We haven’t heard from Jimmy and Glenn in a while, so this week’s story revisits the duo’s dark antics. The plot is pretty much the same. I see myself writing more of these, but I don’t see any big changes in theme or resolution.
Jimmy and Glenn are going to keep right on doing that terrible thing they do.
There’s something weirdly reassuring about their consistency. I’m not big on formulaic fiction, but these super short stories are the exception to the rule. I like knowing what’s going to happen, and I like listening to them talk about it with the same kind of casual indifference you or I might discuss the weather.
That’s good, old fashion psychopathology right there.
The prompt, once again, comes from The Prediction:
100 words maximum, excluding the title, of flash fiction or poetry using all of the three words above (‘miracle’, ‘spoon’, and ‘still’) in the genres of horror, fantasy or science fiction.
“You know what your problem is, Jimmy boy? You keep expecting a miracle.”
“I’m a romantic,” Jimmy said.
“I’m serious,” Jimmy snapped. “I still believe in love.”
“Hey, I get it. Who doesn’t want a slice of heaven?”
“Right. I just haven’t found mine yet.”
They finished tying cinder blocks to the tarp roll, hefting it over the railing. The mass plopped into the water below, sinking unceremoniously.
“I’m just tired of this shit,” Glenn said.
“It’s not fun for me, either, man.”
“You’re digging the next grave with a spoon. Alone.”
Jimmy nodded. “Fair enough.”