Underwater

 Everyone knew how long and hard the rain had fallen, but Rock didn't expect this. He was at his big brother Jim's house in suburban St. Louis, and Jim had just called from downtown to say the city was underwater. "I mean, this is bad," Jim said. Rock could feel a rumble. He looked through the living room window to see an endless line of eighteen-wheel trucks rolling north from downtown along Central Parkway. "Jim, you might want to talk to Karen," Rock said. "It looks like every truck driver in the midwest knows the way to your house."

Little air

 Rock thought he had a million dollars, but he awoke to find he was broke. It seemed odd how little air accompanied poverty and how hard it was to breathe in his house.

Hopeful

 There was no way for Rock to feel sure. Still, he had established enough to indicate he lived somewhere in the past, present, or future along the endless corridors of time. Furthermore, Rock was confident the authority in charge would lean his way after he examined the evidence. At any rate,  Rock was hopeful.

A mess

 Rock was dead. This time he knew for sure. A diety of some sort had begun introducing him to post-life options, all of which seemed undesirable. The final was a disconcerted version of the den where he died, far messier than the mere clutter of his everyday experience. Some of the furniture looked as if it had been knocked out of place. Shelved books were scattered across the floor and rug, and Rock knew it was no worthwhile place to spend eternity. Furthermore, he was also prone to the hardwood near his front door and found it hard to breathe.