#ThursThreads – Tying Tales Together – Week 474

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 474 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 474:

Nicola Cameron

Speculative romance author and ray of sunshine in a dystopian hellscape. Also, she likes pie, Nicola Cameron.

Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads

And now your #ThursThreads Challenge, tying tales together.

The Prompt:

“But you don’t know him.”

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!

11 Replies to “#ThursThreads – Tying Tales Together – Week 474”

  1. Jamison shot a look a Chayse. His partner stared at the female body with narrowed eyes.


    Chayse pointed at the victim’s face. “Does she look familiar to you?”

    Jamison frowned. “No.”

    “No, I mean, does she resemble someone you know?”

    He tilted is head as he scrutinized the bodies. “I don’t think so. Why?”

    Chayse pointed. “Look at the way her face is done up—like one of those YouTube makeup artists who becomes famous people with makeup application. Doesn’t she look a little like Felicia?”

    Jamison blinked. The skin was too pale to match Felicia’s rich mocha brown complexion, but the brows and slope of the nose seemed similar. He frowned.

    “That’s weird. Felicia would never dress like that, but I guess they might look alike.” He shoved the unease to the back of his mind and examined the male vic. “But you don’t know him?”

    Chayse shook his head. The white man had brown hair and blue eyes turned clouded gray in death. Freckles decorated his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. A small tattoo of an anchor decorated the inside of his left forearm. He looked like he’d spent some time in the gym, but Jamison’s research showed gym muscles didn’t necessarily mean strength.

    Chayse crouched beside the bodies. “He looks like he may have been a bodybuilder. Any ID on the bodies?”

    Jamison shrugged. “Nope. Both were clean. Like, literally clean. No blood, no ID, bags, cellphones, or keys.”

    245 ineligible #SilverStateMystery words

  2. The explosion rocked a lot more than the Fae Court.

    Aeryn found her mother, the Fae Queen, face down in the rubble.

    “Mother … Speak to me,” she said, her voice filled with panic.

    Aîné got up, standing on wobbly legs, and still dazed. “Ondine did this. I want him brought to me in shackles.”

    D’arcy fluttered his wings and took off. “Wait,” Aeryn called back the tiny fae. “Mother, I really don’t think Ondine is behind this.”

    “You’ve always had a soft spot for Ondine, Aeryn. But you don’t know him like I do. Or what he’s capable of.”

    “Mother, stop, please.”

    Aîné looked at her daughter in such a way that Aeryn instantly knew there was no use arguing with her. “While you’ve been gallivanting around in the mortal world, Ondine has been plotting to take my throne.”

    Aeryn stood her ground. “First of all — ‘gallivanting,’ Mother? Really? Is that what you call making a career and a life for myself?”

    Aîné turned her back, infuriatingly. “I’m going back, Mother. Back to my life. Deal with Ondine as you wish, but you’re making a huge error in judgment if you think he’s behind this.”

    The Fae Queen was unmoved. Or she was very good at hiding her emotions. Aeryn knew it was the latter, but she was not going to stay. She’d given up her royal title and her life in the fae realm to live in the mortal world.

    As she left the Fae Court, tears ran down Aeryn’s cheeks.

    Catherine Verdier
    250 Words (from my YA fantasy WIP)

  3. Worn Peace

    I arrived at Henderson’s abode just before 8:00 pm. Twilight time. It was a three-story Victorian or Georgian. Old, at any rate. Lights were on in a number of rooms, each glowing as if it was a separate universe. There was an aging wooden porch swing squeaking me aboard. It was ridden by a woman, maybe late thirties, slim, dressed in cut-off blue jeans and a t-shirt.

    And delightfully frizzy hair.

    “Ola,” I said, suggesting that I was a world traveller.

    “Ola, yourself pilgrim. Can I help you?”

    “I’m meeting with Glitch,” I said, saying more than I wanted to.

    “Meeting? Aren’t you aiming low? Glitch doesn’t invite any old dick into his home. I’m Midge, by the way. ‘Speck you’ve heard about me.”

    She had me by the short gossip hairs. Henderson obviously had allies, especially amongst the artistically warped female child molester demographic.

    “Your name hasn’t come up,” I proffered, choosing to ignore my youthful client Louella’s revelation of Midge and Charlie’s painting in the nude solicitation to Louella and Glitch’s timely “rescue”.

    “It will,” she boasted. “Glitch says you are looking for Henry?”

    “That is my assignment.”

    “But you don’t know him?”

    “That is often a private dick’s dilemma,” I explained, “seeking those we have never met.”

    “I’ve seen the movie,” she said. “Way too many times.”

    “I often disappoint in the flesh. So, Glitch home?”

    “He’s running late and thought I might be an amusing diversion.”

    She didn’t have to paint me a picture.

    250 WIP

  4. The woman stood in the front entrance, the very picture of outrage. Puck hesitated on the steps. Kathleen didn’t blame the big goof of a dog. She paused mid-step as well.

    “What are you doing?” the woman hissed.

    Regretting the fact she’d ever given her best friend a key to the house, Kathleen trudged on up the steps. “Good morning to you too, Mary Pat.”

    The petite woman didn’t budge. “Kathleen! That man—”

    “Move, Mary Pat. Puck needs a drink.” She steered the Newfoundland around the other woman and barged into her own house.


    “Mary Pat.” She held onto her patience by a slender thread.

    “That’s Devlin O’Reilly.”


    “And? Do you know what he does for a living?”

    And wasn’t that a loaded question. He worked for Brian O’Hara and Ronan O’Connor. They led Boston’s Irish mob. She decided discretion would be smart at this point. She kept her mouth shut.

    “He’s in the mob, Kathleen.”

    “How do you know?”

    “People talk.”

    “He’s nice.”

    Mary Pat threw up her hands. “But you don’t know him.”

    “Neither do you, Mary Pat. You don’t know a thing about him.”

    “And you do?”

    What could she say to that? She knew him. Knew he followed her, knew he did small things to make her life easier. Knew that Puck adored him and the Newfie didn’t like all that many people. And she also knew that he’d very likely put a bullet in her dirty-cop of a husband’s head.

    “I do.”
    249 Irish Mob Wolves WIP words

  5. Jack wove through the gathering crowd, hyping the pack. Their energy would strengthen him, but Carr—Jack had never fought anyone, anything like Carr.

    “Jack.” Shae snagged his shirt and dug her heels in.

    He didn’t exactly stop, more yanked her forward, spinning on his heel and catching her close.

    “Shae, what the fuck?”

    “You can’t fight Carr.”

    “The hell you say.” Jack’s eyes were molten silver now, the wolf in him rising on the energy of the pack. “I can. I will.”

    “But you don’t know him.”

    “Do you want me to invite him to tea first?” Jack gripped her shoulders and eased her back a step. “Shae, I’m an easygoing alpha. Ask anyone. Accidentally trespass? We can talk it out. Having a rough winter? We can probably share some supplies. Need a safe place to stay the night? We have bunks.”

    Shae swallowed hard.

    “Threaten my pack pups?” A growl built in Jack’s chest, low and beastly and utterly inhuman. “Kill my second inside our territory?”

    “Jack, I—”

    “You can see how these are different, right?” Jack’s lips thinned into a firm line. “These aren’t accidents or acts of desperation. They’re an assault on the people I’ve sworn to protect.”

    Shae squeezed her eyes tight against the sting of tears.

    “You reaped my beta, Shae. Right in front of my eyes,” Jack whispered. “But you know what really scares me?”

    “What?” She barely pushed the word past the pressure in her throat.

    “You’re still here,” he said.

    250 maybe-it’s-a-WIP-now words

  6. “What do you think of the new blood?” Drusilla couldn’t help herself; it was a given she’d ask. It was surprising she’d resisted this long.

    Blade looked toward her, feigning indifference. He knew he could eke this out for hours. Drusilla would continue to work at him, her questioning becoming increasingly insistent. He’d be doing well if he could last out the night.

    “He’s not your type,” he said. “I’d hate for you to waste your time. It’ll end in frustration, neither of you getting any benefit. You’d be better off ignoring him, letting him be.”

    “Come, come. You know how accommodating I am.” Drusilla grinned, revealing her fangs. It was dark in the library, neither one of them needing any light. They both dwelled in the lonelier, shadowy volumes, sliding out from between their pages, each book a sullen compendium of night. But as soon as their first pages turned, their readers would find more than they expected before their eyes.

    But at night, they had free range. There were few fictional heroes they’d not twisted askew; familiar innocents they’d corrupted for their delight.

    This new book was unbroken, its spine still tight. Its pages smelled of acid, their edges untouched. Its principal character wore a striped jersey and horn-rimmed glasses. No one seemed to know where he was.

    “But you don’t know him either,” Drusilla said. “You only know his name. But when I get to meet this ever-elusive Wally, I can guarantee you his life will change.”

    250 words ~ twothirdsrasta.blogspot.com

  7. “Ah, is this the Toussaint Hale Joint Garrison?”

    The tousled spindly elf smiled through thick spectacles over books and scrolls clutched haphazardly to his chest.

    “Yes,” Harris sighed flatly.


    The elf collided with Harris’ spear haft trying to enter the compound, spilling documents everywhere and almost losing his spectacles over the end of his nose.

    “Whoa! This is a closed base! No entry without authorization.”

    “Ah, yes! Of course!” the elf pushed his spectacles up and began gathering his papers back to his chest. “I’m here to conduct research! Or, perhaps consult on something? Anyway, I received a request to…”

    If Harris hadn’t tried his hand at education he might have thought the elf was trying to cast a sleep on him. Instead, he knew some people were just this boring and tuned the blathering beanpole out. That is until a sharp voice snapped him back to attention.

    “What’s the trouble here?”

    “Lieutenant Commander Omura!” Harris saluted. “No trouble, ma’am! This elf was trying to get into the base. Thinks he was invited. You know elves, no matter how young they look they’re all old as dirt. Probably all senile.”

    Miko Omura cleared her throat and resisted the urge to call attention to her own pointed ears.

    “So let him in.”


    “You don’t know him? This is Professor Emile Padimon. Our sea shifters were developed based on his theories, and I am the one who invited him.”

    “Miss Omura!” Professor Padimon beamed. “I haven’t seen you in decades!”

    250 Cat’s The Pajamas words

  8. Beat the Drum Slowly— or Not

    Giver smirked at my optimism, I know he thought he had bested Yarl but I knew better.

    “There’s no way you can tell me he’s coming back from that,” he said shaking his head.

    “Oh, you may believe that,” I stated. “And in most cases, you’d be right.”

    “Why am I sensing a ‘but’?”

    “You don’t know him like I know him, Trust me – it’s not over yet.”

    “You seem pretty sure.”

    “We’re talking about a man I love like a brother. A man who has proven time and again that he can’t be counted out, not by his friends and especially not by some New Age Jungian ‘tween who loves to monolog— he lives for proving monologuers wrong.”

    “You’re acting like it’s a foregone conclusion.”

    I smiled. “Sun rises in the morning. Weather happens. Breathing helps. Yarl hates monologs and the people who need them. It’s like washing your car, or mentioning having money around it – It’s going to rain, the car is going to break down and Yarl will hit you with the wet-macral of reality.”

    Giver’s smirk grew as he held up a human heart and I gasped appreciatively as he began to explain. I had to fight from laughing as the heart let out one beat, and then another.

    Some people just don’t get it.

    220 words not including title

  9. I looked in disgust; at the man standing at the podium running to become president.
    “But you don’t know him. Why do you hate him?” Angela asked.
    “He’s a misogynist, sexist pig and he treats all women; like they haven’t any brains.”
    “When did you meet him?”
    “He’s had four wives since then, each younger and prettier, than the first and each lost their children to him.”
    “He and his wife, Brandy are raising five kids. ”
    “I’ve seen him all about town with different women and he has six children.”
    “He’s finished his speech and coming over.”
    “Melanie, long time no see. How’s Mary?”
    “Marilyn has just achieved a full ride to Harvard.”
    “You can thank me, later,” he said with a wink.
    “You had nothing to do with this; she earned it on her own! I have an IQ much higher than yours, regrettably, I threw that all out the window when I married you; but retained in the divorce.”
    “Can I see Marilyn or are you still keeping her from me?”
    “I’ve never said a bad word about you to her. Marilyn is seventeen old enough to make her own decisions.”
    “Then why won’t she see me?”
    “She knows you don’t know her name and you want to use her for your campaign.”
    “Why are you here?”
    “Haven’t you heard Benedict? I’m running for president.”
    The look on his face was amusing and even more priceless, when I won the presidency the following year.
    247 words

  10. Breakfast came early in their household. By the time Serena had packed some essential items, her sister had set the table, and her three kids and the princess sat at the dinette. Her oldest niece Thyme colored on a shared sheet with the toddler.

    “What color do you want the strawberry?” She attempted to hand her the red crayon.

    “No.” Ameria grabbed the purple one.

    Peder leaned against the wall between the kitchen and the dining area, more watching the front of the house than anything. She hadn’t seen him this on edge, well, ever.

    “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Marj whispered, flipping a few pancakes with ease.

    “After last night, I don’t think it’s safe for us to stay here.” It was almost impossible to explain the fear that gripped her overnight. How do you fight an enemy that basically stalks you, watches you, and is able to slip away in less than a blink of an eye? She’d never really been afraid of the darkness, but last night changed all that. “I’m not sure I can protect her.”

    “But you don’t know him.” Marj pointed the spatula at Peder, who at that moment turned his head toward them and smiled.

    “That’s kind of the point. I know enough about him. I trust him, and who’d suspect we were hiding out under the sea?”

    “Shhh. Don’t tell me more. I don’t want to know exactly where you’re going.”

    “Don’t worry. I don’t even know.”

    249 words

  11. #ThursThreads Week 474 is now CLOSED. Thanks to everyone who wrote this week and I hope to catch you next week.

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