Welcome back to the home of #ThursThreads for Week 648. 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 648:
Cat wrangler, master violinist, and Tea connoisseur, Muirlette #1.
And now your #ThursThreads Challenge, tying tales together.
The Prompt:
“And I am speechless.”
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!
Warriors In The Round
Me and the boys, we’d get together every couple of days down at Delany’s Coffee Bistro. Used to be called Delany’s Café but Jack Delany got fancy a few years ago and we didn’t mind going to a chichi joint. Anyways, we’d been together for over sixty years, all coming from the same neighbourhood, knowing the same things, shared history, knowing each others BS, living cheek to jowl you might say even if some of us moved away for a time, and others, well, they went to the big coffee shack in the sky…or in the other direction.
It was a fine Canadian morning, not too much rain when Goose Buckner stood up and started pontificating.
“Buddies, we Canucks are in a fine pickle, what with the Orange Man doing what he’s doing, saying…it’s all too much and I am speechless…” and Goose paused, and we knew that the last thing he was was speechless, “But mostly I am gobsmacked. There. I said it. Gobsmacked.”
Sixty years hadn’t diminished Goose’s Valedictorian speechifying.
“We have to unite, my brothers.”
With that Goose sat down and we waited. You understand we were and are a mix of political entities. Oly Onasen comes from a commie fishing family and Blink Yokel is more right-wing than a one-winged Yankee Eagle.
Next couple of hours we tossed around what we might do to save Canada.
We finally agreed we’d get together in two days and do some more thinking.
And speechifying.
250 Words
@billmelaterplea
“And I am speechless.”
“There is no need for sarcasm, Sade.”
She rolled her eyes at the vampire. “Of course there is. I mean, we are talking about Ariel.”
Caleb stared into the foamy head of his beer. “She has a point, Sinjen. Don’t get me wrong. Ariel and I have had our…disagreements—”
Sade burst out laughing. “Disagreements? Correct me if I’m wrong but didn’t you—in wolf form—chase him up an oak tree?”
Grinning, Caleb nodded. “True. But you were sixteen and he was attempting…well…” He cut his eyes to Sinjen. “You know. The best part was that he cut through that patch of poison ivy to get to the tree.”
Sinjen closed his eyes. “I suspect I should be grateful we did not meet until much later.”
His statement was met with an arched brow from Sade. “Like you haven’t had your own run-ins with the fae. I mean, I like Ari too but he brings a lot of this on himself. And now he’s off sulking.”
A pensive expression crossed Sinjen’s face. “You are human, Sade, with free will. Caleb was raised with you rather than under the rule of a werewolf pack alpha. Ari is fae. He owes his very existence to King Oberon. Neither of you understand what this is like. To know that another has the literal power of life or death over you, who can command your every breath.”
“That would suck,” Sade said. “No pun intended.”
“It does, indeed.”
****
250 random Penumbra Papers future WIP words
Silver James (silverjames.com)
We had the best country, or so we thought, but our government failed to do its job. It plundered; robbing our treasury. The peasants couldn’t buy seeds to grow the crops, or food to feed our animals. We butchered what animals we had so we didn’t starve. We acted like good little citizens, while the elite ,the governing class dined on the best foods, put money in their coffers and flaunted their wealth, while some peasants serving them survived. They came for the socialists, the trade unionists, and for the Jews– putting them all in camps. We knew that we would go there too if we were caught, but still some of us rebelled. We ran secret plans to defeat our government. We fought on while others died. Other countries fought with us and against us. I have never relented, never collaborated despite hunger strife and torture. I have been taken to a camp. I’ll die here, but I will fight to my last breath. I’ve been tortured for months until finally, I hear fighting. The Americans have saved us from Dachau.
Time has passed. I live in the United States now, I can see it beginning all again. They came for the immigrants, they cut off funds for food and the neediest and now they are speaking of putting the ill ones in camps, as did my government. They are escalating their plans every day. And I am speechless. I can’t believe its beginning again. History repeats itself.
@SweetSheil bluesky and twitter 249 words
Mrs. Lipscomb had told me that she’d give me as much paint as I needed and a canvas as big as a wall, but until she opened the door to the art supply room after school and showed me where my supplies – my supplies – were, and then walked away, I thought she was kidding.
Now I stand in front of a blank whiteness as tall as I am, a rainbow of magic next to me, the air thick with the scent of pigment and solvent, and I am speechless. I could paint anything. There is so much potential here that I feel like I should be afraid.
What if I do it wrong?
But as soon as the thought comes to mind it floats away. There isn’t wrong here, not as long as I let the images come and lose myself in the act of translating them from my mind to the canvas. Maybe what I do won’t be liked by anyone, but it won’t be wrong.
I pick up the first tube of color to my left, a deep scarlet, and I see it on the canvas, blending into greys and blacks and a bright blue, as deep as midnight, and without choosing to start, I’ve already begun.
The paint feels cold on my fingers, cold and alive. The canvas is rough, but I cover it and make it smooth with the story in my mind.
I may be speechless, but I am not voiceless.
246 words
@drmag00.bsky.social
There I was, talking with her at lunch. “And that’s what I want to do on vacation this year.” She finished speaking, paused, and then hit me with these words. “What do you want to do on vacation this year?”
I’m sure I had that deer-in-the-headlights look on my face. It was something I never thought about. I hadn’t gotten to the topic of vacation yet. That was someplace in the future. You know. The future. That nebulous thing that magically shows up one day, and leaves you in a panic, thinking endlessly to yourself, “What the heck do I do now?”
“And, I am speechless,” I mumbled.
“How can you not know? It’s your vacation. You only get one vacation a year. A chance to escape from the drudgery of work! A chance to hang up the phone for two weeks! To go where you want to go! Eat what you want to eat! You could even sing karaoke at a cheap bar somewhere. For crying out loud! You need a plan!”
“Well…” I mumbled, again. “I have a plan.”
“And what is that? Wake up on vacation and say, ‘What am I going to do today?’ Is that your plan?”
“No. See. I have her. And she has a plan. So, I don’t need one.”
“You have no idea what you’ll be doing on vacation, do you?”
“Whatever she wants. And that’s the beauty of it. I get to be surprised the whole time.”
249 Words (Per Google Write)
@mysoulstears.bsky.social
No job avoids the curse of meetings. Even in the Death industry, meetings are a necessary evil. They’re just as boring as the ones on earth, and accomplish about as much, too. The Death Council needs to provide updates on new policies, and since the departed go any number of directions upon crossing over, this meeting is a particularly large one.
“Let us begin.”
The Council is a unified voice, comprised of three souls who have crossed over but remain tethered to the place they died. Because hauntings are frowned on, these souls entered into Limbo and then onto the Council. It’s the one body that doesn’t change much, since it can take years for their deaths to be resolved. They speak with one voice and it’s generally inadvisable to cross them.
“The first new rule is that no soul can visit their family once they have crossed over.”
Right away, someone has a question. I don’t recognize this department head, but the Council clarifies their rule. The next few regard the business side of Death. And then they get to the final one.
“Due to the pending retirement of the One True Death, Horace Hergendschmidt, the Council has declared that the family tree shall decide the next successor. The One True Death shall have no say in this process.”
“Objection!” Horace shouts.
And I am speechless. No, really. Wait, did my eyes roll?
“Chambers.” The Council disappears and takes Horace with them.
Good luck, Horace.
@Aightball
246 words
Anyone would be terrified, caught alone in the woods with a supervillain. And I am. Speechless, I scrunch up as small as I can and pray he doesn’t notice me.
Oh, yeah, and the supervillain in question? Grim Gardener. Yep, the plant guy. In the middle of a forest. I would NOT want to be the superhero who gets this call, yet here I am in the middle of it as a mere civilian. I doubt my bear spray would do much against a sentient tree.
Grim’s been communing with the plants one by one for the last hour and a half. My legs have gone to sleep twice. My stomach’s doing summersaults, which could more than easily be nerves. It sticks in my mind that I don’t know how his control over plants works. I remember reading that the more time he spends on it, the stronger the results.
My cabin’s only three miles east of here. What I wouldn’t give for an opening to move that direction—preferably with Grim going west. I really hope Bob and Fluffy haven’t taken any frustrations with a late dinner out on the furniture.
192 PRUDENT words
@davidaludwig.bsky.social
𝘓𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘗𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘺
Fifty-three years old and still lying to impress people I don’t even know that well. I stare into the bathroom mirror, expecting revelation. I just look like me. Disappointing.
Back out to the party. They laugh, maybe knowing the story’s fake. Maybe that’s the secret. Maybe I should write it down.
Integrity is invisible. Easy to fake. I help a woman load potatoes into her trunk. No witnesses. It still counts.
At the gas station, I hold the door open. A guy walks through like I don’t exist. I tell myself I don’t care. Then someone says, ‘Thanks, man.’ And I care.
At work, I scroll through kitten pictures instead of meeting a deadline. Every like gives a stranger dopamine. That makes me a philanthropist. When coworkers panic, I get myself some coffee. A calm presence in chaos. Leadership.
When another coworker vents at my desk, I nod, frown, plan my reply. Later, I’ll say I was listening. Maybe I was.
At seven, I give fifty bucks to a charity I see on TV. Then I order takeout. Balance.
At eight-thirty, I call my mom just because. She sounds happy. I imagine she goes to bed with a smile. At eleven, I drink whisky. The next morning, I get a twelve-month chip and applause.
And I’m speechless when the guy calls me a model of consistency.
“Consistency,” I repeat, like I’m hearing it for the first time.
People laugh, thinking I’m humble. Maybe I am.
245 words.
@krvanhorn (Bluesky & X)
#ThursThreads Week 648 is now CLOSED. Thanks to everyone who wrote this week and I hope to catch you next week.