Welcome back to the home of Weird, Wild, & Wicked Tales. Today is Thursday and that means it’s time to start flashing. We’re almost to the end of our eighth year of weekly prompts! This is Week 406 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 Twitter handle or email in the post (so we don’t have to look for 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, Twitter, MeWe, and Google Plus, etc.
Our Judge for Week 406:
Typo Sniper, author, and #MenageMonday host, Cara Michaels.
Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads |
And now your #ThursThreads Challenge, tying tales together.
“Why can’t I keep you out?”
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!
12 Replies to “#ThursThreads – Tying Tales Together – Week 406”
The perk of living in the Rocky Mountains was the ability to slip out of the compound and head into the hills without anyone noticing. It also helped that I’d taken my natural form – a large red fox the size of an English mastiff.
But no one hunted foxes in this part of the Rocky Mountains, and I’d dismantled several traps meant for wolves, cougar, and coyotes in my forays into the ponderosa-clad hills. My carnivore brothers and sisters didn’t need to fear the Concrete Angels’ mountains.
Today’s sojourn into the forest had a different purpose. Talon had been hinting that I needed to make my move on Jeff, Haley Michaels’ cousin. The man was beautiful with golden brown skin, light brown eyes the color of sandalwood, and curly black hair he’d allowed to grow long enough to drape into his eyes. Every time I thought of him, my cock hardened in my jeans and my canines filled my mouth, aching to sink into the nape of his neck. The mating bite.
Why can’t I keep you out of my head?
I’d never been attracted to humans, at least not more than a quick fuck to relieve my desires. And I’d never wanted to show a human my true self.
Talon had told me Jeff was meant to be my mate. The Spirits had told her and they were never wrong. But that meant revealing who I was, a secret I’d held for centuries, and letting go wasn’t easy.
249 ineligible #ConcreteAngelsMC words
Viral Retentive Rant
Damn! He’s like a fungus in my ear.
Or maybe it’s my eye?
I don’t know. He’s a daily apparition. I can’t even eat oranges anymore. Every time I pick one of those juicy suckers up, even before I start to peel it, I see that rug of his, flipping up like Colbert’s whirly bird graphic.
Gawd, I miss that, the whole crazy ability to slice his stupidity up into satirical parts.
Some of it’s still out there, I know. It’s just the regularity. I love regularity. Knowing what’s going to happen to the minute.
I need that.
Maybe I’m the only one?
Anyways, maybe its not him.? Maybe it’s the isolation. Man, I’ve got it pretty good by some measure. I mean, I can go outside and not see a living soul.
Or a dead one.
Either way, its quiet.
I’m Canadian. Yeah, we got our political problems. Even some missteps along the way. But what we have got is a great public health system. Each province has superior leaders. Health leaders. They are working tickety-boo with the politicians.
And then I see you know who.
That bright Dr Fauci.
Fauci knows his stuff.
Everything he says smacks of the straight goods.
And then what’s his face opens his yap.
I’m thinking, “Donnie. You know dick.
Why can’t I keep you out of my brain?
Why don’t you get a big fat burger and self-isolate?”
250 words of quite possibly the greatest closest truth to fiction ever.
Why did I even bother locking my door? Finding him sitting in my living room no longer freaked me out. No. Not sitting. Lounging. He sprawled on my couch, feet propped on my coffee table, the TV tuned to something sporty. He muted the program, watching me as I dropped my purse and keys on the hall tree before stripping out of my coat and kicking off my boots. Ignoring him, I headed to the kitchen. After an interminable day at work I wanted two things—the bottle of wine chilling in the fridge and a hot bubble bath.
He followed me, and as soon as I turned from the fridge, he snagged the bottle out of my hand. A corkscrew appeared as if by magic. I didn’t bother with a wine glass, grabbing a plastic tumbler instead. This was no time for the finer things. He smirked, damn him, but poured a healthy amount into the glass I held out. I stepped around him, still not speaking, and schlepped to the bathroom. I shut and locked the door, then realized I forgot the bottle. Opening the door, I reached out, retrieved the bottle from him, shut and locked up once more.
Ten minutes later, I was naked but for steaming water and bubbles. The door opened. Of course it did.
“Why can’t I keep you out?”
“Why would you want to?”
“Gee, let me think…because I don’t like you.”
“Why do you keep lying to yourself?”
250 random Wolf words
This is a cautionary tale heed my words.
I worked in making enough product processed as Vice President of our company. I was lucky unlike the warehouse guys (who were making a product we lied was essential), I could work from home and had been for months.
“Do we have the workers six feet apart now?” the president had asked me on the phone three months ago.
“No about three feet and then we can cram in some more workers like you said.”
A week later someone come down with the virus. A week later he was dead. Then they all started dying. I hired some more workers and gave them six feet of distance in their work space and we began producing again. Did I feel guilty? No, I wanted my bonus.
In my home office I heard a noise and saw shadows out of the corner of my eye. Ignoring them I continued working until my computer shut off and flung across the room. Yet I saw no one.
“Why can’t I keep you out?” I asked.
“Your greedy actions killed us,” the voices said one by one as fifty shadows materialized. “You took our lives for a few pieces of silver. We’ll haunt you to your dying day and then escort you to hell.”
I could have said I’d become a better person, but it was too late the shadow people would make me pay. Pray that it’s not too late for you. Change your ways now.
There was a whoosh. He felt a sudden chill and the prick of a needle against his neck. He opened his eyes and saw her face, her breath fogging up the face-plate.
“Why can’t I keep you out,” he said, peering into the gloom. “I made my decision. Three years and then I’ll give it another try. The worst should be over by then.”
“But it’s a long time. And I’ve been lonely. And you’d only just been diagnosed. You could be lucky and not have any symptoms for months.”
“But the phage doesn’t care about that. It takes everyone. I thought we’d agreed. Suspension for thirty-six months and then we reassess. It’s only been, what, three days now. You’re not saying they’ve done it already?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’m afraid not. It’s just the same as it was. Only…”
Cressida shrugged. She shuffled her feet, raising first one, and then the other. She pushed both her hands behind her back, and he knew she’d be clasping them, interlacing her fingers. She was still the same as she’d always been, a hopeless player of cards. He would only need to ask her the question; she’d not need to speak, her face the only answer he’d need.
“It’s…it’s the other thing. The thing you’d always wanted. It’s here. And I knew you’d want to know. About the news: I can hardly believe that I’m saying this, but…there’s been a Whedon event – they’re bringing Firefly back!”
249 pretty floral bonnets ~ twothirdsrasta.blogspot.com
Alu heard a knock at the door.
“Hello! Who’s there?”
She opened the door to eerie nothingness.
“Kherrist! I think I’m losing my mind” she said out loud.
She swung the door shut again, but the door sprang back, remaining ajar. She grabbed the door and pushed it shut.
“Why can’t I keep you out? I know it’s you.” Alu turned and went back into the kitchen where she was preparing dinner.
“What are you thinking? You know this can’t be happening! Get a grip for crying out loud!”
Alu had a heart transplant 6 months ago and couldn’t leave the house because she was immunocompromised. Any infection could pose a serious risk to her and her heart. A half a year of lockdown with only trips to the doctor, wearing a mask, had left her feeling lonely and isolated
Alu’s heart came from a young man her age, who died in a motorcycle accident. For weeks now, Alu wondered if she was suffering from a medication side effect because she was experiencing impulses and feelings she had never felt before, like wanting to crank up the stereo or becoming aroused thumbing through her Victoria’s Secret catalog.
These “strange things”, she called them, were so real, Alu sometimes thought her organ donor was there with her and in her thoughts. She stood over the cutting board, downed the half glass of wine and felt a pulse and warmth but was not touching herself . . . at all.
The silky black rabbit with crystal blue eyes sat upright on the kitchen table, watching Iala with twitching nose and alert ears. Iala narrowed her eyes to her steely glare that sent professional toughs running. The rabbit sat there.
“I don’t know why dad gives you the run of his garden,” the young woman sighed. “But I’m drawing the line at letting you in the house!”
Iala flipped her broom around in her hand to brandish it like her saber. The rabbit bolted. The general laughed and began searching the farmhouse for where the pest had gotten in—and hopefully, out again. Her father had left a surprising number of low windows open before his trip to the city, but she was pretty sure she’d found and latched all of them now.
Truthfully, she found her father’s little Puca quite charming. But the last thing her old man needed was a house full of rabbit droppings. Retirement agreed with him, Iala thought as she took care of housework that had piled up. Her father was much more at ease than he’d been while raising her, and she was glad to see the pastoral life he had made for himself. Even his over indulged garden pest was evidence of much deserved newfound happiness.
That didn’t mean Iala was going to tolerate the critter curled on her pillow come bedtime.
“Why can’t I keep you out?”
The rabbit raised her head and spoke with a cute girlish voice.
“’Cause I’m magic.”
A lump grew in the back of my throat, threating to choke. I fought the urge to run. This confrontation had been brewing like a pot of foaming pasta, fast and furious and threatening to bubble over.
“Why can’t I keep you out?”
“Because you know I belong in your heart, and in your life. We’re meant to be together.”
“But my brain…”
Janna reached, curling her hands around mine and bringing them forward. That magical connection we shared, that never happened with anyone else, flowed between us. How could something so right, down to the deep of my soul, possibly be bad?
“Sometimes you need to trust what your heart says,” she said.
Humph. “Easy for you to say. You’re … evil.”
That sassy brat quirked an eyebrow, and stole a half-smile from me. I felt it, that tug up on one side of my lips. I wanted to stay mad at her. I didn’t want to forgive her, to want her. Trying not to love her was a losing battle.
“Because I’m fighting on the opposite side as you? Are we really ‘enemies,’ or are we both doing the best we can with the, ah, skills we have??”
She stole. Hired henchmen. Fenced. Damn: Organized crime. My mind listed all her faults. For what though? To keep orphaned children safe and fed? To pay employees at her family’s restaurant? The conflict tore me apart.
She’d infused herself into my heart, and now she was getting into my head.
“Why can’t I keep you out?” I ask, skootching around him to put a bowl in the sink. “Especially at oh-god-o’clock.”
Horace is in his human form this morning, wearing a gold and beige plaid shirt with pearl snaps, blue jeans, and work boots.
“Are you eating?” I ask.
As The One True Death, he doesn’t need to eat, but he likes my pancakes for some reason.
“Yes, please.” He takes a plate and we sit down. “I wanted to talk to you about something that happens every century.”
“And that is?”
He puts his fork down. “I must turn the world off and back on again.”
My fork rests on my plate and I stare at him. “Like…how?”
“My father set a devastating flu upon the world in 1918.”
I have a great uncle who remembers the flu of 1918. Horace resumes eating.
“So…you have to set a plague upon the world?” I ask and he nods. “But why?”
“Things are going south. Too much greed, corruption, etc. What do you think about another flu?”
I rub my face. “Dude, for real. That’s a terrible plan.”
“Hmm. A respiratory virus?”
I grunt at him. “Resetting the world is a terrible plan!”
“I dislike those caveman noises you make, Carla. I am required to do something.”
We finish breakfast and he shrugs.
“Every hundred or so years, we must reset everything.”
He puts his dishes in the sink, then walks through the wall and disappears. Well, shit.
Every move stiffens my shoulder, but I can’t stop. The strings on my violin threaten to snap, but I know if I stop, the mage will overpower me.
Across the field, Val continues his struggle against the other rogue. They move in blurs of red and black, knives clashing in midair. I almost lose focus, watching him, worrying about him. My hand slips, but I recover. And not a moment too soon – that blip was all the mage needed. She nearly shot me with lightning before doubling over once more.
“Why…can’t I keep…you…out?” The words come out in grunts, followed by words heavy with magic. I don’t speak the language, but I feel their power pushing against me, against the influence of the music. But she’s right – she can’t keep me out. My music bleeds into her ears, infects her bones.
If only I could make it reach the rogue, but my range isn’t great. My music isn’t strong enough to affect more than one person. So I focus on her – keep her down, keep her immobile.
A cry disrupts the battle, and for a moment I think it’s Val.
I flinch and nearly stop playing when I see the knife fly through the air. It finds its home in my leg, and I fall to one knee.
“Camilla!” Val snaps the other rogue’s neck before rushing to me.
He takes the hint and dispatches her just in time for me to pass out.
250 #TeamRPG words
#ThursThreads Week 406 is now CLOSED. Thanks to everyone who wrote this week and I hope to see you next week.