Welcome back to the home of #ThursThreads. Wow. Year 11. Holy smokes! Y’all kept with me past a decade. I’m astounded.
Today is Thursday and that means it’s time to start flashing, like we have for the past 11 years. I had no idea when I started it would keep going! This is Week 592 of #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
- 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 592:
Computer geek, bass player, historical reenactor, and flash fiction writer, Mary Decker.
Facebook | Bluesky | MeWe | Instagram |
And now your #ThursThreads Challenge, tying tales together.
The Prompt:
“What if I don’t do it?”
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!
Lauren peered up at the leaden sky and her shoulders slumped. If she was to climb the volcano today it had the highest probability of getting messy. She closed her eyes before taking a long draught of her not so hot chocolate.
‘What you thinking about?’ Charlie asked as he swung around the corner into her room. Lauren silently cursed for not locking the hotel room.
‘Was just looking at the weather. It’s gonna be so damn wet.’
Charlie shook his head. ‘How many times? I mean look at all the green out there. The clue is in the name for Chris’s sake.’
Lauren hated Charlie sometimes. This was one of those time. ‘Just say Christ for Chris’s sake.’ She cursed again at herself for falling into the Charlie trap. ‘And yes, I know it’s a rain forest.’
Charlie sprawled over the sofa, wondering why his room wasn’t so plush. He’d never get such an upgrade without money changing hands.
Fully clothed, bar her walking boots, Lauren threw herself on the bed. ‘What if I don’t do it?’ She seemed to address the slowly spinning ceiling fan.
There was Charlie’s familiar sigh. ‘It’s your bucket list baby. To climb a volcano was numero uno of fifty, yeah?’
‘Yes. I’ve always wanted to.’
‘Well we’re here. The volcano is just out there and we leave tomorrow. But if you don’t do it the bucket list will remain untouched after three years of inclement weather.’
Lauren shrugged. ‘Okay, what’s on the telly?’
————
WC: 250
Bluesky/ Twitter/ Insta: @zevonesque
So glad to have you back again, A.J. 🙂
Above the Surface
Next morning, a bright September sun shooting heat bullets, Danny parked in the dock parking lot, got out of his car, surveyed the private wharf that reached out into the sea like a wooden walkway to wonder.
A prairie boy originally, raised on oceans of undulating wheat fields, he was, these past few years on the coast, ever riveted by sparkling water rippling lightly, waves ceaselessly on a roll.
A voice off to his side said, “Always grabs me too…”
He glanced sideways, saw the speaker, hefty woman, jeans, jacket, Captains cap, somewhere between fifty and eighty, sociable smile that enhanced the morning. “Jesse Weyburn. New here?”
“Just checking it out,” he said, adding, “Dan Hawkins. Here about the recent drowning…”
“Old Hobie…yes. Shame about that.”
“You knew him?”
“Sure did,” smile getting greater. “Shared many a tall tale with Hobie. What’s your interest?”
Danny couldn’t see the harm in a bit of truth-telling. “Daughter hired me to take a look.”
“Poor Maisie. Couldn’t believe he just tripped and fell.”
“You saw it?”
“Wasn’t here. But he was getting wobbly of late. You should save her the heartbreak. Tell her it wasn’t anything but a stupid accident.”
“What if I don’t do it? I mean, who’s to say? You weren’t here. She deserves the truth.”
“Truth,” Jesse said. “This is 1961. I read the papers everyday. Radio as well. What the hell is the truth? If we make it to tomorrow, that’s the only truth I’ll know.”
250 WIP
@billmelaterplea
Briona expected at least one more snowstorm, but hopefully it would hold off until she was done with her patrol.
She slid into her SUV, grateful even the weak sun had warmed the interior, and started her drive through town. No one looked out of place as she passed the clinic where Triss had an appointment at the end of the week. Hopefully, they would’ve caught Castelucci by then so Triss could finish her pregnancy without undue stress.
She made it past the turnoff to Beckett’s Christmas Tree Farm and tried not to think of the lovely time she’d spent with Triss in her bed. They’d been so comfortable and relaxed. They’d been able to just be together with nothing intruding or making things difficult. Briona had even allowed herself to imagine being a couple and dream of ‘what-if?’
I don’t do it easily—reality is too dark.
Except, for those couple of days, it wasn’t. It was bright with promise and hope and new beginnings.
Briona shook her head and continued past Chip’s Burgers and Cherry’s Pies, crossing Conifer Ave. She kept a careful eye out at the Spring House B&B. Could one of the vehicles in the parking lot belong to Castelucci? She didn’t see anyone walking around so she kept driving, turning onto Birch Ave as she slid past the grocery store and Scratchin’ Gravel Bike Rental & Repair. She slowed enough to scan the parking lot of the market, but again, didn’t see anyone suspicious.
250 ineligible #SummitSprings words
@SiobhanMuir at Bluesky
Julius leaned over the body. It was cold and unresponsive with no sign that it would ever change again. An ordinary man would walk away, hoping no-one had seen him beside it. It was inevitable that the authorities would ask questions if anyone had seen them, judging them on what the witnesses had thought had occurred.
“Well?” Tyler asked. “Are you going to revive it? If we can get it working again it’ll be worth more than we’d get for it as scrap.”
“I don’t know,” Julius said. “What if I don’t do it? It’d be simpler if I didn’t. There’d be less risk if we strip it for parts and plug its brain into a new chassis. We could get the best of both worlds – a little immediate cash with the promise of a big payday to come.”
Lois Jackman said nothing. Without attention she’d remain offline forever, her presidential duties suspended for another few days. After that, the Agency would bring out another, substituting it for the one that they’d disabled and stunned. The public at large would never know the difference, a couple of days of missed appointments the only hint something had been wrong.
“What do you think she’ll be thinking? Assuming she’s still conscious inside. I’ve heard that they have backups. Enough charge to keep their neurons alive.”
“It’s better we don’t think about that.” Julius lifted the body by its arms, groaning when he took its full weight. “At least, not for a while.”
250 words – twothirdzrasta.blogspot.com
I stood in the kitchen. It was dark outside. Everyone in the house had gone to bed. Except me. I stood there, and looked at the kitchen sink. That sink was the perfect description of life to me. It never ended. It never let up. I never got to rest. I never got a break. I had to clear the dishes, the pots, the pans, the silverware, the glasses, and all the rest, from the kitchen sink every night.
Every night.
“What if I don’t do it?”
I don’t know how many nights I’d thought that. Or how many times I’d thought that on any single night. But there the thought was, again.
“What if I leave the dishes where they are?”
And that damned voice in my head answered me, “Then there will be more dishes to deal with tomorrow. And if you don’t deal with them tomorrow, there will be even more dishes on the day after tomorrow.”
I stared at the damned dishes. I wanted to go to bed. To lie down and cover myself under the blankets, and get warm, and sleep. I wanted to hide from everything. And sleep for a week. Or more. To sleep until I felt better about everything.
“The longer you let them sit, the worse it will get.”
I hated the voice in my head sometimes. That night, as I forced myself to wash the dishes for the millionth time, I wished I could shut that voice up forever.
249 Words
@mysoulstears.bksy.social
“Let me ask you though,” the desire to pushback overtaking common preservation. “What if I don’t?”
“Do it? Are you insane?” The corner of hip lips snarls, and he evaluates me as if I were someone he’d never seen before not a person he’s known since I was an infant.
He draws closer, and the smell of the dank cheese he ate for breakfast wafts over me and I fight the revolt of my stomach. I grit my teeth, pushing the thick part of my tongue to the back of my throat. My eyes water from the heavy tension. I shouldn’t be here. But life has taught me that it’s not always fair, and we make of it what we can.
Or we die.
It’s not my time to head out.
In my hand, the shovel grows heavier. My palms ache from the blisters swelling over blisters. The wind picks up, sending a much-needed cool breeze over my shoulders, whipping strands of hair across my face. I stretch my back, knowing the movement pushes out my chest and his gaze draws downward.
All it takes is a quick twist of my waist, and I’m swinging the metal head upward rather than into the soil in his quest for treasure. A thunk resounds as the vibrations travel down my arms. He staggers backward, blood streaming between his fingers as he attempts to stem the flow.
“You bitch!”
Thwap. The second strike finishes knocking him down. I drop the shovel and run.
@LouisaBacio
250 words
#ThursThreads is now CLOSED. Thanks to everyone who wrote this week and I hope to catch you next week.