Welcome back to the home of #ThursThreads for Week 640 and Happy Boxing Day! I hope your holiday was lovely. 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 640:
Scientist, Dad, and flash fiction author, Eric Martell.
And now your #ThursThreads Challenge, tying tales together.
The Prompt:
“We’re all glad you’re here.”
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!
**To Family**
The table was set with the good china, the kind they only brought out for holidays and funerals. The roast sat untouched, steam curling upward like it was trying to escape. Forks clinked against plates.
Their mother smiled faintly at the head of the table, her skin paper-thin. She raised her wine glass. “To family,” she said, her voice a whisper.
“To family,” they echoed, avoiding each others’ eyes.
The youngest brother sipped his wine. “It’s good you came, Jay,” he said. “We’re all glad you’re here.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
The middle brother said nothing. He never did.
Jay shifted in his seat, glancing at their mother, then at the empty chair where Dad used to sit. “Yeah,” he said.
The room felt small. The air was heavy. Jay reached for his glass. His hand shook—only a little, but his brothers noticed. They always noticed.
Mom didn’t notice, or maybe she pretended not to. She was good at pretending. She just looked at Jay, like mothers do, and smiled.
Her little boy, still worth saving.
Jay stood, his chair scraping against the floor. “I need some air,” he muttered, already heading for the door.
Nobody stopped him.
Outside, snow fell in quiet sheets. Jay lit a cigarette and breathed in the smoke. His hands stopped shaking. The world softened.
He looked back through the window, where his family sat, stiff and silent.
He thought about going back in.
Instead, he stood there, watching the snow bury everything.
250 Words
@krvanhorn.bsky.social
Yes, I liked this story too!
“Keeper.”
Diana paused and glanced back at Yssa. “Yes?”
“Thank you for all you do. We’re all so glad you’re here now.” Gratitude shone from Yssa’s face.
“Thanks, Yssa. I’m not sure the Regent feels the same, but I’m glad I’m here, too.”
Yssa sighed. “He’ll come around. He doesn’t realize just how much the people need you. You’re the inspiration to keep trying and going when all seems lost. Please take care out among the people, but doing these forays are more important than you know.”
“Okay, then. Off on a sneaky adventure. Come on, Casirra. Time to go.”
The little Tzalorin chirped and flitted to Diana’s shoulder before settling into the hood around Diana’s head to remain hidden. Diana nodded to Yssa and followed her through the servants’ passages to the front of the palace. The guards were posted at various doors, but they left the servants mostly alone.
Diana had figured out that the folks who supplied the palace with food and goods came in via the kitchen courtyard. Most wore uniforms of the various merchants, but some wore cloaks and appeared anonymous. She fit in with this last group and with a little gentle subterfuge, was able to slip out past the guards by carrying an empty crate out to the pile for merchants to collect.
Then she kept going, walking confidently out of the palace walls with Casirra watching from her hood, amusement and excitement radiating from the Tzalorin.
244 ineligible #Sapphic #WIP words
@siobhanmuir.bsky.social
The Volunteers
Half of us were weeping. A few, uncontrollably. It was understandable. Their joy was infectious. The other half, well, they were smiling. Gleeful in the extreme, but less effusive I thought.
I was doing neither, neither weeping nor grinning, wanting somehow to turn away from this celebration, to not be a part of it. My tendency to be put off by gushing of any sort was driving me, I suppose. I was always one to stand aside, to reflect on the bigger picture.
This whole journey was definitely fraught with big picture…pixels.
The Three Wise Whitecoats stood on the stage. One, the one we often referred to as The Grim Keeper, stepped forward. He was their usual spokesperson. The other two headed up the two working teams, our group of five hundred Guinea Pigs and the other group, the group we now knew were The Placebos.
“We’re all glad you’re here,” effused the Grim Keeper, Dr. Theodore Mange. “This has been a magnificent journey and there were bound to be…volunteers who would not complete the voyage.”
Just then, one of the weepers shouted out, “Why did they all have to die? Why you bloody…” And his next words were muffled as three Custodians, those always dressed in blue, seized him, wrapped his face in gauze, and shuffled out of the Auditorium.
Mange continued. “Our now absent friend knows why. You all knew why, the essence of the expedition. The plague will now end. Sacrifice and Survival. Thank you.”
250 Words
@billmelaterplea
Ever since Gladys McKinley crossed over, she won’t sit still. She was a motivational coach, traveling to companies and schools to…motivate them, I guess. And she isn’t ready to be done. So she’s designated herself the official greeter of the Afterlife
“Hello Louis!” she chirps, as an elderly gentleman walks into the waiting room. “We’re all glad you’re here!”
“Pardon me, Gladys, just gonna sneak past ya quick.”
Louis and his wife walk away, catching up on life. Another crossover comes in, and Gladys smiles, wrinkles deepening.
“Welcome, Maribel! We’re all glad you’re here! The Afterlife is a great place to grow up! Remember it’s all about your attitude!”
The teenager gives Gladys the side eye as she walks away with her aunt, muttering about the weird old lady.
Before anyone else appears, I pull her to the side and she frowns.
“Gladys, I need someone to motivate the kids not to be too sad while they wait for their families. Follow me!”
She gives me the side eye as we walk into a park full of kids running and playing. Gladys eyes the place, as a smile spreads on her face.
“What do you think?”
She claps her hands, drawing the attention of the kids. “I’m Gladys, and I’m here to cheer you up! Let’s go!”
I leave her to it. My first week as The One True Death is going better. The arrivals will no longer feel accosted first thing after they die. I call that a win.
@Aightball
250 words
From the front window to the kitchen door, the light along the bar gets progressively darker, as if diving deeper into the ocean.
Today, Ben Frazee was exploring the Marianas Trench of alcoholic melancholy, drowning whatever flame he carried for his ex, Kasie.
“Hey, Ben. What’s happening?” I said as I came on shift.
“Need a different point of view, like looking through the bottom of a glass” Ben said as he sipped his last lick of bourbon. “Another glass of enlightenment, Billy.”
“Girl trouble?”
“Does it matter? We’re all here for sad reasons. Why else would we start before noon on a Tuesday?”
“Maybe slow your roll. Please?”
“I always liked you, Billy. Honest, good listener, you care. A saint, brother. We’re all glad you’re here.” Ben shook my hand. When he let go, a ten-spot was stuck to my palm.
“Next one’s on me, but that’s it for a while. Okay?” Thought he’d cry. Sometimes drunks are hard to figure.
At break I slipped away to call Kasie to tell her about Ben.
“Doesn’t matter, baby. Oh, can you pick up some milk on your way? Gimme a call first, though, so I can…turn on the porch light,” she said. Then “click.”
Back at the bar, Ben was gone. That’s when I realized I forgot to ask Kasie what kind of milk. What’d it matter? I’d be going to my place now anyway.
Women and drunks. Hard to figure. Love’s worse. But what’s that matter, either?
250 Enlightened words
@JAHesch
@jahesch.bsky.social
I stood on the sidewalk staring at the building. Laughter and music spilled out when the door opened. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t belong here. Not anymore. With luck, I could slip in, speak to the one person I needed to, then high-tail it out of there. Squaring my shoulders, I pushed through the restaurant’s entrance.
Someone grabbed my arm and gave me a smothering hug before spinning me to someone else. Faces blurred and my nose crinkled from the mixture of perfume, aftershave, and food.
I ended up in the room’s center standing next to the old woman who’d commanded my presence. She clapped her hands. Music and conversation muted.
“My granddaughter,” Baba Irina said.
The man standing with her raised his glass. “We’re all glad you’re here.”
“Not all of us.” A woman I didn’t recognize muttered it under her breath but I heard. So did the man with my grandmother. He stared at the woman and she blanched.
The man cut his gaze to me and his expression softened. My knees wobbled so I locked them. He was…not handsome. No, not handsome at all but he was compelling. Dark. Dangerous. He flicked his fingers. Two men moved in and hustled the woman away.
“I am glad you are here,” he said.
After an awkward moment, the music started, followed by laughter. “You’ve grown up,” he said.
That’s when I recognized him. Oh, shit. Mikhail Rustokovich—the reason I’d run away ten years ago.
****
250 Russian Mob Wolves future WIP
Silver James silverjames.com
So, Two Weeks Later…
The photo shoot in the crumpled old prison was wrapping up. No more laughs ruining a scene, we were finishing on schedule.
I liked the set. Fun in a creepy way, my partner and I explored the empty hallways and dark stairwells, noticing once a red splat on a cracked wall to which we nervously laughed, “It’s only red paint,” and moved along. We popped in and out of empty cells with dusty cots and metal bunks, play acting prisoner’s, as really was our job, careful to not close the barred doors. That would be scary.
Time now to “Break out,” said my model partner, gathering her things from the bunk she’d lounged upon during the shoot. Yep… I clumbed to the top bunk to gather my props of romance novels, a raggedy blue prison jumpsuit and dirty blanket, a tin mug.
Outside the cell three men, groundskeeppers, gatekeepers of the remote stone penal castle said to our cameraman, “Why don’t you help those ladies with their stuff?” So obligingly, David joined us.
The men shuffled a step and one reached out to grasp the iron door, to gently push it teasingly closed. The quiet click of the antique hardware sent a little jolt of fear into my heart, but the men were smiling, just joking.
“We’re all glad you’re here,” they said almost simultaneously, stepping back as one.
“Haha. Let us out now,” said David. “Really, we have schedule to keep.”
And through the bars we smiled along, and then… watched them walk away.
250 words
sandrapenrod52@gmail.com
Listen well.
Whether it’s true or not, and sometimes I think it’s a lie, they always tell you, “We’re all glad you’re here.” See. It’s part of what they have to do. They’ll tell you who is glad you’re here. It will include your spouse or significant other, if you have one. Children, if you have any. People you know at work. People at church.
Basically, if there are people involved. People you encounter regularly. They’ll tell you these people are glad you’re here and would miss you if you weren’t here anymore. It’s all part of the journey, see.
Depression tells you no one cares. It tells you no one will notice if you’re gone. That everyone will be better off without you, that you won’t be able to disappoint them, bring them down, let them down, hurt them, ever again.
It pretends to know how other people feel.
You have to learn that depression lies. The doctors telling you, “We’re all glad you’re here,” aren’t lying. Maybe the doctor isn’t thrilled that you’re depressed. But they are telling the truth. Other people will in fact miss you if you’re gone. They will have broken hearts. Hearts that you broke.
No one wants to break the hearts of others.
That’s where it starts. “We’re all glad you’re here.” It grows with you looking into the hearts and souls of those around you. They won’t tell you. But they will show you. If you look, they will show you.
249 Words (Per Google Write)
@mysoulstears.bsky.social
“This is your problem.”
Morrigan stopped in front of the silent village shrine.
“U-unlikely.”
The village priest shivered. Not a good sign if he couldn’t even separate himself from his physical circumstances. Morrigan hummed and felt the mana around the shrine vibrate sympathetically.
“I wonder…”
“We’re all glad you’re here,” the priest sneered, “but I a-assure you our shrine is perfectly in order.”
Ignoring the priest, Morrigan tried singing the note the mana had responded to. The reaction was even stronger. The knight had never been the best at counter-spelling, so she was trying something experimental. Modulating her voice, she pushed and pulled the illusion around the shrine until she took control of it entirely.
Morrigan smiled and turned the illusion back on its caster. Now everyone could see the disrepair the shrine had fallen into.
“D-dear gods! What have you done!?”
The priest, horrified by the true state of the shrine, was lucky he couldn’t see what the local god was now seeing. Whatever her reason for hiding the decay of her shrine, Morrigan was certain an ice spirit wouldn’t appreciate seeing it in flames.
“I’m guessing you can’t work miracles.” Morrigan addressed the priest.
The shrieking of the enraged spirit descended on the village. Confirming no one else was there to see his confession, the priest shook his head fearfully.
“Then you’d better hide.”
Morrigan turned her back to the shrine and placed her hand on the hilt of her longsword.
243 words
@davidaludwig.bsky.social
#ThursThreads is now CLOSED. Thanks to everyone who wrote this week and I hope to see you next week in 2025!