#ThursThreads – Tying Tales Together – Week 451

Welcome back to the home of Paranormal & Dauntless Romance. Today is Thursday and that means it’s time to start flashing. We’re at the beginning of our ninth year of weekly prompts. It’s amazing we’ve gone this long! This is Week 451 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 451:

Patricia Oak

Florida girl and reader, Patricia Oak.

And now your #ThursThreads Challenge, tying tales together.

The Prompt:

“I think you’ll make 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!

17 Replies to “#ThursThreads – Tying Tales Together – Week 451”

  1. Sade held onto her temper with scrabbling fingernails, figuratively speaking. She favored Jean-Louis with a glower. He offered a Gallic shrug in return.

    “I think you’ll make it.”

    “You think? Color me not impressed—or encouraged.” Sade didn’t bother hiding the bite of sarcasm in her voice.

    “It is not like we can control things.”

    “You’re Interpol.”

    “You are FBI. How much control can you assert?”

    “Okay. Good point.”

    “Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

    Sade rolled her eyes. “Do I have a choice?”

    The vampire considered his answer far longer that he should have. “I suppose not, given the circumstances.” He clasped his hands in his lap and studied them, not looking up as he continued. “What is your fascination with this dragon?”

    She snorted. “It’s not fascination on my part.”

    “Then what is it? You are quite dogged in your pursuit of this case.”

    “It’s a matter of self-preservation.” She studied the Interpol agent. “And it’s a matter of truth and justice.”

    “You think he is guilty.” Jean-Louis’s flat voice insinuated he believed Sade had already made up her mind about guilt or innocence, because she was human and the dragon was a powerful magick.

    “You think you know everything.”

    “I don’t?”

    “Dude, you don’t have a fucking clue.”

    The car slammed to a stop. Sade grabbed her backpack and opened the car door. As she dashed for the train, she yelled, “Tell Caleb I’ll see him on the other side.”
    ****
    250 Penumbra Paper WIP words
    @SilverJames_

  2. Death is Not a Cliché

    I’d planted the seed. One body: maybe a disposal problem. Two bodies: a complex conundrum of removal tribulation.

    I couldn’t trust Skippy the Gunsel to be quick enough to take my unveiled hints. I needed to jump in the pool.

    “Look,” I said, trying to sound smarter than I’ve ever sounded before, “We want the same things. Find out who killed Mona’s mother and totally forget that Wick Waters ever lived. I can help you with both.”

    My outburst had some frail assumptions holding it up. I was assuming Skippy and Mona hadn’t snuffed Helen Monterey and that killing me would only guarantee I would be forgetting that old Wick was ever a thing.

    That wouldn’t save their bacon.

    While I was jumping through these various mental survival hoops, Mona had started to get her murderous thinking cap revved up.

    “Skippy, maybe he’s right. Maybe he can help us…”

    My eyes darted between the two of them, looking for my options.

    Finally, I played my ace in the hole.

    “Look you two, you ever heard the saying ‘I know where the bodies are buried?’”

    Skippy looked like he wanted to say something, but his tongue was out of shape.

    “Let me be crystal clear, guys. I think you’ll make it. But you need me. You kill a cop, you need someone like me to full your fat out of the fire.”

    ”ENOUGH with the clichés,” Mona screamed. “I hate clichés.”

    I sensed a breakthrough.

    250 WIP
    @billmelaterplea

  3. The slow, screeching of metal crushing metal was hard to bare. So was the invading dark–the empty void of air and known time outside Doyle2. Electric lights flickered, exposed wires hung from the ceiling, and the steady spurt of salt water rose swiftly.

    “Fuck!”

    Even meters away, Ayrah saw the gash over her botanist’s right eye. His face was absent of his typical cheerful flush, his body shaking as he fought to hold himself upright. He wasn’t made of the right stuff to be twenty-five kilometers deep.

    She had to shout above the din. “Steady, Jim. Don’t shift your weight.”

    He spoke to the rising water. “Doyle2’s lost his footing. That creature…” A visible shudder ran through him. “We’re toddling on a needle tip.” He looked over at her now, his features set. “If anyone could make it…” He glanced toward the far hall, an uphill battle, where the research pods were kept, and only a few steps from where Ayrah stood. “Go. I think you’ll make it.”

    Doyle2 creaked and slid further toward the underwater trench. Outside the failing steel walls, nature’s monster bellowed louder than whale call.

    “Something so beautiful is so ugly,” Jim whispered.

    Another creak, another shift. More water.

    She was about to make her move. A long wire to her right. A broken beam. Pull him to her. “I might be able to make it Jim, but if I go, you go.”

    “Don’t, Ayrah!”

    “Oh, Jim. Trying is a good way to die.”

    250 words “The Accident” by @AngoraShade

  4. I heard the voice say, “I think you’ll make it.”

    And so what if I hear that I’m going to live some more when so many others aren’t? What if you go on living and no one’s left you can live with?

    These are the questions you ask yourself when you get old and you can’t stand to look at the newspaper anymore because you’ll see names there you recognize from when you were young. Or worse, when you weren’t.

    Began happening in my late teens, but those were accidental checkouts – firearm mishaps, car crashes, war, lightning strikes, mountains falling on them. I was going to say “Could happen to anybody,” until I remembered those.

    Then parents started dropping all around me, which I recognize is the natural course of things. No one gets out here upright.

    But it was observing the minds, bodies of some of them going sour, like they’d passed their sell-by dates, that caused me to stare at the mayonnaise at the bottom of my own jar and notice it separating.

    Then you begin losing your peers, your friends, loved ones, and loss, doubts, pain work you over more than time has. That’s when your mirror becomes like the window through which you watched all those “old” folks fail.

    “I said I think you’ll make it.”

    I know. But the bread’s moldy and the shelves are bare. Nothing to make it with anymore. It really does go dark and cold once they shut that door.

    250 Probably “un”-fictional Writer’s Block’d words
    @JAHesch

  5. No matter how many people tell you and no matter how often you tell yourself, nothing prepares you for the twenty-fourth mile of a marathon. The New York City Marathon is a series of slight hills—chiefly on the larger bridges—and long stretches flanked by untold numbers of people cheering you. They will call out your name if you have it on the front but what sounds like a good idea in Brooklyn has long since gone out of fashion by the Bronx, at the twenty-mile mark.

    That’s when the wheels begin to fall off and you somehow slog. 21. 22. 23. You turn into the park and painted in blue on the roadway, right behind the Metropolitan Museum, is “24.” While it is difficult to do the calculation, just a bit over two miles remain. But the wheels. Did I mention how far back the wheels came off?

    A bit over two miles to go. It might as well have been a thousand. It’s where I stopped.

    It happened be atop the slightest of hills and a woman stood to the side. A stranger. I don’t know if I was the first and I doubt I was the last person she said this to, but it was simple. “I think you’ll make it.”

    I was bent over but looked at her and looked ahead of me. I nodded and started moving. Soon I was running. Slowly. But running.

    I never could thank her. She was right.

    “Mile 24,” by Joseph P. Garland, 248 words @JPGarlandAuthor

  6. Eva reached into the canister, adjusting the harness so it wouldn’t crush his chest when he launched.

    Like a mother, with her firstborn, her love for him unspoken, given with no thought for herself.

    He wondered if she had a family below on the planet, a parade of children ascending from tiny to full grown. They’d never had the time to discuss families or romance, the revolution taking away everything from almost everyone but the slightest hints of hope.

    “You’ll be careful, won’t you?” She eyed the statuses on the miniature console in the pod. There was one indicator flashing amber – the fuel cell’s capacity. Although, there was still enough charge in the accumulator to land safely if he could avoid the defences. But if any of the laser batteries got a fix on him, he would never know. There would be a brief flash and he would be gone; a cloud of ionised dust, nothing more.

    “I’ve the amulet you gave me.” Jack lifted it from his chest and gave it a kiss. He gave her a wink and leaned in toward her hand, wanting to prolong this moment.

    “I think you’ll make it. I KNOW you’ll make it. The Saints will protect you, same as they did my father. We’ll be together in a few weeks: You know that’s the truth.” She hit the launch control and then turned away, unable to watch him leave.

    His chances would be negligible at best. But hers were virtually zero.

    250 words ~ twothirdsrasta.blogspot.com

  7. Henry shuffled his feet and wiped the palms of his hands down the length of his smock. He was cold, they took his usual uniform.

    Uniform. Like he was a respected somebody or something.

    “I feel like I did what I was supposed to, you know? To make it up to everybody.”

    Bill nodded. “I know, Henry. You’ve done all you can, it’s not up to you anymore.”

    “It’s not fair. But then again, it’s about as fair as it gets. I cheated at the table so they cashed me out.”

    “That’s right Henry, you’re even-up now. That’s all a man can do.”

    “In about ten minutes, I’ll see it, know it. That’s something, right, Bill? In ten minutes, I’ll be witness to something grand.”

    “You’re as prepared as you can be. And I’m jealous of you, I really am.”

    “Because I’m going to paradise, right, Bill?”

    “That’s right Henry, you are. Hey, put in a good word for me, will ya?”

    Bill laughed, Henry beamed.

    There was a commotion, both men looked up.

    The Warden grumbled, “It’s time, Henry. Sorry, Reverend, this is as far as you go.”

    Henry stood as they shackled him, he looked back at the only friend he had in this world. “Think they’ll let me in? After what I done?”

    Bill winked, “I think you’ll make it.”

    Bill was lying. Henry saw it, though he pretended he didn’t. Men like Henry John Callahan don’t go to paradise.

    Not after what he done.
    ***
    248 words
    Twitter @J_Thomas_Ganzer

  8. Tamara flinched and shot a guilty look back at the doors. “I was coming out of the bathroom when I heard shots and screams. The people from upstairs had found their way to the underground labs and were gathering everyone up. I think they killed one of the guards.” She started to cry. “I used the confusion to run down the hallway to the tunnel entrance and came here. I don’t know how long we have until they follow me.”

    Wilcox’s eyes narrowed as she took in Tamara’s story, but eventually she nodded and dropped her weapon. “Then we better get all of you to safety.”

    Chester swallowed. “How are we going to do that? Won’t they follow us?”

    “Not if they don’t know which way we’ve gone.” Wilcox headed for Tessa. “Come on, Tessa. It’s time to get going.”

    But the guard shook her head. “No. Get everyone who can walk down the tunnel to Building Three. It’s the least populated from what I understand and the research there won’t help anyone who wants to do harm.”

    Captain Wilcox snorted as she wrapped an arm under Tessa’s shoulders. “Anything requiring research can be warped for someone’s megalomaniacal purposes. But I don’t leave anyone behind. I think you’ll make it.”

    Tessa groaned as she got her feet under her. “Not with these wounds. I’ll just slow you down.”

    “It’s not really about speed this time. The goal is to get everyone out without injuries or engagement. So up you come.”

    250 ineligible #Sirens words
    @SiobhanMuir

  9. “I think you’ll make it.” I heard sarcastically everyday from my parents (while drinking just about every penny that came in the house) when I complained that I was hungry; or for anything else I wanted or needed.
    Six finger discounting everything from food to clothing I did that until I was fifteen and got my first job( half of it going to my mom.)
    Working myself to the bone; spending as much time as I could at school. the rest at work after hours using their WIFI and the second-hand laptop a kind teacher bestowed on me. I slept about four hours a night between my two jobs and school. I was on track for a scholarship at one of the big schools.
    I left my fast-food job around one having completed the essay that was due tomorrow I could print it at seven when school opened. I stepped into the parking lot walking to the sidewalk when a car came out of nowhere mounted the curb and then hit me head on.
    When I awoke, I couldn’t move.
    “I think you’ll make it; you’ll may never be able to walk again; but I think you could still have a wonderful life,” the doctor said.
    I took it as challenge; all my life my parents had said the same and I’d overcome it. I can walk with canes now and I just graduated Harvard. My parents are in rehab (we’ll see how long that takes) so life is good.
    250 words
    @SweetSheil

  10. “Havin’ trouble, Cat?”

    Hunter Lee’s loud laugh shook the floor of the sweltering sanctum at the forbidden temple’s heart. Ears pivoting investigatively and one hand resting lightly on the intricately tiled floor, Caitlin Nicole Kinnery waited for the room to settle before mrowling discontentedly. She circled back to the doorway where her human rival had finally caught up to her.

    “Wait,” Hunter sobered to scrutinize the spacious chamber with a golden idol on the pedestal at its center. “Somethin’ is wrong?”

    Cat stepped out of her boots in the hallway outside the sanctum, then laid her coat and hat on top of them. Hunter’s hand flew to his machete.

    “Oh? We’re havin’ our blue now?”

    Laying her cutlass and pistol with the rest of her effects, the petite pirate bolted for the pedestal. Hunter dashed after her, just missing the pause that allowed him to reach over her head and grab the idol first. The sanctum fell from under them in a thunder of crumbling stone and clanging of chains no longer suspending the floor.

    Hunter hooked a foot in one of the chains in time to avoid following his broad brimmed hat into the lava pool below. Cat slid easily down an adjacent chain and reached out for the idol.

    “Pass me the statuette and ye can go about rightin’ yerself.”

    Hunter crossed his broad arms dourly over his glistening chest.

    “You’re gonna take the treasure and leave me here, aren’t you?”

    Cat purred, “I think you’ll make it.”

    250 Cat’s The Pajamas words
    @DavidALudwig

  11. “Stop saying that. If you just take a few deep breaths and calm yourself, it won’t look so bad.” Carrie glanced up from slicing carrots at her daughter Josie. “If you put your mind to it, I think you can make it happen. That’s what you’ve done with everything else in your life. Why should this be any different?”

    Josie chewed on her lower lip, tears glistening in her big, heavenly blue eyes so like her father’s. “Because if I do and win, Dani will hate me. She told me she would.”

    Dani. Josie’s best “friend”. The teen had attached herself to Josie on day one of high school. Nothing Carrie said could convince her daughter to shake her loose of that hold, much to her daughter’s detriment. This was one of many times Dani had used Josie to get what she wanted.

    Carrie ripped a stalk of celery of the rib, rinsed it, slammed it on the cutting board, and imagined it was Dani she chopped. The smell of brimstone tickled her nose. She flicked her gaze to her daughter, but Josie was distracted with her own problems. Taking a deep, calming breath, Carrie counted to 10.

    Better.

    “That’s not how friends work,” Carrie said. “Friends support each other and cheer each other on.”

    Josie hung her head. “I know, but there’s only one spot left in honor choir. Mrs. Saunders encouraged me to try out, but—Dani really wants in.”

    “Why?” Carrie transferred the chopped vegetables to the salad bowl and tossed them with the lettuce.

    “Well—Aidan Martinez joined.” Pink color bloomed in Josie’s cheeks.

    Ah . . . a boy. That explained it. The little bitch was protecting what she considered her territory. If only Carrie could make that girl disappear.

    She sighed. It was forbidden. Modern times made things so much harder.

    “Are you trying out for him?”

    “Mom!” Josie’s eyes flashed red with indignation. “I’d never do that.”

    “Then try out.” She handed the bowl to Josie to put on the table.

    “But—” Josie clasped the bowl close to her chest.

    “If Dani gets in, does that mean Aidan will like her?”

    “Well . . . no.” She hung her head. “He likes me. When I told Dani that, she went a little crazy, said that I was lying, but it’s true. He said so.” A tentative smile curled up her lips.

    Of course, he did. Her daughter was half demon/half angel and beautiful. Sadly, her personality leaned more toward angelically impossibly sweet with no hint of her mother’s demon side. Maybe someday . . .

    Carrie cupped her daughter’s cheek. “So, you’ll have to choose, my dear. You can be miserable or try out for choir. Maybe Dani will relent.”

    “Do you think so?”

    Carrie turned away from her daughter and smiled a secret, little smile. “Oh, I do.”

    #477 words

    I’m over so not eligible for the award, but this was fun to write. Good luck, everyone!

    @marcibaun

  12. I cannot believe that my boss is sitting on my couch, complaining about a skinned knee. Normally he could heal himself, except he went and got himself suspended from the Afterlife and lost all his powers.

    “It has been centuries since my last injury,” Horace says. He hisses when I swipe a cotton ball soaked in peroxide over the wound. “That hurts.”

    Rolling my eyes, I blow on it to dry it and then put a dinosaur band aid over the worst of the scrape. Standing, I go into the kitchen to wash my hands, then return to see him examining his bandage.

    “I think you’ll make it,” I tell him, putting a clothespin on the bag of cotton balls. “So how long is your punishment?”

    “Three days,” he says, frowning. “Dinosaurs were never pink.”

    “Anything to keep the kids interested,” I say. “Besides, how do you know?”

    He glances at me. “Many of my friends predate me. And God can tell you about the dinosaurs.”

    “Huh. I suppose he can. Well, since you’re staying, what do you want for supper?”

    Horace’s stomach growls. He has this strange affinity for my pancakes when he’s the One True Death. I wonder if he’s eaten anything in his immortal years than my pancakes. He grins.

    “Fine. Pancakes. But from here on out, I plan the meals. We are not having pancakes every day.”

    He grins wider, his scraped knee forgotten. If pancakes will make him happy, we’ll have pancakes. Immortals, I swear.

    @Aightball
    250 words

  13. -18 degrees with a 20-mph wind.
    Freezing cold!
    I bundled up with 2 pair of socks, thermals, sweats, long sleeve shirt, sweatshirt, gaiter, stocking cap, a fuzzy bear hat, leather insulated gloves, and an Arctic parka–only my eyes showed.
    My husband, who was down with the flu, looked worried, but said, “I think you’ll make it. Just don’t dally out there in that wind.”
    I hefted a one-pound bag of dog food, a gallon of water, and a clean bowl to the front door and stood, knowing that as soon as I opened the door, heat would drain from the house.
    For 500 feet, I trudged against the wind to the dilapidated house across the street where a stray dog had pups in the crawl space. I ducked under the porch.
    “Pretty Lady, I brought your food and water.”
    I removed the frozen water bowl I had brought her only six hours earlier. In its place, I scooted the new bowl in and poured water in it. I opened the little sack of food and filled the empty bowl of dog food. “Okay, Little Lady, I’m heading home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    She stuck her head out of the foundation but growled and pulled back when I reached to touch her.
    “Maybe next time.”
    Wind pushed me back home, embedding the snow in my clothes.
    When I opened the door, my husband looked relieved. “You are a sight for sore eyes. Come here, my little snow angel.”
    249 words
    pattydump@embarqmail.com

  14. #ThursThreads Week 451 is now CLOSED. Thanks to everyone who wrote this week and I hope to catch you next week.

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