There was once a womangirl who cried so much she flooded the town. River banks overflowed, streets sloshed, and no one made it out of the house - or even out of bed - that day with dry feet. She cried in her bed and she cried in the kitchen and she cried in the bathroom. Tears for sorrow, tears for joy, tears for girls, tears for boys. Tears for fears - great band. Tears for all the people she could have been, will never be, has yet to be. ‘Something’s wrong with me,’ she said. ‘I can’t be crying so much. ‘Something’s afoot.’ So she set off to investigate. She dismantled her wardrobe - which was easy, because it wasn’t very well put together in the first place - and out of those parts she built a raft, and set asail. She brought with her the following items: Coffee beans to keep her awake (twenty-three in total), some Euros, mascara (for she kept crying all of hers off), a pen, and some condoms - because you just never know. She paddled with her very long mascara wand, for her very long wet lashes. And as she paddled along, she sang.

i don't feel water in my skin instead just patience wearing thin will broken parts start to cooperate? i'm sick of waiting, tell me please just give me any diagnoses when will my brain start to feel great? if I don't look, if I don't see if I cut off, then could I be the pinnacle of female fantasy i'm sick in my body i'm sick in my mind i'm sick of my face i feel so unkind i wanna live i don't wanna die i wanna have friends i wanna feel fine female anatomy is misunderstood apart from knowing that we leak blood seatbelts and the symptoms of a heart attack they don't have your back my mood is swinging so hard it could be some kind of crazy olympic athlete i never wanted to compete i'll change my nose, i'll change my hips cut off my stomach, plump my lips the pinnacle of female fantasy i'm sick in my body i'm sick in my mind i'm sick of my face i feel so unkind i wanna live i don't wanna die i wanna have friends i wanna feel fine

As the womangirl sailed through the town, still weeping all the while, her gaze fell upon each creature, building, and natural or human-made occurrence under the sun and above or amongst water. And as she met each creature, building, and natural or human-made occurrence, she waved hello and apologised. Each creature, building, and natural or human-made occurrence held its secrets. Things that had never seen the light of day. Things that were buried under the cracks in the pavements and between rays of sun. ‘What do you seek?’ the sky asked. ‘I’m not sure yet’, the woman-girl replied. ‘I wish I could spread my finger into that sky’, thought the womangirl. ‘Dip into it like a salve and paste it onto my wounds. Rub it in, balmy and smooth, and turn everything light blue.’ ‘I heard that’ said the sky. ‘Oops.’ She rowed on. A flood is an enormous amount of water. Too much of anything can also be called a flood. They occur most commonly from heavy rainfall where natural watercourses do not have the capacity to carry excess water.

The womangirl takes stock of the world rendered anew. She sees cats paddling, whiskers iced with droplets. She sees ducks, nonplussed at their unexpected home expansion. She sees things floating about that she’d never before seen floating about. A pack of cards. A stopwatch. A plug. A china teacup. A doormat. ‘Welcome home’, it proclaims. To whom now, the womangirl was not certain. The river, whose bank had met with the womangirl’s crystalline sorrow, was no longer distinguishable from any other part of the water cascade. Was it still a river? Or was it now just one current of the larger body? Hard to say. The womangirl picked up the china teacup, admiring its delicate constitution, and placed it in her vessel. A woman in leggings, trainers and a workout top swam by energetically. ‘Mad this, isn’t it?’ ‘I know, I’m sorry’ said the womangirl. The sporty woman didn’t seem to have heard her. ‘Mad! The day after I upgrade my smartwatch, the new one gets flooded and refuses to count my steps! Although, if we’re being pedantic about it, I’m technically not taking any steps, am I! Ha! At least there’s plenty of water to stay hydrated!’ She swam away as if in a rush to share these thoughts urgently with the next citizen she saw, splashing a path in her wake, and taking gulpfuls of water every 3rd stroke.

there’s a storm every weekend and it’s killing my flights there’s plates in the sink but no one’s willing to fight and all these days to survive i’m wasting all of my time sertraline sick, i miss you every day, it hurts the way the sky changes quick, i go from waking up at six to staying in bed ‘til three, my new job underpays me but it’s fine, ‘cause they don’t give me any shifts where do i call home? it’s my fifth year in university perhaps my student loan. was it really only two months ago you said to me, i have anxiety, and now it’s seven hours of therapy a week my tattoo is peeling staring at the ceiling girls are gone at the weekend feeling lonely again sertraline sick, i miss you every day, it hurts the way the sky changes quick, i go from waking up at six to staying in bed ‘til three, my new job underpays me but it’s fine, ‘cause they don’t give me any shifts where do i call home? it’s my fifth year in university perhaps my student loan. was it really only two months ago you said to me, i have anxiety, and now it’s seven hours of therapy a week my tattoo is peeling staring at the ceiling there’s a storm every weekend and it’s killing my flights (girls are gone at the weekend) there’s plates in the sink but no one’s willing to fight and all these days to survive (feeling lonely again) i’m wasting all of my time

Soon enough, the womangirl began to notice all sorts of things below the surface that darted and flickered and caught her eye. Shimmering scales reflected in the sunglow, and sure enough, the womangirl realised a small golden-orange fish had been swimming alongside her, loyal and persistent. Frogs leapt from expansive lily pads, eels wriggled throughout crevices, and something that didn’t quite seem fish nor human eluded eye contact. Funny, the womangirl thought. While some homes are falling apart, some homes are expanding! Even funnier, she continued to herself, one could say I’m ‘pondering’ the situation! Ha ha! She rowed past the church, sinking but standing tall enough to peek out beyond the water line. Slamming is such a hard sound, but there’s no slamming down underwater. Just gentle drifting, floating, everything must be calm, smooth, slow. Bernadette didn’t know that there was mermaid in her blood, so when she awoke to find that she was breathing underwater, she thought she was still dreaming. When her dad told her the truth - that the family long ago mixed with some mermaid blood and they now retained some water-dwelling abilities, such as the gills on her neck she’d always been told were a birth defect, Bernadette felt so betrayed, so infuriated, that she stormed out of their living room - well, swam towards the door - and she slammed the door as best she could, which wasn’t very well. Years later, she would come to realise that her dad had simply been trying to protect her. Many years ago, long before the womangirl was catapulted into being, there was a drought. River beds ran dry, beaches were simply pebble and sand, and grass became so brown that for years, young children never understood the phrase ‘the grass is always greener on the other side’. They thought it was like saying, ‘the sky is always redder underneath.’ Just makes no sense. Those children, who were now elderly citizens, marvelled at the Womangirl’s flood. It twinkled, glittered, and flashed outrageously in the sunlight, and one resident could have sworn that it winked directly at him. Just when you think you’ve seen it all...

Sylvia was thinking about her parakeet when she noticed the water seeping under her classroom door. Ms. Alabanza didn’t notice, although she was teaching the class about natural disasters, which Sylvia would ultimately end up thinking was quite ironic. Sylvia knew what irony was, and in fact had just been considering the irony of the fact that her yellow & green parakeet, named Phlegm, was, according to the vet, tonedeaf. ‘How can a parakeet be tonedeaf?’ Sylvia had asked the vet. ‘Does he even know what a tone is?’ ‘That’s an interesting question,’ said the vet, ‘can one be deaf to something if one is not aware of its existence in the first place?’ Sylvia waited for the vet’s answer. ‘I don’t have an answer for you, Sylvia. But one thing’s for sure, and that’s that this here parakeet you’ve so affectionately named Phlegm would never make it on The Voice. Because he’s tone deaf. And what’s more, he’s a parakeet. Which, if the judges turned around and saw a parakeet and decided to vote him into the competition, they would un-decide as soon as they found out his name is Phlegm. Not very marketable.’ Sylvia wondered if she was the only person who could see the water creeping in under the classroom door - if she was going mad, the kind of mad that makes you see and hear things that other people don’t see and hear, which she often wondered when she noticed odd and peculiar things happening. Ms. Alabanza continued, ‘a natural disaster is a major event of natural causes, usually resulting in difficulty or obstruction for the people and communities nearby. Has anyone here lived through a natural disaster?’ Brian Phelps piped up: ‘my mum went through menopause last year?’ A wave of chuckles washed over the classroom. ‘Although it fits the criteria, I don’t think it counts, Brian.’ Ms. Alabanza smiled. Sylvia cast a quick glance over at Brian. Poor guy - Sylvia was very good at noticing things, see, and she’d noticed last year that Brian, who many in the class might refer to as the class clown due to his witty and blunt responses to Ms. Alabanza’s teaching, was actually a very literal boy. He warped figures of speech to his own understanding, walking straight though sarcasm like mist, and answered the questions that were asked of him, like a faulty metal detector, he beeped not at rhetoricals. Indeed, Brian’s face was open, trusting, and innocent, and a smile began to show for he’d realised that he’s interpreted a ‘natural disaster’ in his own, very ‘Brian’ way, and the rest of the class had interpreted Brian’s very ‘Brian’ response in a very ‘everyone else’ way. Ms. Alabanza continued: ‘think bigger. Huge. The biggest you can imagine.’ ‘A tornado,’ declared Lindsay. ‘Yes!’ declared Ms. Alabanza. And then the water reached her toes. Ms. Alabanza had been planning to take the afternoon’s classes outside on this lovely sunny day, but upon feeling her shoes saturate with salty water, a smile grew upon her face. What’s better than a class in the sun? Why, an aquatic class in the sun, of course. The primary effects of flooding include loss of life and damage to structures, including bridges, sewage systems, roadways, and canals. Floods also frequently damage power transmission and sometimes power generation, which then has knock-on effects caused by loss of power. If you are under a flood warning, the best advice to follow is to find safe shelter right away. Turn around, don’t drown! Stay off bridges over fast-moving water. Determine how best to protect yourself based on the type of flooding. Evacuate if told to do so. Anything that’s not bolted down will float away.

river lead the way to town new day, new walk, but always one note sticking out, I read the news, and i don’t know who’s worse off, me or england either way, i’m leaving such a lonesome friend what will make this story end? always so much to say but we’re nowhere, and there’s only ever us to save the day river let me be with you flow connect and find us new, new, new, I read you, and i don’t know who’s worse off, me or my head either way, i’m honest such a trusting heart remembering the hoping at the start i’m always gonna stay but we’re nowhere, and there’s only ever us to save the day doing our best don’t seem enough right now wasting our breath, it feels so tough, and how one day i pray that the river will lead me back somehow river let me cross the sea new name, new face, and hoping it’s a different story

Oh, no,’ the womangirl thought. ‘My basil plant.’ The woman-girl had a basil plant at home. She watered it tenderly each and every day. Sometimes she would remember to water the basil plant before she remembered to brush her teeth, or get dressed. The basil plant had indeed drowned. But just as life ended for that fragrant creature in the womangirl’s kitchen, new life began in the womangirl’s bathroom. In between the sink taps, a dormant lotus flower began to bloom. A man in a bathtub bobbed by, looking incredibly confused and a little embarrassed. ‘Don’t worry, it’s me’ the womangirl called out, pointing at her wet face to demonstrate. The man smiled sympathetically. ‘If you see my plug, let me know. It’s floated away!’ ‘Hm,’ thought the womangirl. ‘Rings a bell.’ But she couldn’t remember why. That can go on the list. Two lovers with love-drowned eyes passed by. They had fashioned some garden furniture into a gondola, and their friend, who was training to be an opera singer, stood at the helm of the watercraft and bellowed the alphabet. When it came to the crunch and he had the opportunity to shine, he shook with nerves and realised he’d forgotten every song he’d ever learned, but everyone thought he sounded just as lovely singing letters one by one, and they all knew the lyrics to this one. The womangirl realised that of all the people she had passed, no one had even noticed that she was crying. In fact, no one had noticed that she was crying tears of such a large volume and at such a rapid pace that she was the one who had caused the flooding. The womangirl didn’t want anyone to know that she was the one who caused the flood. She didn’t want anyone to know because she was ashamed. The sighing of wind juddered the wardrobe raft along and the womangirl looked ahead.

my skin feel hypersensitive clenching both my fists press lips together I can’t see past the steam on my glasses maybe I’m just afraid of getting older or maybe it’s my natural way but I feel like I work so much harder to end up staying in the same place and no, it’s not a race so why do I allow myself to see what they do and feel so unremarkable? oh I do I try to be the best that I can but no one disappoints me more than… I think I’m a narcissist obsessed with the C I need to leave the room don’t follow me maybe I’m just afraid of getting older or maybe it’s my natural way but I feel like I work so much harder to end up staying in the same place and no, it’s not a race so why do I allow myself to see what they do and feel so unremarkable? oh I do I try to be the best that I can but no one disappoints me more than… people tell me all these nice things but it’s easy to believe a lie and my hands are as messy as my hair is as messy as my head is as messy as everything I do, ooh I want to be perfect but it’s all painfully below average I’m a wreck maybe I’m just afraid of getting older or maybe it’s my natural way but I feel like I work so much harder to end up staying in the same place and no, it’s not a race so why do I allow myself to see what they do and feel so unremarkable? oh I do I try to be the best that I can but no one disappoints me more than…

‘Bruise like a peach’ they say. The peach, swollen, tender, juicy inside. Bruises I never knew how I got, they just appeared on me. I guess something must have happened. Hey, what do you think love is? Do you think the body loves itself? It mends itself, tends to itself. Do you think the body loves the mind? Do you think the body can love other bodies independent of the mind? I’ve thought about it and I still don’t have an answer. Maybe it’s not my mind that should have the answer at all; maybe I should ask my body. Do you think your body would look the same on television? How about your mind? Would it look the same? Do you think we understand each other? Do they bruise the way we do? A tyre floating down the street past the church. Makes quite a good inflatable! Said the person hanging in it, socks off, skin out, dipping their hand into the salty stream every now and then. ‘Huh’ thought the womangirl. The hospital of my body is mending, a calm and quiet word, tranquil but for one thing at a time, stethoscope, cold, pause, clean, pause, gloves, and gel, and keys, and doors shutting over, and here’s when you come back, here’s when, papery thin crinkle, here, hear, here’s when. Someone swam towards the womangirl. That sinking feeling. The woman-girl could hear blood coursing through her body, the fist-sized machine at the crux pulsing away. Loss doesn’t necessarily mean death. It can also mean leaving home, illness, change of job, moving to a new home, leaving school, a relationship breakup. How long does grief last? It can go on forever, come back whenever. ‘It’s natural. This. Water. It’s the most natural thing in the world.’ The womangirl closed her eyes. The tears still found a way to birth themselves into the cool evening light. The grief process is most often experienced in cycles as opposed to in a linear fashion. It can be compared to the act of climbing a spiral staircase. Things can appear as though you’re going in circles when you’re actually making progress. The womangirl has not figured out how to stop crying, or why she’s crying, but you know, she’s not asked anyone for help. She thought she had to go it all alone. That sinking feeling. After the initial shock of loss, one may begin to feel more pain and sadness. Friends and family who mean well may skirt around or avoid discussing the loss due to their own discomfort, or because they fear making the person feel worse. ‘I know how you feel.’ Sylvia said to the womangirl. ‘No you don’t’ she replied. ‘I do. Remember the earthquakes a couple years ago? That was me.’ ‘You need to let yourself be a person. A woman and a girl.’ ‘How do I do that?’ ‘I can tell you that you won’t find peace by trying to win a victory against your emotions. It would be more realistic to make a truce, sign a treaty, live together.’ Sylvia was eleven years old. The womangirl looked at her and saw the girl she’d been stifling in herself.

so here we are and what am I supposed to have learned? here we are my journey’s done, my ending earned I’m still waiting for a sign I’m at my door look back at the streets I’ve travelled down as dusk falls on this sodden town I hold my key and maybe in my journey I expected someone to come tell me what I really did know all along realised in the final song it’d make a good story no I can’t change what I feel in the face of tragedy or the things that people think about me and I’m tired of drowning the world in all my tears of beating myself up for all these years and now I’m supposed to figure out what being this womangirl is all about I’m sick of it hanging over me wishing someone would tell me what to be (it’s up to me) I won’t apologise I will look at myself with flooded eyes and tell me what I know to be real I’m a woman and I’m allowed to feel and I will reach inside of me and take that little girl’s hand, tell her there’s still so much about the world that I don’t even understand hold her in my arms and warn she’s gonna have to make her own plans so here we are tears will keep falling as long as I grieve the world goes dark as day falls into eve and I’m a woman but that girl will never leave I know things now that I didn’t before

Live together. The sinking feeling stops. The womangirl’s wardrobe lands gently on solid ground. She looks around, then back at Sylvia. ‘I pulled the town drain. The water’s been flushed away.’ ‘Thanks.’ When the water circled down the town drain, Sylvia thought of a spiral staircase. The womangirl stepped out of her boat and walked home, noticing all the while how clean the town looked. The town glistened and winked in the evening’s last light. She crossed the threshold into her home and went straight into the kitchen. Placing the china teacup on the counter, the womangirl thought about her journey, then wept into her kettle and made some tea. Waste not want not. She sat at the kitchen table and drank the tea. She laughed so hard, she stopped crying. It tasted terrible.