#ThursThreads – Tying Tales Together – Week 585

Tying Tales Together, #ThursThreads Year 11 Got a tale to tie on?

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 585 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 585:

Book promoter and fantastic beta reader, Heidi Rundle.

Facebook | Twitter | 

And now your #ThursThreads Challenge, tying tales together.

The Prompt:

“Where do you want me?”

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 585”

  1. “How’d you end up here?”

    “What gave me away? The accent?”

    He smiled at Ginny, making her feel seen in a new way. Almost vulnerable, but better than invisible.

    “One day I started moving, and then another day I found I’d moved around the world. I stopped when I felt like I had gotten far enough away to not be afraid anymore.” Ginny stared at her feet, fidgeting with her bare toes into the hot sand. “Suppose that makes me a coward.”

    He squinted at the sun, thinking, his laugh lines sharp, but gentle. “Seems to me like you picked up and headed for something else you were looking for. You found it here. Cowards don’t go looking. Cowards freeze.”

    Ginny wanted to both laugh and cry. Twelve countries in two years and she hadn’t met anyone like Mick. The magnetism was tangible.

    “Where do you want me?” she asked, catching her stylish scarf in her hand as the island wind blew.

    “That tree’s a good place to start.”

    Click-click went the camera, and the photoshoot began.

    242 words

  2. Gronsky’s Parade

    Later that evening, after enjoying Miriam’s celebratory feast, she and Gronsky wrapped up warmly and repaired to the veranda with wine and a few Nanaimo Bars.
    “Wine and chocolate,” Gronsky purred. “This is heaven.”
    “You eat and drink. I’ll just stick to the Merlot.”
    “Don’t know what you’re missing.”
    “I’m not missing much, Gilbert. I think, by the way, that we should debrief the Book Launch.”
    Gronsky knew this was coming. Miriam loved to debrief. Everything. Even shopping. He knew debriefing was a valuable process for some activities but usually it required him to reflect on his limitations.
    Each debrief emphasized a shortcoming.
    They were adding up.
    Now that he was an author with one book under his slightly, perhaps more than slightly, paunchy belt, promotion was the buzzword.
    On the upside, Miriam, a retired Librarian, was bursting with enthusiasm for books in general and his in particular. Early on when the first copies had arrived, packaged tightly, an abundance of freshly printed clones, dozens of them, each more beautiful than the last, she’d hugged him, said, “this is wonderful, Gilbert. I know you’re the leader of this marvelous literary parade, but I want to be of help to you. Where do you want me in this amazing journey of yours?”
    He answered easily.
    “By my side. Always.”
    “Now for the debrief,” Miriam brought him back to the present, clinking wine glasses.
    “I think it went very well.”
    Gronsky was relieved.
    Short debriefs were always the cat’s meow.

    250 WIP

  3. Kathleen didn’t want to open the door. She’d refused to answer the phone after screening the calls. Why couldn’t they leave her alone? The imperious knock rattled the front windows. She cracked the door and peered out at the two police officers.

    “You need to come with us, Mrs. Gallagher.”


    “We’ve made an arrest. There’s a press conference.”

    “Tommy’s dead and buried. You don’t need me there.”

    An hour later, she wore widow black and a stoney face. The chief, and other official types milled around. Alex Crenshaw, the district attorney, brushed past her and she cringed away. Every instinct she possessed urged her to flee.

    “Where do you want me?” Crenshaw demanded.

    The public information officer lined up everyone but Kathleen. With luck, the woman had forgotten she existed. The PIO gave her instructions then noticed Kathleen. “I want you in front of the chief and the DA. You’ll say a few words after they speak. There will be no questions.”

    A moment later, the door opened and they filed out in front of the crowd of reporters. The first face Kathleen saw stood in the very back. She knew him. Her heart knew him. The man from the cemetery. The man from the restaurant. The man who silently watched over her.

    When it was her time to speak, she said, “Thank you for coming.” And that was all.

    Once it was over, she found him waiting. “I’ll take you home.”

    But she knew she was already there.
    250 Moonstruck Mafia: Boston Wolves WIP words

  4. Everyone girl wants their life to be like a fairytale so the story goes, but life isn’t a fairytale. Life is hard. Each day should be a new beginning a day of happiness but you wake up late, you rush to get ready, your coffee is cold, you forgot your packed lunch, you have five dollars left until Friday and its only Monday. You go home eat some ramen, because that’s all the food that is left in the cupboard. Your television is on the fritz, the password that your mom and dad loaned you for Netflix is caput. It’s six o’clock, so dark you might as well go to bed. I say my prayers for someone to share and change my life with, going to sleep.
    Awakening to an alarm coughing, a cute fireman stands over me, placing oxygen over my face he takes me outside. He sets me down right next to my next-door neighbour Cal.
    “Some fire,” I comment.
    “I heard Howie, left his stove on under a pot.”
    Howie was ninety-five and we usually checked on him but I had checked out and Cal had gone to be early too.
    “I know this is probably the wrong time but I almost died will you go out with me?”
    I needed a new beginning maybe this was my chance I thought speaking to God I ask, “Where do you want me?” of course I didn’t get a verbal answer but I answer.
    “Yes, Cal, I will.”
    250 words

  5. Briona scowled. Who the hell was Triss? Was she the woman being sought by the LAPD? Was she in WITSEC and that’s why she just appeared in the records? If she was in WITSEC, wouldn’t the Marshals have said something?

    Briona snorted. The Marshals never let the local LEOs know about their charges unless something went wrong. Nothing had gone wrong with Triss, yet.

    Her cellphone rang and she glanced at the number.

    Why is Emily calling me? Briona’s gut clenched.


    “Hey, Sheriff. Are you pretty close to done with work?”

    “Yes, I’m finishing up now.” She narrowed her eyes as she closed the database search. “What’s going on?”

    “Triss has had a helluva day and is feelin’ poorly. Do you think you could come over and tell her some Old Wives’ Tales?”

    Briona froze and her stomach sank as the trigger phrase sank into her awareness. “Is there a need for some advice?” She gave the verification question.



    “Is she at home now?” Briona gathered up her things.

    “Yeah, she just got home from the grocery store and said someone scary came out of who-knows-where.”

    “Do you want me to call some other folks to help?” She threw her coat on and headed for the door as she shut off the lights.

    “No, I’m on it, but you need to get here soon. Triss is contemplating rabbiting.”

    Fuck. “Okay. Do your best to keep her there. I’ll be there in ten.”

    247 ineligible #WIP words

  6. He peered at her over his mask, his eyes filled with mischief. His hand trembled with excitement. He had been one of the world’s finest surgeons.

    His enthusiasm had been his downfall. That and his refusal to accept that he had problems.

    “Where do you want me to cut?” he asked her, studying the edge of his blade. “I can elevate you to within sight of the gods. Raise you up beyond perfection.”

    Anneliese tried to reply to his question, but her lips betrayed her, her words slurred and unintelligible.

    “What’s that you said?” Mycroft said. “I do hope you’re not getting cold feet.”

    The operating theatre was rough and ready, equipped by Rube Goldberg. The machines assembled there had been repurposed, a worn, domestic vacuum cleaner plumbed into a chloroform-filled facial spa to provide the anaesthesia. There was a selection of electric carving knives and a rack of hobbyist hand tools dunked in a bucket of bleach. MacGyver would have been impressed by his ingenuity but appalled by the purposes they were being used for.

    “I’d like to change out your hair,” he continued, raising her bangs so he could see her forehead. “A dye job is so impermanent. And horribly common, too. I’d go for genuine every time, although I still need a donor who can provide what I need. Long, blonde, and manageable, without any damage to its ends.”

    Her scalp transplant would have to wait. There were other improvements available right now, using only his blades.

    250 words – twothirdzrasta.blogspot.com

  7. Away. The purpose of Tenko’s party’s pell-mell dash through the forest was to get away.

    The good news was they had almost certainly put the enemy off the rescued priests’ trail.

    The bad news was they had burned through Tenko’s contingencies for their own escape with alarming alacrity.

    “Something’s getting real close!” Arashiko called over her shoulder.

    Tenko had sensed it too. But was unable to pinpoint it.


    “Do you want me to answer that?”

    The omnipresent voice that responded was not Arashiko’s. It sent a chill up Tenko’s spine.

    “The Wood Witch.”

    “Clever child. I have a question of my own. What kind of elves willingly venture so far into the dark, scary forest? Don’t you know the deep woods are the domain of gods and demons?”

    Though the party never slowed, the voice remained all around them. And the Witch wasn’t winded.

    “There is more to the woods than gods and demons! There is room for elves too!”

    Tenko prayed she had correctly analyzed their adversary. Their quest was apt to end quite suddenly if she had gotten the balance of confidence and respect wrong.

    “Hm,” the voice at least seemed intrigued. “As for your question; directly in front of you.”

    The earth erupted underneath them. Arashiko tumbled forward, Mana and Tenko were flung to the sides, and somehow Sora drew his katana in time to stop the club of the Witch’s oni from connecting with his head.

    241 Tale of Tenko words
    @DavidALudwig on Bluesky

  8. Three Man Monte.

    Letting her breath out slowly, Jessa took her place in the line of women auditioning to work as the magician’s assistant. According to her astrologer, this would be her chance to kill the prince before his coronation. The original assistant was suffering from food poisoning in the infirmary. and the magician was desperate.

    “You are so brave,” she confided to the ladies around her, “I hear the magician doesn’t like an assistant who’s taller than him.”

    The women around her shifted uncomfortably. Three of them gave the stage a worried glance and left.

    “I hear he likes to sleep with his assistants to make sure they are ‘compatible’,” she added, with a shudder. Nothing was off limits as she worked her way through the line talking about appetites and preferences. and unnatural acts.

    By the time the auditions began, she was the only one left.

    That night, she walked herself through the plan. She’d have five minutes once the magician sealed her in the disappearing cabinet. It was all the time she needed to kill the prince mid-show, give her the perfect alibi. Everyone’d know where she was.

    She stepped into the cabinet confident in her plan, “Where do you want me?”

    “Here is good,” the magician assured her as he locked her in the cabinet. and smiled.

    Her heart stopped when she heard him announce, “Your Highness, the assassin, As promised.”

    He pulled the cover off the cabinet with a flourish. revealing the cabinet to be a cage.

    250 Words (not including title)

  9. A member of my parent’s church passed away and Mom was in charge of the luncheon. I escorted the person to their afterlife and planned to attend the services. Then, Mom got the flu and suddenly, I find myself in charge of the luncheon. I am terrible at being in charge. And predictably, it’s not going at all to plan.

    Thankfully, Mom got all the food organized before she got sick. But I’m still up against some irritated church ladies who don’t think I should be in charge. I agree, but here we are.

    Gladys is particularly annoying; every time I ask someone to do something, she tries to override me. I’ve known Glady my entire life and have always respected her; today I snapped at her and might have made her cry. I felt bad but Mom asked me to do this and that means I have to take care of things.

    “Where do you want me?” Gladys asks, her face fierce but her red eyes give her away.

    “I didn’t mean to snap at you earlier, but I’m a little stressed and out of my element. I could use a second hand and if you’re up for being my kitchen manager, that’d be awesome.”

    I love it when old ladies beam; their whole body changes. Gladys glows as she walks into the hall kitchen, orders flying. She can definitely be in charge next time. I’ll stick to escorting souls across to the afterlife.

    245 words

  10. They say a good deed never goes unpunished, but what about a wicked one?

    In Josh’s experience, he did pretty much whatever he desired and he hadn’t been caught… yet.

    Being heir to the throne of a small island nation off the state of California didn’t hurt either.

    The parade of this weekend’s offering strutted by, and Josh feigned indifference, kicking his leg over the throne’s arm, picking at a bothersome hangnail.

    Like everything related to the royal court, this show grew boring. It was all pomp and circumstance when he could lay any fair damsel or gentleman of his choosing—to a certain extent.

    He shifted his gaze toward his scholarly tutor who sat all bundled up, seemingly to ignore the proceedings even more than him. As usual by Friday afternoon, her normally perfectly coifed hair sprung free, with loose dark locks hanging about her face. She wore her reading glasses and hadn’t flipped a page in the book since the ensemble commenced.

    If that telltale sign wasn’t enough, the prettiest flush spread up her chest and across her cheeks. He’d like to make her blush for another reason. She was from off-island, and after the last year he’d made no headway.

    “You,” he called out to a particular ginger-haired stableman he had dalliances with in the past.

    The man stood taller. “Where do you want me?”

    Quite a few ways in a few different locales, he thought.

    The tutor closed her book. She evidentially approved.

    247 words

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