Welcome back to the home of #ThursThreads for Week 637. 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 637:
Cat wrangler, master violinist, and Tea connoisseur, Muirlette #1.
And now your #ThursThreads Challenge, tying tales together.
Facebook |
And now your #ThursThreads Challenge, tying tales together.
The Prompt:
“We’re in this together.”
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!
Sorry…it needed a slight edit.
Memories of Ferocious and the FLM
“So, we’re sitting on that fence last summer.”
“The one top of the hill.”
“Yeah, that one. Watching the traffic whizz by.”
“You and Ferocious?”
“Yeah. Just the two of us. Oh, and a squirrel. The one who lived in the chocolate factory….”
“Yeah. Nutso. Right?”
‘Yeah. Anyway…there we were, soaking the traffic in. He loved watching traffic.”
“Nutso?”
“No. Well, maybe. Who knows what a squirrel likes…except gathering nuts, right?
“Right. So Ferocious?”
“Now you’re cookin’. A real traffic connoisseur…”
“Why? I mean, once you’ve seen one convoy of cars, well…what was in it for him?”
“Memories. The city. He was a city cat. Had someone once, he said. Business woman. Real estate type. Busy lady so he was on his own a lot. Which he liked…”
“Don’t we all. “
“He’d go out. Stroll the alleys…and that’s when it started to dawn on him…”
“What?”
“The rats. They were taking over the city. All the cities. And they were getting big. Big as cats. Bigger.”
“I saw a big rat once. My hometown. Scary.”
“Anyway, he had a piffany… “
“A puffery?”
“No. A piffany. An idea. We’re in this together he thought. All us cats. And we need a country. So he formed the FLM.”
“The Feline Liberation Movement?”
“Yes. And here we are. We own this island.”
“But there are mice here.”
“Nourishment, my friend.”
“And Ferocious?”
“On the road. Organizing.”
“Politics. So demanding.”
“Yeah. Leaders can’t win for losing.”
250 words
@billmelaterplea
We’re in this together he said. You can’t back out he said. Yeah, well, your Council threw an almighty fit, too. Oh no! A woman! And now I’m stuck in this job I don’t want, for two hundred years.
I’m all for breaking into roles traditionally filled by men, but this one the men could’ve kept. I am The One True Death, Adrianna RN by day, approver of expired hour glasses by night. The irony is not lost on me.
“All right, deary, time to review the crossovers for tonight!” Petunia, my secretary, bustles in, kitten heels clicking on the stone floor. “How was work today?”
“Slow, which was nice. We’ve been hit hard with the usual winter illnesses, and beings we only have 25 beds, that’s a lot of transfer paperwork.”
Being a charge nurse in the ER at a rural intake hospital means paperwork when we transfer patients to bigger hospitals; being in charge of Death means signing off on people dying.
“Eleanor MacAtee? She was doing better when I left.”
Petunia looks at her list. “Yes, it seems she took a turn for the worst. They do go quickly, don’t they?”
“So they do.”
I scan each hour glass and before long, the Deathers, who crossover the souls of the Dead, start arriving. Petunia hands out lists and when it’s quiet again, I sit at the huge, carved desk in the even bigger office. Maybe I could love this job in the future. But not now.
@Aightball
249 words
The man put his arm around the shoulder of the young boy standing next to him. “Are you scared, son?”
The boy, who had never known his father, recoiled at the touch, but there wasn’t enough room for him to get away from the man, so he merely shrugged his shoulders and hoped his arm would slide off. It did not.
The man, whose jacket was worth more than every possession the boy had ever owned, smiled down at the boy. Until today, the man had never known a moment of want or fear, and even now, less than ten minutes from the end of his life (though he did not know this), he assumed that he would shortly be greeted by someone who would escort him to a warm bed in a safe and luxurious home.
“We’re in this together,” said the man. “They won’t forget about us.”
The boy had never been remembered by anyone, and would be forgotten by the man as soon as the man had an opportunity to forget. The same voices that had ordered them all – the old and young, the rich and poor, the remembered and forgotten – to leave their lives and march into the stadium along the lakefront had sent an extra message to the boy. Among all of the tens and tens of thousands of people, he alone knew what was happening.
It was the first time in the boy’s life that he was special.
He smiled up at the man.
250 words
@drmag00.bsky.social
Annie watched the three little boys as they played. She glanced over at the other wives. “How do you do it?”
“Do what?” Sally looked up from the mass of yarn covering her rounded belly. “Crochet?”
Smiling, Annie shook her head. “No. Sit around all cool and calm while they’re out there doing…well…you know. I mean, Sean was already out of the army when we met.” She blinked, considering. “Well. Not exactly out but not…you know…on…” She inhaled. “What do you call it? Deployment? Or something. I mean, how did you get through the holidays? How did you get through anything?”
Hannah cleared her throat. “How did you manage as a single mom, Annie?”
“Okay. I managed but it was hard and I knew Cody’s sperm donor would never be around so I did what I had to do. How do you go from having them with you to having them lord knows where doing lord knows what but very likely in danger?” Her gaze settled on Jacey. “What do you do when they don’t come back?”
“It’s like the commercial, hon,” Jacey replied, her voice soft. “You just do it.”
“Okay, enough,” Hannah said.
“Uh oh,” Liz stage whispered. “I recognize that look.”
“Hannah…” Jacey’s voice held a warning.
“Look, we’re in this together. I vote we take Christmas on the road.” She stuck out her hand. “All for one…”
Each woman added her own hand. “One for all,” they agreed.
“Road trip!” Izzy yelled.
****
250 Moonstruck: Retribution WIP words
Silver James https://www.facebook.com/AuthorSilverJames/
When Sunshine woke the next morning, she was greeted by the single largest dragon she had ever seen, even larger than Scream. The dragon was watching her. “Ah. You are awake.” The dragon turned his back to Sunshine. “When you are ready, we will go see the Angels.” The dragon sat down.
Sunshine wandered off a bit, out of sight of the dragon, and got herself organized. When she was ready, she returned to the dragon. “What’s for breakfast?”
“Oh, I forgot. You need breakfast.” The dragon stood up and declared, “Breakfast for the fairy, machines.”
“You know about the machines?”
“Merlin told me of them.” Breakfast appeared for Sunshine. Fresh apple juice, strawberries, and a slice of ham. “They told me you were coming.” The dragon grinned, which revealed razor-sharp teeth, and lots of them. “We’re in this together, you and I.”
“Then I should know your name.”
“I have no name. And you have no time to worry about it.”
“What do I call you?”
“The watcher.”
“Because you watch the Angels?”
“As good a reason as any.”
The dragon paused, “When you are ready, we shall go.”
Sunshine drank the last of the apple juice to wash down the ham and strawberries. She flexed her wings, and told the dragon, “Well, Watcher. I’m ready.”
“Follow me. I’ll make sure you can keep up.”
The two took to the sky and followed the river further inland.
239 Words (Per Google Write)
@mysoulstears.bsky.social
“Maybe cutting off your ears and tail will help you remember your place!”
The lead elf broke the seal between his sword and scabbard with a thumb. A little mouse-girl looked up with tears in her eyes.
“Please! I didn’t do anything!”
The next elf’s kick to the back of the girl’s knee sent her face first into the dirt.
“Filthy, lying halfling!”
Morrigan didn’t expect the rest of the world to be as enlightened as The Green. It still sickened her to see the weak abused like this.
“It takes three of you to beat up a little girl?”
The elves turned on Morrigan. She saw in their eyes that they had mistaken her for a fellow elf.
“This unworthy halfling stole food from an elf-only teahouse. She needs to be made example of!”
“The next to harm her answers to my blade.”
Morrigan placed her hand on the hilt of her obsidian longsword. That set the elves off. Each clearly had at least as many decades of training as Morrigan. But none of them were Unseelie Knights. She allowed them to flee and reflect on their actions.
“Thank you so much, lady!” The girl radiated gratitude from her wide eyes. “We’re in this together, now. So, what can I get you to show my thanks? Maybe a dumpling?”
Morrigan considered the elven dumpling the girl produced from her sleeve.
“You did steal from the teahouse?”
“Yup! Got those thugs’ purses too!”
243 words
@davidaludwig.bsky.social
“He was scoping out the place and looking for cracks in security.” Martin’s voice had gone hard and certain.
“We don’t know that.” Corbin wanted it to be true, but he had the feeling there was something off about Max Aberdeen.
“It doesn’t matter. We need to upgrade your security system ASAP and add cameras to the public areas as well as the entrances.” Martin headed for the stairs up to the apartment. “I’m gonna do some research on the best sort of system for this place.”
Corbin wanted to protest, but he knew from experience that Martin wouldn’t listen when in his SEAL headspace. He didn’t want to put in alarms and cameras, but he couldn’t argue with Martin’s assessment of Aberdeen.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I agree with your man there.” Avery pulled out the big kitchen mixer and fitted the paddle to the machine.
“What? Are you feeling all right, Avery?” Corbin shot them a grin to take the sting out of his words.
“Shut up.” They scowled playfully. “Martin might be a SEAL who broke your heart, but he’s not wrong about Max Aberdeen. I remember him growing up. If he was here scoping out the place, you definitely need better security measures in place.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry, Corbin. We’re in this together and between Martin and me, we’ll have your back no matter what.” Avery started measuring ingredients for the cakes.
“What does that mean?”
“It means Max Aberdeen is trouble.”
249 ineligible #StainlessSteelSEALs words
@siobhanmuir.bsky.social
I turned the door handle with my left hand and pulled the door. I stepped over the threshold and hit solid block of black, stumbling backwards. An arm grabbed me, and the door slammed.
“Whew!” a deep voice exhaled. “That wind is bitter cold.”
Shocked, I blinked looking up into gray-blue eyes of a man in a black coat.
I stepped backwards. “Who are you?”
“Len, Len Underwood.”
“Why are…?”
“Sorry, I surprised you. I guess your brother Drake hasn’t arrived yet.”
I took another step toward my German shepherd’s kennel. She was apathetically sleeping.
“What are you doing here?”
“Drake’s hired me to put in a fence that’s dog proof.”
“I don’t…”
“I know, he told me you’re an independent woman.”
“No, I don’t…”
“You don’t want his help, but he’s already paid me to do the job.”
A quick glance confirmed Sabrina was still sleeping. “Job?”
“Yeah, the fence.”
“But…”
“I know the weather’s bad, but tomorrow it’s supposed to warm up. Tomorrow afternoon, I can dig the post holes. If the weatherman is correct, on Wednesday I can concrete the posts in. Mind if I have a seat?” He pointed to the chair near the fireplace and then sat.
“Drake is not my brother.”
He dug in a pocket. “Oh, sorry, Drew sent me.” He offered me a card as a tattoo beat at the door.
Drew walked in. “Good, you’ve met.”
Now, Sebrina started barking.
“Hello, girl. Uncle Drew is getting you a backyard fence.”
###
249 words
pjhh@embarqmail.com
Deni sat by the hole in the ground, leaning back against the tree that provided shade over it. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. We fight, I get some sleep because i’m cranky, you have a good time and then meet some cute guy. Or woman. And then we have breakfast nd talk about it like it was nothing. the next day” She frowned, fingers curling into the dirt. “I wasn’t suposed to outlive you. You’re the one who doesn’t go out and fight nasty creatures that are seeped in dark magic.”
Her head flopped back until she looked into the branches of the tree that reached up to the sky above her, the leaves a bright green. “You told me that we are in this together. No matter what.” She looked over at the body. “I should have gotten sick a long time ago and it’s just like I’m taking a walk into a garden.”
She pushed herself up, grabbing the ropes, throwing them over the lowest branches of the tree so she could lower her sister into her grave. “I thought you would like this spot. Remember how the field below lookes like a carpet of blue and yellow in the spring? You thought it was the prietties sight to see. Wait for me at the Gates. I’ll fght Death itself to met you again.”
220 words
@solimond
197 words
sandrapenrod52@gmail.com
HUNGRY, INSIDE
“We’re in this together” landed us in jail.
I had the creaky upper bunk with my books, my partner the lower.
The old prison was dark and gloomy, cold stone and damp. It was dead quiet. Scary actually. Through our tiny window we could see one of the four old watch towers, a turret, like a castle, with a guard and an automatic rifle. The tower rose high above the rock wall, above curled barbed wire.
My stomach growled where I lay on the dirty blue blanket of my bunk. “I’m getting hungry,” I whispered to my partner.
“Me too. When do you think they’ll finish up?”
“I don’t know. But we’d better get back in pose.” With my chin resting on a stack of paperback romance novels, my hair splayed across my back, I flashed a sultry look through the bars of the cell door.
Then my stomach rumbled again, loud enough to echo through the grim silence.
My partner barked out a laugh. I felt the antique metal bunk bed quiver as she rolled
over, holding her stomach, I imagined, atop the thin mat of her bed.
We were no more good.
“Cut” yelled the cameraman.
** The Street Performer’s Tune **
A street performer with a sleeve of tattoos, telling a story you can’t understand, leans against a lamppost, strumming a tune you can’t place. The music isn’t from the past. It’s not a revival of an old song you might have known. It’s part of a present that you don’t belong to.
“We’re in this together,” he sings. You wonder what he means, what he knows.
But the lyrics fall apart before they can sink into your consciousness. All you want to do is hum the tune, but you can’t. You drop in a dollar anyway.
Dad drank black coffee, all right. And he smoked cigarettes, and these vices marked his teeth like a signature.
You walk by the place where that breakfast restaurant used to be. The one you sat in once, years ago. You looked up at Dad tipping his mug back and grinning that yellow grin across the table. Mom grinned back. Yellow, too. Smoke hung in the air—burnt toast and Winstons—clinging to plastic counters and polyester booths, thick and soft, something that felt like belonging.
And you sat between them, scrambled eggs on your plate. Everything was fine.
No one knows when things begin—or end. All you know is that at some point, you find yourself ordering your coffee black. At some point, you look down and see that your eggs are no longer scrambled.
Half a block later, you realize you’re humming. Just under your breath. The street performer’s tune. You remembered it after all.
250 words
@clay_sweatpants
#ThursThreads is now CLOSED. Thanks to everyone (truly) who wrote this week and I hope to see you next week.