Welcome back to the home of #ThursThreads for Week 631. Year 12! What a fantastic testament to the writing community. Y’all rock!
Today is Thursday and that means it’s time to start flashing on #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 US.
- 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 631:
Speculative romance author and ray of sunshine in a dystopian hellscape, Nicola Cameron. Also, she likes pie.
Facebook | Bluesky | Goodreads |
And now your #ThursThreads Challenge, tying tales together.
The Prompt:
“So, that was how he ended his life.”
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 Whimperville Gazette Report of the Passing of Wickersham Bottoms
Sylvester Langthorpe, Editor/Publisher
So, that was how he ended his life. Not with a bang, thank goodness, but with a political gesture.
Yours truly, representing both the Gazette and the town of Whimperville, journeyed three weeks ago to attend Wick Bottom’s final Open Stage presentation at Leek Lindstrom’s Ballyhoo Barn Emporium. There in the midst of Ukrainian folk tunes, amateur political impressions, accordion solos, and everyone’s favorite child magician, Margie the Magnificent, Wick Bottoms, our long-time local jokester and a Whimperville Gazette columnist for over fifty years starting in 1966 with his weekly opinion piece, Wicked Ways, Thoughts on the Times.
You youngsters out there in newspaperland may not remember that but Wick worked away with his thought pieces until 1975 when President Nixon packed it in and Wick’s writings, particularly his delightful earlier renderings of the Watergate fiasco, made him a household name across the land and eventually led that year to the birth of his nationally syndicated column, Bottom’s Up.
Wick’s guest appearance at the Open Stage was both fun, sad, and remarkably short. He stood there, wobbly from the years, voice crackling from time, and said the following: “Friends, neighbours, strangers, even, I’ll make it brief. I’ve had an amazing life. Unlike Jimmy Carter though, I will not get to cast a vote this year. I’ll be departing tomorrow. However, know well who I would vote for. She will be a great one. And good night.”
250 Words
http://www.engleson.ca
Sorry about the website…should have been @billmelaterplea
Jimmy Taylor always had to push himself further up the Scoville Scale. In recent years Jimmy couldn’t eat a Scotch Bonnet without a ‘so what?’ shrug.
‘I don’t get it. Food shouldn’t hurt,’ said Jennifer.
‘Between pleasure and pain is a doleful absence of sensation. Give me anything but an absence.’ Jimmy said.
Jennifer had left him when his habits began to escalate through BDSM levels in tandem with his journey up the Scoville Scale. Eventually reaching a level where safe words became inaccessable to her mind—which made a night at Jimmy’s dangerous.
He recalled his first Chocolate Habanero with fondness. It had been a good night—beyond the sensations in his mouth—involving an adventurous lady called Maria. She’d left him the following day—something to do with untreatable burns in a delicate area. Maria and Chocolate Habeneros were a distant memory as he progressed up his ladder of pleasure and pain.
Then he heard about the mysterious Scoville Club in the basement of a remote dive bar. There they served the hottest chilli dishes and provide added ‘extras’ to those who needed something hotter.
The policeman interviewed the waitress and assistant. ‘So he had a Carolina Reaper Insertion? And pepper spray in the face?’
‘As well as the chilli.’ Said Jennifer. ‘It’s what he would have wanted.’
‘So, that was how he ended his life.’ Maria said. ‘Do you fancy some Chilli, Sir? Best in the State.’
‘Some other time, perhaps.’ Takes all sorts—the policeman thought.
Word Count:250
Bluesky/Insta etc: @zevonesque
“I see you’ve made some improvements.”
Corbin only narrowly stopped his expression from drying out into deep sarcasm. It went from a house to a bakery, dude.
“Yup. Can I get you anything? Doughnut or sweet roll, maybe?”
“Oh, no, I’m not hungry. But business has been good?” Max’s voice held the note of hope, but Corbin wasn’t sure if he was hoping the bakery was doing well or badly.
“Yes, very good. Folks have really taken to the place. Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” Corbin dug deep to keep his patience.
“No, no, I’m good. Is there an upstairs still?” Max pointed to the ceiling.
“Yes, it’s my residence. Is there a reason you’re really here, Mr. Aberdeen?” Corbin crossed his arms over his chest.
Max didn’t answer the question, but looked pensively out the front window. “You know, this was always my favorite place to visit. My grandfather own a lot of this part of town. Did you know that? But over the years, he sold off pieces of his land until he had nothing but this house. So, that was how he ended his life—penniless and landless. Sad, really.”
Corbin wanted to roll his eyes. The family hadn’t stepped up when John wanted to sell. Where the hell was Max when dear old gramps wanted out?
“I didn’t know John had died. My condolences. So, if there’s nothing I can get you, I need to get back to work.”
246 ineligible #StainlessSteelSEALs words
@siobhanmuir.bsky.social
The sharp tang of blood, burnt flesh, and gunpower permeates the air. The brick wall is reminiscent of a Jackson Pollock painting. That’s what happens when someone swallows the business end of a sawed-off shotgun and uses their head as a paintbrush. The rest of the body lay slumped against the brick wall. The shotgun rests next to the corpse where it had fallen after being shot.
Detective Jackson flips to a clean page in his notebook and begins taking notes as forensics process the scene, putting down evidence markers and taking photos.
The blue and reds from on top of the squads add to the chaos of the scene, creating disturbing shadows in the corners of the alley.
Jackson’s partner, Martinez, joins him, eyes taking in the carnage. “So…”
“That’s how he ended his life,” Jackson finishes.
“Didn’t think he had it in him.”
“I’m not entirely sure he did.”
Martinez takes a closer look at the position of the body, the weapon, and accompanying splatter. “Looks like it was suicide. What makes you think otherwise? What has forensics come back with?”
Jackson jots a few more notes down, kneeling in front of the dead man. “We know this guy. He had no reason to end his life. There is more here than we currently know.”
“He could’ve been fighting depression or something, Rhys. We don’t know.”
“True, but I still think there is something else going on. My gut says this wasn’t suicide.”
245 words
@mlgammella
“So, that was how—”
“He ended his life.”
That statement fell into a well of silence as little ears had been straining to hear what the storyteller would say next. Now, they all stared round-eyed at the tall man with tattoos on his arms.
“Suicide?” The questioner remained hidden beyond the doorway.
The stranger lifted one shoulder in a negligent shrug. The storyteller cleared her throat with a loud ahem. He slowly turned his head, his gaze colliding with hers. She gestured to the semicircle of children, every head swiveled to watch him. His eyes narrowed. She gave him big eyes and a look that spoke volumes—What were you thinking?
A head appeared as the second man peeked around the door. “Oh, shit.”
That set the kids to giggling and the man had to good graces to redden. “Sorry, ma’am.”
A little girl tugged the storytellers skirt. “Whath’th thewthide?” Her two front teeth were missing.
The woman looked very solemn as she glared at the two men. “Perhaps you’d care to explain?”
“Not particularly, ma’’am,” the tattooed stranger said with a roguish grin. “But I apologize for interrupting your story time.”
He entered then hunkered down beside the little girl, which put him precariously close to the storyteller. “Suicide is a mystery, little darlin’. And sometimes a mercy.” His eyes met the storyteller’s. “And to finish the tale, that was how the Jack O’Lantern came to be.”
“You were listening.”
“I always listen when a pretty woman speaks.”
****
250 totally random words
Silver James https://www.facebook.com/AuthorSilverJames/
“We knew each other since we were children. But it wasn’t until I came back from my first tour of duty that he started to see me that way.”
Rhea Damas smiled and ran a finger around the rim of her whiskey glass. Elodie was relieved to see her new friend not drinking.
“He had to work to get me to see him the same. It was the third time he met my ship with hot churros that I realized we were going to end up together.”
Rhea raised her glass to eye level and stared through the deep golden liquid.
“It was a sweet life, being married to the town baker.” Rhea scoffed at her own joke. “But it didn’t last. I started having misgivings about the crown. He stood by me all the way, even after I turned to piracy to try to expose the rot in our government.”
Elodie flinched as Rhea downed another glass of whiskey.
“That’s why the admiral got the bright idea to use my husband as bait for a trap. I couldn’t not go after him. I couldn’t beat the whole navy, either.”
Rhea refilled her glass.
“So, that was how he ended his life. Watching my ship burn with me aboard before getting the admiral’s bullet in the back of his head.”
“You can’t blame yourself for that,” Elodie whispered pleadingly.
“I don’t.” Rhea’s knuckles whitened around her glass. “And the next time I see the admiral, I will have my revenge.”
250 words
@davidaludwig.bsky.social
“So that was how he ended his life.”
She snorts. “Seems like a waste to me.”
“Well.” A skeptical, wizened eye traces her up and down, but she’s used to such things. “You’re still young. Immortality wears on you after a few centuries. You’ll understand then.”
Ah, he doesn’t know. She paints on a beatific expression. “You think so?”
“Oh yes. The oldest among us rarely come to these meetings. You’ll know the moment you see one. Makes me almost understand finding a way out.”
A vindictive part of her knows she could make that happen. “Wow. Sounds terrible.”
She doesn’t speak of Theodora and her latest adventures in the cave systems of the Americas. Neither does word of Jùn and his foreys into renewable energy sources leave her mouth. Now, Hektor is a bit pale and thin—he spends too much time in his library, updating Wikipedia articles—but considering he owns the largest private collection of books, she cannot blame him.
“It’s a curse.”
Her fingers trail along the edge of the blade strapped to her thigh. Ungrateful children. “Is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s nothing you’re passionate about? Nothing you wish to learn? Pursue? All these years stretching out before you and there’s nothing you want to do with them?”
“…I’m sorry, what did you say your name was again?”
There we go. Finally, a gratifying bit of wariness. The realization always takes a while, but it never gets less sweet. She smiles. “I’m Freyja.”
Words: 249
Bluesky: @wollfgang.bsky.social
“Close the window,” Alice said. “We don’t want to encourage any more to come in. My ammunition’s short and their spawn cycle’s accelerating.”
Seigfried ducked down and sidled to the opening. There was more than a dozen outside, hooting and hollering. The bars securing the casement would hold them for less than a minute and then they’d pour through like venom into a wound.
“I don’t fancy our chances. There’s only you and a single weapon. If they come at us from more than one direction, we’ll be screwed, no matter how good you are.”
There was a concussion as the door blew in, the shockwave punctuating his pessimism. The blast pushed him forward, shooting him out through the frame, depositing him into the middle of the goonies who’d been waiting for any opportunity to kill them and tear their bodies apart.
So that was how he ended his life. But he bought her a little time and an opportunity to survive.
Alice turned around, firing as she pushed toward their attackers, raking them with a salvo that ripped into them, severing limbs and perforating vital organs, slowing them enough for her to jink past and escape from the house.
The goonies would recover all their losses before the night was through, but Seigfried wouldn’t be seen again. Perhaps he’d provoke a mild bout of acid indigestion on his way down to their stomachs. He’d always been a little passive aggressive.
241 words – twothirdzrasta.blogspot.com
#ThursThreads is now CLOSED. Thanks to everyone who wrote this week and I hope to catch you next week.