Maxwell flicked the minnow in the head. His mother might have wondered if he had sociopathic tendencies had she been supervising him instead of fixing the water intake pipe for the third time this week. The lake water wasn’t flowing like it normally did, there was a shift in the winds, which means a lot on a dammed lake. This wasn’t something she had picked up on, though. She only realized the water didn’t come out of the copper faucet into her pot of minnow stew. Unappetizing, yes, but she and Maxwell were out of money, and the fish weren’t biting, so they’d have to eat the bait tonight. Maxwell and the minnow on the dock didn’t know any of this to an even greater extent. In fact, from the head trauma, the minnow knew little of anything now. Maxwell dropped him, as Maxwell referred to it as, back in the water. He swam in a spiral down into the murky water till Maxwell was content that he wouldn’t be part of their stew tomorrow. The minnow swam out of eyesight, bounced off the spherical sand gracing the lake’s bottom, and bypassed miraculously all of the algae that had clouded Maxwell’s view when he skipped away. Spiraling backwards now, the minnow corkscrewed with a radius increasing, but a constant radians per second as before so that the night air was being forced from above the lake’s surface into the spiral of turbid water that framed the pipe underwater. Maxwell’s mother pulled her waders across her back and prepared to enter the water.

She walked in cautiously, bringing into the water with her the learnt conscientiousness that Maxwell’s late father had instilled in her. She knew not to get the water in her waders, or she’d fall or drown. No, that was melodramatic, she reminded herself, but she still loosened the straps crossing her shoulders in case they should try to pull her away from the cool air the sun was actively setting over. Her wisdom brought her little, though, and the minnow’s wake forced her sideways in a spiral towards the pipe. Into the conic left behind the minnow she slipped, as bubbles retraced the minnows steps at similar speeds. She was coerced by their forceful pockets of breath towards the back where air was still circulating, and tied her as if to a railroad in the Westerns she wished she was in at the moment. There was no tall man dismounting from a black horse here to untie her. She was stuck as her body strained to maintain its size and a constant pressure, and the air from her lungs began to escape and strengthen the tunnel she was currently reaching the end of. Her thoughts race, but to answer the most pressing question that was circling in her mind, no, she was not going to drip out of the end, liquidated or melted like ice cream in a summer waffle cone. No, she wouldn’t drip out at all. She was destined to flow and gush, to never be free, but to have new freedoms in the water.

As the capillaries in her lungs shifted form to resemble raisins, the aerated lake provided her body directly with forceful needles of air that kept her alive. Next her teeth came loose, with the air occupying cavities in each under their respective fillings trying to escape from her skull and broken jawbone, which was losing marrow where air was being ripped through, zig zagging through Maxwell’s mother’s body as he watched the minnows in the house now, from the counter. He sat staring into the unfilled pot, oblivious to the future his mother was facing. Her body, sliced, her brain, provided for by the lake. The water and her, Genine, swarmed the pipe she was hoping to look at, to fix, and her conscious mind directed the water, the neurons connecting with every water molecule, and fusing them with the electrical impulses she had spent the last twenty-seven years of her life thinking with, retaining use.

The rebirthed water molecules had the mother’s mind at their core. She and the water now adjusted, had few interests beyond Maxwell, and his soup needed water. As she and the water spread their web into the pipe, a pathway is synthesized and thickened, and the water continues to flow. The faucet was working now so that Genine and the water’s focus could move directly to Maxwell. In the pot, water stretched thin continues flowing over the minnows. The mentally damaged minnow is far away, the catalyst almost lost, but Maxwell, in fright at the waters’ gushing rates out of the spicket, turns to his time-tested coping mechanism of minnow flicking. And minnow flick he does. Maxwell popped three more minnows before his mother’s heart became a part of the water too. There was a pulse now, and the other two minnows became her feet, what first carried her to the water. As Maxwell flicked two more minnows before he calmed, and his mother’s voice came ringing out as her mouth was made by two minnows with bodies that vibrated at varying frequencies, and slipped or flipped their tails towards each other to slap lips and voice consonants. A fog covered Genine, maybe hiding Maxwell from the truth of her figure, but that didn’t matter yet. Genine’s truth was dominant, she was an entire lake, and was growing as the water cycle Maxwell learned about in Kindergarten expanded her power. She would go into the clouds till they were heavy, then fall. She would.

Genine in the water became droplets around particles in the sky, and something sparked. Perhaps a water-fused-neuron type something, but this didn’t matter either. She was falling and the bit of sand, bit of ash, bit of acid in the cloud around her changed, became miscible, as she fell into a pool of herself, watered a plant, fell into her son’s mouth as he awaited the rain alone. Miscible it was, and as such, it must have changed on a chemical level. It shouldn’t have mixed there. And now the lipids in the plant being watered, poured over, mixed in, too. It became polar, and so did the plant. Magnetized even, and a Gerbera daisy Maxwell had sniffed last week began to spin, attempting to become attuned with the earth’s poles, and fighting the water within it. Genine’s mouth of minnows caught up to her core connections on the Gerbera, and sat on the petals as they melted and became infused with the water. Here was the color Genine was used to, the personality her water deserved. A bright polin orange brushed the lake surface.

She was now not only water, but a new part of land, stretching into where the roots of the daisy were before. The pot the sil was contained in would have kept her, but the flowers’ roots grew through the receptacle through years of neglect, and into the ground. The pot sunk under its weight. Into the ground, melting and paradoxically drilling, spiralling into the core of the earth. In the core of the earth, the magma is allowed to desolidify with a release of pressure. It shoots towards the earth’s surface and sends the potted daisy into the atmosphere and then past it where it breaks against the sky for all to see if the rain weren’t blocking their view. With the force that backs its journey, the atmosphere cannot stay intact, and loses its power to resist a change in properties, and becomes synonymous with what last touched it: the pot. Terracotta closes around the world and shields the sun. It is wet and malleable clay, but in seconds the sun has baked it. The holes where the roots were poking through give way to the last bits of light for Earth, but blind all in its path. The globe continues its orbit.

Sweeping in a whirlpool like fashion, the core is giving way. The earth is being transformed into an onion. Not literally, but in the way that it is layered between lava and dirt that is falling from the drying sky. The water has been shot above earth where it settles in the globe’s bottom. There, it wells, and brings the Terracotta parts of its daisy, whose seeds have germinated in Genine’s waters. The plant sprouts in minutes, and spreads hastily. Maxwell floats in the water that is spinning against the Earth on top of a bed of sprouts, a cushioned raft for his weary, motherless soul. Motherless to him, at least.

The onioned Earth has put most people in the bottom of the well, where they are accompanied by the waters of the rest of the world. Many are trapped under the layers, long gone, and others under the drowned landmasses. As the world continues to turn against Genine, it is clear that gravity is not in effect anymore, as the core has been eaten away, and Maxwell sits in an unfilled lindor truffle form of his home planet. Doom has already been noted for most. People swim towards the edge to attempt suicide at the holes of the pot they are prisoners of. The holes rotate to facilitate this, and Genine realizes the danger. She could spill out at any moment, and lose her son and herself. It is unknown how much of herself is left, but all of her son is alive. She creates waves up the other side to twist the holes and fight spillage.

Genine is in a war with whatever laws of physics still exist. She is winning. The holes in the sky have moved above where the water pools, and the daisies growing around the sky have roots that are beginning to plug them. She sends her lakes to water the plant life surrounding them, and shifts the oceans above so that only freshwater moistens the ground. A byproduct of this is easier flotation for the current survivors, however few there are. It is harder to count now, because the final source of light has been covered. Bioluminescent ocean life humbly offers help. Genine accepts this and shifts them to her son so that he remains her focus. Maxwell glows, and moths flock to the manufactured beacon. Debris clutters the water, and life besides human thrives in it.

Maxwell is surrounded in the water with things that crave the light. People are sparse in the cloud of bugs, but present still. They bite into his raft, hoping it can provide some sustenance, and drink the water that surrounds them. They have spent a little over a day, but boredom and a lack of light makes it seem much longer. There skin is pruned, and the tiniest nick tears into it. They can’t reach the raft with the thick swarm surrounding Maxwell, so they are forced to continue floating. Genine realizes their presence and the after-effect that her view of Maxwell is blocked in some parts. They are cast aside at this point. This is when all human life is done except for Maxwell in the light’s center. In her thrust, the water has made the earth shift on its axis. The daisies have not completed the plugging of the holes, so Genine floods out of it, carrying Maxwell to the bowling ball finger hole like wells, and spills with everything else left, and they become space junk around the stilled earth. Maxwell remains inside the concentric sphere. Genine is frozen, and cannot think anymore of her son. Maxwell cannot think at all, his brain has been picked, eaten at by mosquitoes, and the last brain in the earth is put out and lets off light, or is lit by others, no longer.