Flash FictionThe great thing about having multiple fiction projects going is that if you’re not feeling one, you can roll to another.

I really wanted to continue the series I’m working on today. I even started the next part, but it just wasn’t flowing. The story is there, but not ready. So I decided to opt for some 100-word flash fiction, instead.

This prompt, courtesy of The Prediction, was tough:

100 words maximum, excluding the title, of flash fiction or poetry using all of the three words above (‘bliss’, ‘south’, and ‘Tudor’) in the genres of horror, fantasy or science fiction.

And yes, I know King Henry VIII didn’t ‘kill all his wives.’ Jimmy and Glen don’t have the advantage of my ed-u-ma-cation.

marital bliss

“Not tutor, you moron. Tudor.”

Glen huffed. “Fine. Too-door. Whatever. What’s your point?”

“He was a king. Killed all his wives,” Jimmy said.

“King ‘o what?”

“England.”

“This is South Carolina.”

“So?”

“So, this ain’t England. You ain’t a king. You can’t kill every woman you wish you hadn’t married.”

Jimmy nodded concession.

“You ain’t gonna find marital bliss like this, Jimbo,” Glen continued.

Jimmy shrugged.

“Maybe not.”

“Next time try counseling.”

“Sure, sure.”

“Or Oprah. She’s always giving out advice.”

“Yeah, okay. But…”

Jimmy motioned toward the ground.

Glen signed.

“Yeah, I can help you bury this one first.”

Flash FictionThey’re back.

If you’ve not read the first story about Glenn and Jimmy, check out “Martial Bliss” by clicking here.

This is one of my favorite kinds of horror. It’s truly horrific, the things these men do. They’re most definitely bad men. Vile. Evil. Without redemption. Linking their lack of character to a fundamental state of ignorance is both gratifying and fun.

For what is Evil if not ignorance of the overwhelming power of all things good?

Whoa! I went all deep. Sorry to slip into philosophy on a Friday afternoon. My bad.

(I bet you’ll recover just fine.)

The prompt for this morbid little thing comes from The Prediction:

100 words maximum, excluding the title, of flash fiction or poetry using all of the three words above (‘bramble’, ‘drift’, and ‘sally’) in the genres of horror, fantasy or science fiction.

lazy sally

“She was a lazy Sally.”

“Lazy Susan, you mean.”

“Her name was Sally,” Jimmy said.

“You’re an idiot.”

Jimmy ignored him, pushing his way through the bramble patch to the spot.

“Anyway,” Glenn continued, “I thought you was done with this.”

“I swear, I didn’t mean to.”

She was half buried in a snow drift, the left side of her face nothing but shards of bone.

“What, like you slipped and fell on her with a chainsaw?”

“Damn it, G. She was fucking lazy. I can’t abide that. She wouldn’t even make me toast.”

“Well, man’s gotta have toast.”

Flash FictionWe 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.

If you’d like to read the previous two stories, you can find “Martial Bliss” here, and “Lazy Sally” here.

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.

Enjoy.

fair enough

“You know what your problem is, Jimmy boy? You keep expecting a miracle.”

“I’m a romantic,” Jimmy said.

Glenn laughed.

“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.”