People write these brilliant tweets. Why not turn them into short stories?
The inspirational tweet comes from @Garrett_Moriati:
And here’s the story it gave birth to:
The Collapse. It happened. We were hoping it wouldn’t, but here we are. No one offers an explanation, since it doesn’t matter at this point anyway. Utopia has apparently dropped to its knees, a feather against an anvil, hopelessly outweighed.
We drag through the streets, collecting all our members, taking inventory. “Safety in Numbers,” we always said. More arrive, wearing a variety of wigs, colors, shoes, grimaces, suits, whispers. Of course there’s nothing else to do at this point. Just gather, speculate, move forward.
We got the word this morning, the radio holding us captive with enforced communication. Hearts visibly dropped to the floor. Johnson spoke first, simply saying, “You heard it.” We dispersed into rooms, shivering at the data. Fumbling hands were helpless against buttons and zippers, but we eventually got there.
Now it’s so near, the towering Entrance Lobby in sight. Beyond it, the Collapse carries forth unseen.
We shuffle in, the last ones there, and behold the other members of our force. It’s too much to digest. Just too much. So many varieties of beings. But our own little group can look to itself with pride, even next to this panoply of juggernauts. We have our place, our abilities, our role.
Now that we’re in the Lobby, we can hear the Collapse with ease. Sounds we’ve never heard, shouts in tongues, mechanical whirrings and purrings. We gaze blandly at the entry door across the room and it swings open. For just a moment we’re hypnotized by vicious sights to which no living being should ever bear witness. The General salutes at the door as others move through it into the chaos, and it closes again. Any excitement we felt is arrested by panic.
Slowly the room empties. More powerful entities are chosen in place of us to do the work, or perhaps we’re the last resort. The General is seen giving orders, slashing his arms, crying in earnest at outcomes.
Now it’s empty. Echos of a forgotten past fall on deaf ears. A breath in, 3 seconds. Hold. Exhale slowly for 5. We slowly stand, walk in a remarkably calm fashion to the other side. Arrive. The door confronting us trembles from the noise beyond, reflecting our own nerves. The General moves towards us, slowly, the weight of the world in his eyes. Each step drags our fate nearer. He reaches the doorman and time stops, breath stops, hearts stop, consciousness stops. It all just stops. He gives us curt nod and turns to the doorman.
“Send in the clowns.”