The first in a possibly ongoing series of very short, very hastily written fictions. Writing prompts by Schmutzie, typing by me.
Int. Day - The Vatican, or The Parthenon, or the Ruins of the Colosseum, you know how it is when you’re not paying attention and the universe folds in on itself like black crepe in the palm of an exasperated god. Oh wow, are you high? No you’re an international spy in an exotic locale, and you’ve been foolish enough to get stuck with your pants half-off as the world is ending. That’ll teach you to ignore your espionage duties for the sake of a quickie, but then, what else are you going to do at the end of the world?
You know, you say, the Colosseum isn’t the name of this building, it’s just a description, no one knows what it was originally called.
Mmmm mmm, says your friend.
Maybe we should check out the Vatican next, you think, but oops The Vatican is gone with all its befrocked criminals, and now so is Ireland, and Peru, and all the whales cruising along the Orinoco, and then the land is pulled from the water and the water tied into a glittering knot and the core of the planet squeezed down into a bright pinpoint.
That’s a-spicy meatball, your friend says, and it’s good, isn’t it, that we can all make jokes, even in dire circumstances.