We called it a godcorpse - horrible great rotting thing that washed ashore, strewn over some fifty miles, fouling the air for half the damned country and still most of it was somehow beneath the water. What little of it we were able to see looked painfully human, looked almost like somebody we knew.
All of us felt a connection to the godcorpse, like we'd grown up with it in the back of our minds all our lives. Everyone reacted differently to it - some wept while others were angry while others felt a joy unlike anything they'd ever experienced before and none of us could explain why.
I was one of the weepers, absolutely bawled my eyes out for hour but I couldn't tell you who or what for - not even if you held a gun to my head. Something about the godcorpse broke my heart and I became so irrationally angry at the ones who felt rapturous towards it.
None of us said it but we were all relieved to wake up and find it gone, leaving nothing but the lingering stench of decay and an impossibly deep imprint on the coastline. No amount of scouring the oceans around us have led to finding it again, though how something of that size could just vanish is beyond me.
I'm certain that it was dead.
I hope it was dead.
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