As explained in a previous post, I participate in Twitter hashtag games, and bulk those tweets up for Instagram…and sometimes they’re too big. So, instead of deleting them, I decided to post them here.

Original Tweet (the prompt was the word #languid):

A kerfuffle arose in a suburban neighborhood when a mysterious rift opened up, spewing forth an endless parade of sentient rubber ducks. The residents realized the only way to survive The Quackening was to engage their unexpected bath time adversaries in battle.

The too large for Instagram remix:

In a sleepy suburban neighborhood, where lawns were manicured and the biggest scandal involved an overgrown hedge, life was predictable—comfortable even. Then came the day that would be forever seared into the residents’ memory—the day of “The Quackening.”

Without warning, the sky darkened as if cloaked by an invisible eclipse. A rift, pulsating like a wound in reality, cracked open above. What fell from it was a ceaseless deluge of rubber ducks, their beaks honed to an impossibly sharp point and eyes glowing with malevolent intent.

Laughter turned into screams as the first duck sliced through a rose bush, turning petals into confetti. Children who had initially reached out in glee now clung to their parents, eyes wide with unspoken terror. The absurdity of the situation did nothing to cushion its very real threat.

Out of sheer necessity, neighbors who had once been consumed with petty grievances became unlikely allies. An emergency meeting was called in the middle of the cul-de-sac. Bob, the high school chemistry teacher, arrived holding a vat of homemade acid. Emily, a soccer mom with an artistic streak, brandished cans of spray paint, ready to blind the incoming attackers. Alan, the retiree, wheeled out his vintage snowblower, repurposed to shoot shards of ice.

Their weapons were as unconventional as their foes, a ragtag arsenal birthed from desperation and ingenuity. Their eyes met, each person silently vowing to protect their surreal suburban fortress at all costs.

The battle commenced with a cacophony of quacks that seemed to mock humanity itself. Bob’s acid splashed, melting ducks into grotesque puddles of yellow. Emily’s spray paint arced through the air, blinding several ducks and turning them into erratic, aimless missiles. Alan’s snowblower roared to life, firing ice shards that skewered the aerial fiends. Yet, for each duck vanquished, it seemed two more appeared, raining endlessly from the still-open rift.

Chaos and rubber feathers swirled through the air as dusk fell. The body count rose—on both sides. Karen, a once-vivacious book club organizer, fell, overwhelmed by a swarm that left her body marred by countless puncture wounds. Her eyes, still open, reflected the absurd horror of her final moments.

Time lost meaning as the sun dipped below the horizon. The rift, that damned rift, finally began to contract, but at a snail’s pace. The residents, dirty, bruised, and running on fumes, felt their spirits buoyed by this glimmer of hope.

With a final, almost defiant quack, the rift sealed shut, swallowing the remaining ducks into whatever nightmarish realm they had originated from. A hushed silence enveloped the neighborhood, punctuated only by the collective sighs of relief—and sobs of mourning.

Their neighborhood would never be the same. Lawns were now battlefields, littered with the carcasses of the rubber monstrosities and the weapons that had defeated them. Conversations would no longer revolve around benign topics like weather forecasts or homeowner’s association fees. Now, they would speak of the fallen, of their scars, and of the day their reality had been torn asunder.

In whispered conversations and heartfelt eulogies, they found a newfound, albeit grim, sense of community. Petty squabbles seemed so trivial now, erased by the shared trauma of a fowl apocalypse.

Though life would go on, the scars—physical and emotional—would remain, a lasting testament to the resilience of humanity, even in the face of the utterly ridiculous. It was a day that would be passed down in hushed tones and disbelieving shakes of the head, forever memorialized as The Quackening.