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History’s Worst Non-Water Floods

Sam O'Nella Academy | August 5, 2025



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Intro and outro song:

“Brandenburg Concerto No. 4 in G, Movement I (Allegro), BWV 1049” Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com)
Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 License
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Written by Sam O'Nella Academy

Comments

This post currently has 33 comments.

  4. @olivetree9920

    August 5, 2025 at 11:24 am

    oh god, Sam, what is that brown in the thumbnail? It can't be GOD please say it isn't. oh I think it is. It could be even though I really hope it isn't. let that flooded brown pool just be ol' Wonka's chocolate river. I can't bear to watch the video in anticipation for the foul truth to bubble to the surface

  16. @MrMG-il5hv

    August 5, 2025 at 11:24 am

    Another strange thing about the whiskey fire flood in Ireland is that the fire was walled off with horse manure and some of it I guaranteed mixed in with the whiskey.

  27. @romeodahl1283

    August 5, 2025 at 11:24 am

    I like how this is a nearly 7 years old video, and the first thing that pops up from googling this "Jared Kushner pushing somebody" thing, is of him violently pushing somebody else only three days ago

  31. @stancil83

    August 5, 2025 at 11:24 am

    All the stories about the molasses flood and they never go into any detail. Apologies; but I'm going to fix that. I'll try not to go into too much detail.
    She hears it first, sharp, unnatural. The sound carries across the cold January air like something breaking free from the earth. A moment later, there's a low groan, almost like the city itself is exhaling. The ground vibrates. People look around, confused. She turns the corner by the bakery, clutching a schoolbook to her chest. The smell hits first; sweet and wrong. Then she sees it: a wall of dark amber rising like a nightmare, blotting out buildings as it comes. Quickly she notices the book falling and just as she is about to grab it; instinct takes over. Feet pound against cobblestone, but molasses is faster than it should be. Thicker than water, yes, but it's moving like it wants something. It overtakes a man beside her. She hears the snap of his bones before the scream gets out. Not like water. Not like wind. It hits like a truck made of tar. Her legs buckle. Air is punched from her chest. She’s slammed backward into a lamppost, ribs catching first. Something cracks. She tries to scream, but her mouth fills with syrup. It pulls at her hair, sticks to her skin like hot wax. Her arms move like she's underwater, but slower; slower than even that. It gets in her ears. Her nose. It's not drowning. It's suffocating, a syrupy paralysis. Her lungs burn. She thrashes, but nothing around her moves. It’s like fighting through cement. She sees a horse’s eye, wide, glazed in molasses, a frozen moment in time. She sees hands pressed against a window across the street. Still. Silent. She stops moving. Not because she’s dead, but because the molasses won’t let her. She’s held like an insect in amber. Her body still alive, still aching. Her breath comes in syrup-thin gasps; too little, too late. The cold presses in, and the world narrows to a deep, sticky brown. Every heartbeat feels like it might be the last. Her chest barely moves. Molasses isn’t still, it shifts, groans, settles. It presses harder. Her legs are pinned; she doesn’t know if they’re broken or just asleep from lack of blood. Her fingers twitch. She can’t tell if she’s sinking or if the wave is compacting around her. Not like before. Dull thuds. Wood cracking. A distant scream, muffled like it’s underwater, or underground. A moan close by. Human, maybe. Maybe not. She wants to call out, but even if she could, her voice wouldn’t carry. Everything is too thick. Her mind races even if her body can’t. She thinks of her mother. Of the note she left on the table saying she’d come straight home after school. Of her dress, still half-pinned at the tailor’s. She tries not to cry. There’s movement above. Distant voices. Boots sloshing. A shout. She tries to scream, but it's just a gurgle. She feels her mouth move, and it makes no difference. She thinks, no, she knows she's going to die as someone walks right past where she’s entombed. She is desperately telling herself she's going to wake up at any moment…

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