriday prompt, as well as for some of the
BeKindRewrite prompts: New Face, Up the Drain and Difficulty Swallowing.