Welcome back to the home of #ThursThreads. Wow. Week 598. Holy smokes! We’ve made it almost 600 WEEKS! Mind-boggling.
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 598 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 598:
Cat wrangler, master violinist, and Tea connoisseur, Muirlette #1.
And now your #ThursThreads Challenge, tying tales together.
The Prompt:
“This is where she fell.”
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!
The Morning Porch
“Morning Gilbert.”
“Sam. It’s been a while.”
“In one door, out another.”
“Gaza?”
“Close. Two trips to Tel Aviv.”
“Amongst many places, I imagine.”
“We are a fractious world.”
“Mine is more fictitious than fractious.”
“Then you are fortunate.”
“Perhaps. Fog’s lifting…”
“Strange. These days, I only see smoke in the air…”
“Trust me. This is fog.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. Where you off to next?”
“Polish border…Refugees galore.”
“What is the Ukraine Russian death toll?”
“I’ve lost track. But you know, I know you know, the Gaza deaths now have reached almost ten times 9/11. And the October 7th massacre was one half 9/11.”
“Horrible numbers. All of them. Recently on the national news, almost six minutes was devoted to one ninety-one-year-old ladies’ death…”
“Missed that, Gilbert.”
“A wandering old person story. There are lots of them. This one, she slipped out a side door of her retirement home. Dead of night. Dead of winter.”
“Sad.”
“Froze to death. The story was about her son never wanting such a thing to happen to anyone else. Pointed out to the journalist where she died, said, ’This is where she fell, where she first fell…then crawled to a bush and died.’”
“Any man’s death diminishes me…”
“And women and children.”
“In higher numbers.”
“The thing the son said about not wanting such a thing to happen to anyone else…you hear that a lot yet life and death repeat.”
“With a vengeance.”
“Get you some coffee?”
“Thanks.
250 WIP
@billmelaterplea
Alice Nunn was a good woman. An able woman. A woman with morals. She wasn’t limited by the requirements of others: she had dynamism and no need to stay her hand. She was independent, in possession of clear sight and with a brain the equal of any man. She was instrumental in making this town what it is now and was respected by everyone.
So where was the rub, the fly in the wineglass, the apple that spoiled the orchard she grew? She’s remembered now only as a minor footnote, a face in the crowd that witnessed events. A woman of such achievements, you’d expect there to be a shrine for her. A suitable way of honouring her – repaying the debt we all owe.
She was honest and considerate. A paragon of good faith. She would do anything for anyone else, never thinking of herself. If a quality could be a flaw, maybe this is where she fell short. While others schemed and promoted themselves, she was content to let them grow, thinking nothing of being in competition or tending to her needs. I know she wasn’t naïve or without the means to see ahead; it was all just a matter of choice.
And so, she’s barely remembered. There’s no blue plaque bearing her name. The building she was born in was demolished for a mall, and her memory is confined to a stone, overlooked by poison oak and shrouded by tall weeds.
The rabbits are her only friends.
250 words – twothirdzrasta.blogspot.com
Echoes sometimes that’s all you have left in your mind, after you lose someone. Empty spaces where they once were, which occupied your time and love. Simple phrases enter your head when you enter a place that reminds you of them, “This is where she fell; this where she skinned her knee, this where it all began.”
The pain still waits, the longing for a whisper of their voice. How do you go on without them? There are stages of grief of course, that’s what they tell you, but are there really does it ever really end, or does it shut down that corner of our mind only to have it bleed out sometimes when memories come to call?
I’ve denied my grief and my feelings for her. I bargained with the Grand Master to bring her back to from the dead. My friends say I’ve been hard to be around since I was denied, but I loved Lucy, I wanted her back.
The last stage is of course acceptance. I’ve accepted her death. She’s dead, but she’s back with home me, now. I’ve contacted a funeral hone buddy of mine. He was reluctant at first, but he promises me I can keep her undead. Now if I could only figure out how to handle those pesky pieces of skin, she’s dropping everywhere. We have an eternity now or at least until I die and she eats my brain. Oh well, life’s a you no what and then you die.
250 words
@SweetSheil
Allira knelt on the floor, studying the footprints and the trail of dark green blood, almost black in the torchlight. From the drag marks, she could tell the goblin’s left leg was injured and not functioning as it should. She glanced up. A splotch of green blood marred the edge of the cave’s wall.
“What can you see?” Josten’s voice echoed strangely in the cavern—almost hollow like death itself. “Did the goblin get away?”
“Looks like someone wounded her and she fell here.” Allira pointed to the impression of a knee in the dirt. “From there, it’s hard to tell if this is where—”
“She fell?” Josten took a few steps down the corridor, and swung his gaze around. “I don’t see her anywhere.”
“I think she managed to get away.” Allira rose and pointed deeper into the maze of passages. “Where does this go?”
“Toward the hot springs that are used for healing and laundry cleaning.”
Allira rose to her feet and shot him a look of surprise. “Goblins do laundry?”
173 ineligible #WIP words
@siobhanmuir on Bluesky
Estella moved along the quiet grounds of the large colonial house where her coven used to reside. It was eary enough to know what happened there, even more so when she was followed by several hunters and two high ranking witches of the coven within the city. They wanted answers and there was little left to tell the story without finding someone to commune with the spirits of those who had passed.
There was still scorch marks and blood on the grass, making it look like it was dying. “If you could show us where your coven leader fell, it would be appreciated.”
“Not sure why you didn’t speak with the body when the crew that had cleaned things up collected everything.”
“The family would prefer that we not speak to her spirit, as well as the other families. As this is a tender subject, we are honoring their wishes.”
Estella’s eye twitched. They were worried about other families never mind what happened here. Because they cared and were sensitive about dark forces possessing witches.
Right. They either didn’t want to tell her or there was something else going on. She stopped where she had been tied to the stake, one of the larger scorched sections of the yard. “This is where she fell.” She pointed to a spot on the grass and stepped back. “So are we done now?” This place gave her bad vibes and she cared zero about their protocols.
246 words
@solimond
(I remembered!)
The Fallen
231 words @Lexikonical
“This is where she fell.”
The ground was scorched in a perfect circle. Blades of grass blackened and bent inside the radius. The sulphurous haze still lingered when I crouched down and got close enough. I could imagine her curled up in the patch, frightened and alone in this place.
“Witnesses?”
“It was just after the schools let out, all the kids and their parents were walking through.”
“How come I only just got called?” I stood up and faced the uniformed officer.
“There were a lot of people to calm down, lots of conflicting reports. I don’t know details. I was just told to watch the scene ‘til you got here.” He shrugged and held his hands up.
I let out an annoyed growl and turned away, scanning the park. She could have gone in any direction.
“She must have changed quickly as we haven’t had reports of a woman in burned rags running round.”
I was barely listening. I was well aware of the lack of reports; I’d been glued to the radios since I got the call. Fallen angels tended to make a big scene. Tracking them wasn’t too hard. Then we could check them over and get them settled in on Earth, once we found out everything they knew.
Disappearing without a trace so quickly was hard. I should know, I didn’t manage it when I fell.
This is where she fell. Less than a year later, Tenko felt like a completely different person. The weight of her armor was insignificant compared to the burdens and expectations she had never imagined carrying. But this place felt frozen in time. Like it would never change again.
“What are you thinking, Little Sister?”
Tenko’s fashionable childhood friend, Mana, stood at the entrance of the root riddled cave. Seeing him in proper samurai armor was stranger than the tribal armor she now wore. Strangest of all was the commissioned katana on his hip that matched her own. She knew he had something far more fearsome in reach at all times, but the visibility of the blade tied to his belt was a stark reminder that this wasn’t just the painter she grew up with.
“Did we do the right thing here? Are we doing the right thing now?”
Tenko mentally kicked herself. If anyone might feel worse about what happened here than her, it was Mana. He moved to her side and smiled soothingly. She envied his composure.
“I don’t think that’s for us to decide.”
Tenko pressed her forehead to Mana’s shoulder.
“Why can’t I find a way forward without war?”
Mana stroked Tenko’s hair with gentle firmness. For once, she didn’t mind his older sibling attitude.
“It’s enough for me that you looked. I trust you.”
This is where the Wood Witch fell. Tomorrow, the Fire Tribe would follow her.
242 Tale of Tenko words
@davidaludwig.bsky.social
Pink fairy lights sparkled in the trees. Marco held her hand, and guided her toward a bunch underneath a sighing weeping willow.
The night had settled comfortably after the play. The bustle of the crowds parted and now they were alone. She’d been waiting for this moment. He leaned in close, and she closed her eyes, tilting her head, knowing the kiss was coming.
This is where she fell in love. If it was like the movies, her heart would speed up, her palms become sweaty and electricity would spark between them.
They bumped noses, and she opened her eyes. He laughed, adjusted and planted his lips on hers.
What if none of those things happened. Was it not true? Her brain stuttered when reality didn’t live up to the expectations. Every date she had stopped after this point. If love didn’t strike her like lightning from the sky, could it be considered true?
Marco brushed his thumb against her cheek. “Where did you go? For a minute there, you seemed to drift off.”
“Nowhere. Is it getting late?” She stretched her back, arching away from him, and shifted over on the bench, putting a few inches between them.
The gap between them took on its own personality, like an entity that needed space.
He looked down, eyes squinted a bit as if he visualized the invader.
“Do you want to try that again?” he asked.
“Again?” The idea intrigued her.
“Yeah, I think we can do better.”
@LouisaBacio
248 words
The Grand Tour
Images and afterthoughts, that’s all that she could see—a moment frozen in time, captured on film. She could feel the emotions on people’s faces as they posed for the pictures. It was strange marrying up the pictures from the album and the crime scene photos– before and after.
Before, everything seemed so bright and cheerful, but the forensic photos painted a darker picture. They were witness to the truth behind the lies in the carefully posed images. Meticulously maintained lawns, and carefully coifed women drinking from delicate teacups, bespoke a genteal world. while whisps of smoke and ash, and the scent of stale coffee filled the room.
The photos played out like cards, telling two different stories. A picture of the formal gardens, sunlit mazes of roses, and flame bushes hinted at summer bliss. They lay in stark contrast to the photos of carefully collected evidence, meticulously numbered and notated.
The swing, she would climb pretending she was a sailor on the yardarm of a tall ship, fell from the desk, revealing the dark stains of rust and old blood. The photos of be beach. This is where she fell in love. It was also where her heart broke.
He’d taken another to their spot along the bay. She mourned the death of love and tried to stop the bitter flow of tears. This is where her darker half was born. And it would not rest until he had paid.
Images and afterthoughts. That’s all they really were.
@mishmhem
249 words not including title.
This is where she fell. At least, that’s what I was told.
A small patch of grass with a tree indistinguishable from all its siblings, it’s as unremarkable as any other part of the woods. Nothing about it stood out, at least not to the naked eye. Without my Sight, I wouldn’t know that an angel fell here. And even with it, if I hadn’t been told that the streaky, glittery white aura I was looking at are the remnants of divinity, I would have no clue. Its trail dies off not even ten feet from the tree.
“Well that’s useless.” I shove my hands in my pocket, looking up at the sky, as if the trail could have risen toward the full moon.
“Not necessarily.” Beside me, my companion sniffs the air, almost hungry. His eyes close, as if savoring whatever scent he’s caught. “This way.”
The demon leads the way, following a trail I can’t see. I should probably feel guilty for agreeing to help him, but I can’t help the itching curiosity to see a fallen angel – probably the rarest Paranormal I could run into.
We stop in a clearing a few minutes later, where the slumped form of the angel in question leans against a moss covered log. Her aura is a muddy gray – no trace of divinity left. A twig cracks under my foot, and her head snaps toward us.
“Clara?” I choke on my sister’s name.
“Long time no see. Miss me?”
250 words
@avilak90.bsky.social (@katheryn_avila on X)
It’s good to be back!
#ThursThreads is now CLOSED. Thanks to everyone who wrote this week and I hope to catch you next week.