They say nothing ever happens in this town, but I have been stuck here long enough to know that the wind is changing. The other night, a lost tourist wandered into my bar and the stench of seaweed flowed behind him like a mantle. He ranted and cried, drank his whiskey straight. Said he saw Tiamat herself rise from the foam and trash of incoming tide, said we should all be running for the hills. I poured him one on the house. Wrapping my tentacles around the oak barrels, I wonder if the wretch made it to high ground alive
This story was shortlisted in the May 2023 monthly micro fiction competition.
About the author: Laila Amado writes in her second language and has recently exchanged her fourth country of residence for the fifth. Instead of the Mediterranean, she now stares at the North Sea. Occasionally, the sea stares back. She is on Twitter @onbonbon7