Papers spread out everywhere. Desks in complete disarray, upon which are found empty and half-full coffee cups, fast-food bags, even one lone banana peel. A few chairs are tipped over. A total mess.
Great ruin led to a great rush, a chaotic attempt to get out as fast as they could, to go somewhere, anywhere else. The People’s House no longer a place filled with people… if you could call them that.
Once out of the building, the streets too are empty. The town… barren. Not drained. Drowned to death, then dried out. Collapse.
They say that collapse is a gradual process. That you won’t know you’re completely in it until you’re completely out. They also say that destruction and violence aren’t total in their scale, that pockets have built immunity against it.
Clearly, though, this place was not spared. No immunity was built here.
Despite the ghost-town feel keeping most away, one does venture within. He looks around and about, observing the mess, assessing its potential for clean-up and revival. Inside, he shuffles through some scattered papers.
“Stop!”
He turns to find four people… if you can call them that. They’re here because they think they must guard against what’s already transpired. By refusing to give in to its existence, they struggle to let go of the present.
A quiet stand-still. Only moments long. Then, one of the four realizes who he’s looking at.
“Oh, it’s you,” he says—a recognition that allows resignation. Finally. Inevitability cannot be forced; it arrives at its calling, no sooner or later. “It’s all yours now.”
If you’ve been enjoying these flash fiction stories I’ve been publishing on weekends, I had one of similar mold published on the Terror House Mag website last week. Check it out here. As always, thanks for reading!