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 466 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 466:
Programmer by day, writer by night, Katheryn J. Avila.
Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads |
And now your #ThursThreads Challenge, tying tales together.
“God[s]** knew he would never be a prince.”
**the plural is optional this time
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!
10 Replies to “#ThursThreads – Tying Tales Together – Week 466”
The Hopped-Up Bunnies
Both gun-totting hare-balls were quick as…well, you know. Both were tall sticks, thin, wiry, and moved with alacrity.
In a flash, they entered Henderson’s Garage. I debated next steps. Assuming I intended to take any. I committed to one act of good citizenship, quickly dialed 911, and reported a robbery in progress.
When asked for more details, like my name, I said, ‘just a good citizen who doesn’t believe the 2nd amendment intended that Bugs and friends be armed.’
Moments later, cop sirens were piercing the air. The Delivery Van gave out a grotesque honk. There was a third culprit, but I hadn’t seen him through the tinted car window glass. In any event, the two lanky Lepus lopped outside, leaped into the Van and it took off.
The cops arrived shortly after it was out of sight. By then, someone, Henderson I figured, bulky, fiftyish,, stepped outside to meet the constabulary. They chatted for a short time and then the cops hit the road.
Half an hour later, A young woman arrived, and shortly the fellow I assumed was Henderson stepped outside, lit a smoke, and leaned against his building.
I approached and asked, “You Henderson?”
He wasn’t fazed. “Yeah. Waddayawant?”
“I’ve been hired to find Henry Samuels. Have you seen him?”
“Henry Samuels? He lives with you.”
“Not lately. Who cares!”
Henderson was a cold fish.
Flat as stone.
Like he knew that God knew he would never be a prince among men.
Phinn stood at the window to his mother’s garden and watched Marbles, the tracker demon Kendra had named, chase dragonflies through the underbrush. He snorted and shook his head. If anyone had told him a few weeks before that he’d have a tracker demon as a pet, he would’ve laughed in their faces. Same if they’d told him he’d be in the Fae realm with the woman he loved.
Even if she doesn’t feel the same.
He sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. When had he fallen in love? Yes, Kendra was exceptionally beautiful to him, as well as being smart, snarky, and talented. She was everything he would’ve chosen for himself if asked. Would she resent him over time?
Gods knew he would never be a prince, despite his heritage. And the Fae would always be hunting him, and Kendra, if she chose to stay with him.
They already pursued him for his maternal grandfather’s sword. The fact that he was the Winter Queen’s grandson, however tainted by his human mother’s blood, meant they wouldn’t let him go without a fight. All he wanted to do was live life, free from the Fae’s expectations and their constant wars. It was like they fought each other just for something to do.
Unfortunately, that meant he could be killed. Not their loss, but certainly his.
And I’m done being their bitch.
There had to be a way out. What he needed was a witch. Fortunately, he knew two.
250 ineligible #CloudburstColorado words
Ana hadn’t said a word as Catarina drove the horse and wagon back to her farmhouse. They had narrowly escaped the Bolsheviks who were fighting for control of St. Petersburg. And there was the very grim news of the fate of the Romanovs.
Catarina didn’t know, but strongly suspected that Ana might very well be the Grand Duchess Anastasia. The last surviving member of Czar Nicholas Romanov’s family.
“They were murdered by Bolsheviks.”
“What?” Catarina said as she unhitched the horse after they’d reached her farm.
“Nothing. Never mind.”
Catarina had questions, but decided it wasn’t the right time. She found herself in the uncomfortable position of protecting Ana, one of the aristocracy, a class she detested. She was a revolutionary. A Bolshevik herself. But Ana had somehow won her sympathy.
“I should go,” Ana said.
“Where? Where will you go? You know they are looking for you. You won’t have a chance.”
Ana was shaking. “God knew he would never be a prince. He was just a boy. And they murdered him. They murdered all of them.”
“You mustn’t talk like that. You don’t know.”
“I don’t want to put you in danger, Catarina. You shouldn’t help me.”
“It’s too late. It’s true I’m a revolutionary, but I can’t betray a friend.”
Ana reached out to touch her arm. “What will you do? There’s no escape. They’ll find me and they will discover you helped me.”
“I haven’t figured that part out yet…” She stopped mid-sentence. “Quick! Hide!”
250 Words (from my YA WIP)
The man’s movements were almost lazy as he blocked her sister’s blow. Sophie had never seen any man look more ruthless and she’d grown up in a viper pit of alpha males. A part of her brain wondered what her father would do if confronted by that particular expression on this particular man’s face.
Recognizing her sister, she’d considered leaving but the stubborn streak that kept her chin up in the face of the bullshit that was her family, wouldn’t allow her. Then she’d caught a glimpse of Delilah’s date. Every ounce of femininity she possessed recognized him. In a visceral way that touched all of her. ALL of her. Her skin crackled like someone was tracing sparklers over it and she would swear that skyrockets burst across the ceiling.
She froze, hypnotized by the snake-like reaction of her sister’s date. The man brushed away Delilah’s attack as the maitre’d and two burly busboys descended. Sophie slipped out of her seat and ducked into the ladies room. She returned to find the man occupying her table, looking as cool and controlled as a king cobra.
He rose and held her chair. Those sparklers caressed her again. She sat before her legs betrayed her. He sat and offered her his hand.
She knew the name. Irish mob. God knew he would never be a prince but she didn’t need one of those. She needed a man who would fight for her.
He smiled. And she was a goner.
250 Moonstruck Mafia WIP someday words
Boris sat alone in his room. His mother called him Alexander, but he hated that. His sister called him Dog Breath – that was why he’d locked her in the dungeon.
Of course, their home didn’t have a dungeon. It wasn’t as grand as that. It was a farmhouse in Somerset with a barn. A barn filled with spiders and rats.
Rachel hated rats.
“Was it worth it?” the first note under the door asked, his sister’s handwriting an elaborate copperplate. She dreamed of becoming a journalist, thinking it’d be a way to make herself heard. She’d always been the more artistic of the two of them and was now their mother’s favourite.
Boris screwed the paper up, tossing it into the corner.
The second note was more hastily penned, his sister abandoning any attempts at calligraphy. The paper bore a single word.
Boris tore that one into pieces, then considered setting it alight. Although, he was already in enough trouble. If he burned the house down by accident, he could be grounded for an extra week.
A third note appeared. His sister was being more literate now, her words threatening in colourful language. She promised she’d embarrass him, cut his hair off while he slept. She’d shred all his clothing with a carving knife then denounce him when he became president.
President – he laughed – something God knew he would never be. A prince was also out of the question. He’d rather be the Prime Minister instead.
250 words ~ firstname.lastname@example.org
Shyam sat in meditation under the foremast of The Pajamas. Even if he opened his eyes there wouldn’t be much to see. He listened to the waves. This was his fourth Dark Day since leaving home, and the expatriate wondered how cultures that had never met both picked the winter solstice as the start of the new year. He would have picked summer if it had been up to him.
Back in Fiernace, the sky shone with stars and nebulas and the Ocean of Lava warmed the horizon with its glow, even on the day each year the light never rose. Running dark in a pirate ship over this ocean of water was disquietingly cold and gloomy. The starless southern sky with its strange moons seemed a more ominous edge of the world than either the Brink or the Rim. Would he ever be able to return to his home?
Even if he had a way back, how he could possibly save his country only the gods knew. He would never be a prince or statesman. He had no head for politics or strategy. He wasn’t even capable of public speaking. How could one exiled soldier save the greatest nation on Elementia from itself?
Answers were no more forthcoming than the thousands of times he’d turned these questions over in his mind before. Yet, something was different. A nameless spark in the back of his gelid heart told him this year would be different. This year he would go home.
250 Cat’s The Pajamas words
Growing up poor unloved and unwanted I hardly saw my parents; food and alcohol was plenty when they were home; when they weren’t food was scarce. I went to school in clothes I took from the donation boxes.
In grade eight Jeffrey moved in next door, smiling at me, treating me like a human being unlike my other classmates; speaking me even when I trouble speak back. Jeff would wait till my parents left, then walk me to school handing me a lunch and protecting me from bullies and insults. For four years he was my saviour and my friend; wishing I had the courage to make him mine.
Jeff told me how to apply scholarships that would allow me to go to college and be free of my parents. I applied for them and got them. I graduated after four years to work as a social worker. Jeff also became one. He was my friend and yet I wanted more, but didn’t know how to ask for it. It wasn’t as if he was with anyone. I turned to him at work about to ask him if he’d date me when he asked, “Will you go out with me?”
We’ve dated for two years now. Jeff recently said to me, “He loved me, couldn’t live without me. God knew he would never be a prince; but would I marry him?”
I told him, “Yes .”
Jeff insisted were equals; so he is my prince and I am his princess.
The tears stung his eyes as he looked into the setting sun and waited. The darkness would bring the passing of one year and the beginning of the next. Not that it made much of a difference, one second was much like another.
The gods knew he would never be a prince, not after what he’d done, but a man? Could he just be a man, like so many he passed on his journey?
He saw them as they went about their lives, eating a meal or building a house or sitting with a family, and he wondered if they’d accept him as one of their own. If he opened a bottle of wine or pushed a cart of stone up a narrow, twisted path, could he spend an hour, a day, a week as one of them?
Probably. Likely. The people he passed had trusting smiles and hearty laughs. He thought they’d welcome him with the proverbial open arms if he approached them as one of them. As just a man.
But what if they knew what he’d done? What if he told his tale in its entirety – not just the good parts filled with caring and kindness. But the other parts, the ones that defined him? The ones with betrayal and anger and dismay?
What would they say then?
Better not to ask. He set his pack on his back and walked on, not a prince, not a man, but an outcast, just like everyone else.
#ThursThreads Week 466 is now CLOSED. Thanks to everyone who wrote this week and I hope to catch you next week.