Welcome back to the home of #ThursThreads for Week 642. Year 12! What a fantastic testament to the writing community. Y’all rock!
Today is Thursday and that means it’s time to start flashing on #ThursThreads, the challenge that ties tales together. Want to keep up each week? Check out the #ThursThreads #flashfiction group on Facebook and the Group on MeWe.
Need the rules? Read on.
Here’s how it works:
- The prompt is a line from the previous week’s winning tale.
- The prompt can appear ANYWHERE in your story and is included in your word count.
- The prompt must be used as is. It can be split, but no intervening words can be inserted or tenses changed.
Rules to the Game:
- This is a Flash Fiction challenge, which means your story must be a minimum of 100 words, maximum of 250.
- The story must be new writing, not a snippet from something published elsewhere with the prompt added.
- Incorporate the prompt anywhere into your story (included in your word count).
- Post your story in the comments section of this post
- Include your word count in the post (or be excluded from judging)
- Include your social media handle or email in the post (so we easily notify you)
- The challenge is open 7 AM to 8 PM Mountain Time US.
- The winner will be announced on Friday, depending on how early the judge gets up.
How it benefits you:
- You get a nifty cool badge to display on your blog or site (because we’re all about promotion – you know you are!)
- You get instant recognition of your writing prowess on this blog!
- Your writing colleagues shall announce and proclaim your greatness on Facebook, Bluesky, MeWe, and Mastodon, etc.
Our Judge for Week 642:
Flash Fiction writer, reader, and Riddle Breaker, Patty Dump.
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And now your #ThursThreads Challenge, tying tales together.
The Prompt:
“He’d been a force of nature.”
All stories written herein are the property (both intellectual and physical) of the authors. Comments do not represent the views of the host and the host reserves the right to remove any content. Now, away with you, Flash Fiction Fanatics, and show us your #ThursThreads. Good luck!
The genAI model sighed and gestured at me. “Did you drug her?”
The thugs shook their heads. “We just knocked her around a few times.”
I inwardly laughed and rolled my head back and forth, playing up being out of my gourd as I continued to work on my hands. They were almost free of the zip ties.
“Marshal Fitzsimmons!”
The barked command triggered where I’d seen the genAI model. Deputy Director of the Mountain West Region of the U.S. Marshal Service Ammon Woodrow. I’d heard he’d been a force of nature when he was a new, young Marshal, and his star had risen over the years because of his calm certainty and model good looks.
Yeah, genAI model, fake as a three-dollar bill.
Now he stood there, glaring at me as my own anger kindled. What the actual fuck? Why the hell was the Deputy Director of the Marshal Service letting one of his agents get knocked around by a couple of thugs?
Because he’s the Backlog mole in the Mountain West Region Marshal Service.
Well, I got Coop’s answer for him. This guy was the highest one could go and he was a Backlog stooge. The problem was, I was here and couldn’t tell anyone else unless I got to my phone, which they somehow hadn’t relieved me of. But my hands were still locked in those damn zip ties behind my back, though they were looser.
I stared up at Woodrow. “Do you model for romance novels?”
250 ineligible #ConcreteAngelsMC words
@siobhanmuir.bsky.social
Tom The Troubadour
“Yeah, that’s what we called him. I mean, he said his name was Tom. That first day, he walked up the hill from the ferry, I was picking up a sack of flour from the General Store, and there he was, one hump of a giant backpack and his fiddle case…started pounding out a tune from the get-go.”
“Had other names too, right?”
“Man, he had a rolodex full of names. Tim. Bobby, John…Jake…but usually it was Tom.”
“Played that fiddle sweetly. The Arkansas Traveller was one of his best…when he got going, it was a treat. His feet would be stomping, kids would come along and start gum booting away…rainy season, naturally.”
“Made going to town a real experience. Course, life wasn’t easy for him. Folks offered what they could, but it was tough times…”
“It was just before Covid when he showed up, right?”
“Yeah, couple months before. Winter time.”
“Where’d he end up living?”
“Casey Link took him in. She had space back of her place. Old cabin from the seventies. No heat but an antique wood stove. Outhouse, of course. She got to know him well. Seems he had a bit of a career in Nashville. Crazy stories he told her, like dating Dolly Parton…being the son of Wilf Carter. She got the sense that he’d been a force of nature once…tall tales…few facts.”
“And then one day, a year into the pandemic, gone.”
“That’s what troubadours do right, move on.
“Suppose so…”
250 words
@billmelaterplea
In my line of work, no one wants to meet me. God gets all the attention, because He’s the good side. I’m the ‘down below’ or ‘where the wicked go’. It’s a party down here most days, and frankly, I’ve got some of the most interesting people to have ever lived.
Which brings me to our newest arrival: Mitch. Mitch is 44 years old, and a software engineer. I’ve got no idea why he’s down here with us, but the paperwork is all in order, so I’m not going to question it. I read every obituary for the folks on my list; I want to know who they were and what the hell sent them down below.
Mitch’s family wrote a pretty funny obituary for him. ‘He’d been a force of nature,’ they wrote. ‘Liked to party.’ And ‘rode his bike like he was going to live forever.’ I skim the obituary for the fourth time and then, right at the end, I see the only explanation: ‘in the end, he didn’t live forever. He liked to have fun, and pranked his boss the other day. He wrote one line of code, which made the boxes jump around when typed into. Pretty funny, and totally Mitch.’.
That’s it? He played a prank? And a good one at that. And that got him here with me? Well, if the dude likes to party, level two it will be! And God better not come get him; he’s going to fit right in!
@Aightball
250 words
“What is wrong Sunny.”
“Number one don’t call me Sunny where anyone can hear and number two, Tristian wants to resign.”
“He’s a force of nature, he can’t resign, we can’t defeat Yolen without him!” Trenton complained.
Tristian entered the room.
“Why do you want to resign?” I asked.
“For the good of the nation. Yolan has poisoned the minds of the people with his whispers and innuendos. I believe we can beat him by me stepping down and you stepping up.”
“ME? Have you lost your ever-loving mind?”
“Deena, you have been a part of my government from day one. With you at the helm the country will be safe.”
“I never wanted to be leader.”
“That’s it, use that hurt tone and humility.”
“You knew I wanted to one day be leader?”
“I’ve been mentoring you. It’s time a woman took the helm. “Tristian answered.
“Misogyny has always won, besides they connect me with you.”
“That’s why I have a plan you resign from cabinet citing me demoting you from your present job then when I resign you put yourself forward as a leader candidate. They will pick you, ask Trenton!”
“I think it will work,” Trenton exclaimed.
I follow the plan. Run for leader and win. I’m the leader now, something I only dreamed of but it’s harder than I thought, but I’ll make it work for the good of the people and for Tristian who believes in me and because Trenton is by my side.
249 Words @SweetSheil on Twitter and Bluesky
People gathered quietly in the dark room. Heavy curtains draped the windows shuttering the sunshine. A faint nightlight cast a soft blue halo where it sat on the bedside table. The bed-ridden man’s breath rasped. He’d been a force of nature once but time and excessive living took their toll.
The doctor straightened and removed the stethoscope from his ears. “It won’t be long now.” His voice remained low and reverent. A loud wail followed his pronouncement.
The two men across the room offered indifference to the soon-to-be widow. She was the dying man’s fourth trophy wife and everyone present knew she was only there for the money.
“He’s stubborn,” the dark man murmured.
“Of course he is,” his companion agreed. “He won’t let go until there is nothing to cling to.”
“We must make plans, Mikhail.”
Misha’s lips curled briefly at Dmitri’s assertion. “You think?”
“Ah, you already have one.” Dima should not have been surprised.
That brought on a full smile. “What do you think?”
“I think, Misha, that no one should ever underestimate you.”
“Us, Dima. All of us. The others are moving their chess pieces and think to use us as pawns. It is time we show them we are the king, the bishops, and the knights.”
Dima nodded toward the busty blonde. “What about the queen?”
Lifting his chin, Misha indicated a man with avarice in his eyes. “Let the rooks deal with her. Before they realize we are even in the game—checkmate.”
****
250 future Moonstruck Mafia: NYC Russian Wolves WIP words
Silver James silverjams.com
Everything in the room was too soft. The sound was swallowed by the velvety curtains – velour, maybe? Molly wasn’t sure, she didn’t spend time in places like this – making it feel like all of them were dead.
Not just the corpse in the box at the front of the room.
Some asshole who’d worked with Buck – sorry, here he was Allen – was blathering on about how “he’d been a force of nature in the boardroom,” whatever the fuck that meant. He was soft, too. Not around his waist, but in his eyes. Buck used to tell her about how these guys acted like closing some sale was like roping a fucking T-rex. They’d drink $200 bottles of bourbon and pretend they were heroes.
Molly didn’t know how he put up with them as long as he did. He had to, that was the long and short of it. They needed the (goddess, she hated the word) respectable front for everything they did, and for sure as shit they needed the money.
The couch she was on was threatening to swallow her. Soft, like the rest of this place. These people. She knew she’d have to take Buck’s place among them, but that was a tomorrow problem. Today she needed to get out of here before she told them what she thought of them.
What “Allen” had really thought of them.
Molly took a not-so-subtle swig from the bottle she’d hid in her bag and climbed out of the couch.
Tomorrow.
250 words
@drmag00.bsky.social
The old man sat in the rocking chair on his front porch and watched the world go by. He held a book but only read a page or two at a time and then watched the neighborhood. The woman across the street was mowing the lawn for her house. The man down the street was running his weed eater, edging his driveway and flower beds. An occasional car drove down the street, someone going home, or heading out. You could tell by the direction they were going.
He glanced at his own lawn. It hadn’t been 10 days since he’d last mowed it. It took him three days to mow it. He mowed the front one day, the side the second day, and the back the third day. The heat outside while he mowed wrecked him.
There’d been a time, not too long ago to him, when he could mow the entire yard in a couple of hours. Non-stop. In one session. In one day, no less. He’d been a force of nature.
But he got a year older every year. And somewhere along the way, with no warning, he couldn’t. He found he had to stop, and rest. And try again the next day.
As he sat, he wondered when the day would come when he paid someone to mow the yard for him. When he wouldn’t be able to mow it at all. He knew that day was coming. Maybe sooner than he wanted it to arrive.
250 Words (Per Google Write)
@mysoulstears.bsky.social
THE END
We have been found. My partner, our cameraman and me. We have lain waiting in our shared bunks, grimacing up at the pealing green paint coloring the ceiling of our jail cell.
Weeks we have been here, locked in this vast stone prison, charges of three gatekeepers overseeing this abandoned place of crime. Three men, cruel jokers. Here then gone.
Our nights bring ghosts of men flitting past our barred door, their eyes expressing vindictive humor. Or nothing at all. Our tiny room is cold with their passing.
At last we hear the click of the lock
and the door swings open. Our agency has finally thought the delay of our photo shoot unusually long and have issued an inquiry. Finally. Ever so gently our rescuers lift our bodies of bones to carry us from our cameraman’s chosen site of glory, a perfectly atmospheric place. He’d been a force of nature with his camera. But now, as I look back, I see only ghosts beckoning us to stay.
168 words
sandrapenrod52@gmail.com
Morrigan sighed at the performatively simplistic rectangular buildings of the port town. The average airship at the sky dock appeared many times finer than the most impressive building in town.
“What’re we doing here?” Suzy, Morrigan’s mouseling companion, sniffed suspiciously.
“Skyreach didn’t have the answers I seek. But I feel we’re getting closer. We’ll need to hire a ship to take us farther north.”
“Through the Wall of Stillness?” Suzy’s eyes widened and her ears flattened. “But, no one who enters it ever returns! Unless you believe that stuff about spiritual purification and reincarnation.”
“Don’t be so superstitious.”
Morrigan started calmly for the docks. Suzy pouted, but stuck close to the swordswoman.
“I’m not.”
Morrigan hailed a sturdy elf gathering rope about a bollard on the pier.
“Do you know of any crews that I could hire to go north?”
“North?” the elf grunted. “Dangerous journey, that. You’d want Captain Emmanuel Padimon. That man couldn’t be bolder or more motivated if he’d been a force of nature.”
“Where can I find him?”
“Afraid you just missed him. His crew set out for the Wall of Stillness two years ago.”
Suzy hadn’t finished her relieved sigh when Morrigan insisted.
“I must cross the Wall of Stillness.”
“Well,” the elf picked his ear. “If you’re not particular how you get there, you could try the Mad Mage out on the north point. It’s said they’ve crossed the Wall before.”
Morrigan raised an eyebrow with the small smile Suzy had learned meant trouble.
250 words
@davidaludwig.bsky.social
**Casey’s Cycle**
Down, down, little Casey peered over the edge, mist swirling. The earth stood below, distant.
“You’re scared to fall,” his mother said gently.
“Were you, your first time?” he asked. A stiff breeze blew, and Casey backed away from the edge. “And Daddy? Was he scared?” he added.
Casey had never known his father, but all his life he’d heard stories of the great Bernard. “He’d been a force of nature, a hero,” they always said.
“Everyone is scared,” she replied, moving closer to meet his eyes. “But we have a role. We give balance. We nourish.”
“Can we go together?” he pleaded.
“We’ll meet again soon, you’ll see,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.
Casey stepped to the edge, terrified.
Memories whipped by with the wind as he plunged. Fear became freedom. And before he knew it, he’d changed. He was no longer just a raindrop.
He was the progression of time and the substance of space. And in it all, he felt his father with him.
First, he was a lake, and he felt the urge—the necessity—to flow.
The lake that was Casey became a stream that moved to the roots of a mighty oak, flowing through its branches and leaves. Casey felt time and space collapse.
The oak sighed, and he became the air, breaking into countless pieces, and drifting into a dream that was both infinite and…
He condensed. He was himself again, on the cloud with his mother.
He was the cycle. Unafraid to fall.
250 words
krvanhorn@bsky.social
Magnetic. That was the simplest word to describe him. People were drawn to him, regardless of what their orientation might be. Crowds would part for him when he would enter a room and would quickly surround him, eager to get a nod, a smile, or some kind of acknowledgement. He reveled in it. He loved being the center of attention.
While that could make him arrogant and a pain in the ass sometimes, he was genuinely good at heart. Inexplicably, she was immune to his magnetism that drew in everyone else. Because of that, she saw past it to the person –well, the being—underneath. He was one of the four fundamental forces of nature. Literally, he’d been a force of nature since before time began. Everything made so much more sense once she found out the truth about him.
It didn’t hurt that Elilarasan had the whole tall, dark, and handsome thing going for him. She wasn’t blind, he was one of the most attractive men she had ever seen, but unlike all the sycophants that gathered around him, she chose to by his side because she actually cared about him.
“You really can’t stop it, can you?” she asked.
“Not without disrupting the universe,” he replied, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Although it can be fun. Yes, I rather like being able to do this.” Elil ran his hand over the back of her head and used his magnetism to pull the pins from her hair.
249 words
@MLGammella
#ThursThreads Week 642 is now CLOSED. Thanks to everyone who wrote this week and I hope to catch you next week.