Welcome back to the home of #ThursThreads for Week 641. Year 12! Happy New Year! 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 641:
Desk Jockey by Day, Writer by Night, Pecking her way through life, M.L. Gammella.
And now your #ThursThreads Challenge, tying tales together.
The Prompt:
“The world softened.”
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 Dream Beyond
“I wonder.”
“About what?”
“That final moment.”
“Really. I would imagine it happens so quickly…yet so slowly…”
“That’s what I wonder about. When it happens, do you fully grasp what it is. I mean, do you have time?”
“Not having been there, ever, and not wanting to be anytime soon, and honestly, never being with anyone who was passing, it is all a mystery to me…”
“You’ve been lucky. Death is happening all the time. Those recent plane incidents. Birds. Evil drones…evil perpetrators. All so sudden.”
“What’s brought this on? The world’s a mess. Thousands dying every day. Some are old and know it’s coming. Others, hell, wrong time, wrong place. You can’t dwell on it. It’ll make you crazy.”
“I don’t think its crazy making to wonder. It’s kind of human to think about death and life. How precious it is and how wasted it is sometimes.”
“Well, me, I have better things to do with my free time. Eat! Drink! And it’s a new year so plan to be merry. It’s a hard world and you have to grab the sweet moments wherever you find them.”
“Sure. I get that. I just think…I think I want the same, but I also want the world softened up every now and then. Release those trapped in the tide and time of pain.”
“Who could argue with that. Now tie your laces and lets get out on that rink. We have a hockey game to win.”
248 words
@billmelaterplea
Privilege
During the seventeenth-century tulip craze, one of my ancestors made such a substantial fortune on all of the speculating, with a little wise investing in the interim, that it’s sustained our family to the present day. Such boom-and-bust cycles defy logic even now, of course. They have little to do with the gut feeling of the novice investor, with expert opinion, or with good taste. Economists are wrong as often as they’re right. The modern financial system, peopled by psychopaths who excel at betting on the failure of a country’s economy or currency, suggests that it’s by sheer and egregious audacity that we came by our wealth through petals and idiocy.
These thoughts consumed me as I walked past a trio of bearded men in sleeping bags sitting in the vast doorway of the wrought-iron, redbrick market building. Inside, various stalls, run by bohemian men and women, offered local delicacies.
I went first to Theo’s stall, and purchased three tubs of hummus and accompanying flatbreads. Next, I ventured to Dieter’s hotdog stand, picking up three large brats with sauerkraut, ketchup, and mustard.
I next accosted the three homeless men, shivering at the entrance, handing them the food. Delighted and grateful, they set into their meal.
“The world softened for my family long ago.” I crouched down to look them in the eye. “You’re free to stay at my building’s doorway for as long as you need.”
“Thank you,” they chorused.
“No, no,” I said. “The privilege is mine.”
249 words @ragtaggiggagon
Mountain peaks and shale-filled valleys left nothing green to be seen. I was told there were volcanoes here once—long, long ago—and that there was a river somewhere down in the valley to our north. The elders were unclear on if the river was here before, during, or after the fire mountains. There are drawings of creatures who lived and played in the water before the soft ones laid waste to the earth.
Now, it is the time of the elemental.
Rock moving against rock, a part of my stone heart dropped from between the tectonic plates of my body to land in the valley beneath my spread thighs. The world softened beneath me as I breathed through the pain. I watched, recovering, as the soul fire melted the stone, and the shard of me pulsed with the life of the valley, changed color, and became its own as it rolled through crumbled stones. A small outcropping grew legs and arms, and a blocky head emerged with obsidian rivers for hair and brilliant emeralds for eyes.
“I name you Gaia.”
I had traveled far to find the gem giants and carried one’s spark inside me for a thousand moons. We shall make the world green again, my daughter and I.
Word count: 211
@miya_kressin
miyakressin.bsky.social
Indira loved seeing the Whisper Cat kittens, but what was more enchanting was the expression on the Keeper’s face. Her face filled with wonder and delight at the antics of the wild cats using their instincts to practice hunting skills. The world softened around her and Indira wanted to exist in that world forever—a place where the ordinary and natural were sacred and valued.
“How did you know they were here?” Diana leaned forward a little to get a better view.
“I’m the head wrangler of the royal brightmare herds. I have to be aware of predators around us.” Indira inwardly grimaced at her words, sounding more like a self-imporant snob than a tour guide. “But they’re really good at keeping down pests and they’re too small to take down a brightmare, so I let them be.”
The mama cat stepped out into the open and growled, her ears twitching. The kittens immediately left off their playing and scampered back into the safety of the palm leaves, leaving the small glade in silence. Indira wondered what had spooked them when a brightly colored beast arrowed out of the sky, to land on Diana’s shoulder. It had a wingspan of about a meter and rosy pink body with coral and gold undertones that flashed when it turned. Green eyes took in Indy’s form as the crested head tilted to get a better look.
“Holy Goddess, is that a Tzalorin?” The small winged lizards were natural predators of Whisper Cat kittens.
250 ineligible #SciFiWIP words
@siobhanmuir.bsky.social
REVENGE
The world softened, pulling him in, molecules dispersing to accept him. One moment he’d been there, rugged and solid.
And the next he was gone, leaving nothing but a memory.
~~~~~~~
“I saw it happening,” Marilyn said, her eyes reddened by tears. “I tried to reach for him, but my hand passed through him, not even disturbing the hair on his head.”
Kent had always been fastidious about his style. He wore suits fashioned by the French and kept his facial hair immaculately trimmed. He’d had a pompadour stacked so high that it would often graze against the top of the door frame when he walked through it, helped in part by the Cuban heels he wore. He was a large man, but he wanted to make a significant impression. He’d not been a mindless thug. He’d been a force of nature.
The scientist was a lesser man. He was balding and wore glasses, his eyes hidden by the thick glass of their lenses. His wardrobe was filled with polyester and nylon, the material hard and scratchy against his skin. It was almost as though he was suffering a penance for misdeeds he’d never spoken of.
But he was a man who’d been driven by desire.
“I can’t understand it,” he said, clutching the quantum disruptor pistol behind his back. “It’s not natural. Do you think it might have been something he ate?”
234 words (including title) – twothirdsrasta.blogspot.com
The world softened this morning. My first born son came into the world, and I like to joke that he had a scythe already in hand. Of course, his mother doesn’t appreciate my sense of humor, and I only told that joke once. Nevertheless, he is going to take over for me one day, so it’s not entirely a joke.
We named him Horace Hergenschmidt, first in line to the throne of Death. His birth will be celebrated, and his training begins when he turns eighteen. And is ready to learn the ways of The One True Death. Hopefully, when the time is right, he’ll have a son of his own, born with scythe in hand. It’s a two hundred year job; I have plenty of time to let him enjoy being a kid.
He will grow up both on Earth and in the Planes; I have created a comfortable home in both areas for my family. The children have plenty of space to play in the Planes, often befriending the children who have died and live on the Children’s Plane until a family member comes to get them.
He needs to get to know the Planes, so he will have the run of them. And I can keep track of him easily enough; everyone will know he is Horace. His big sisters will help his mother raise him while I take care of the dead. I can only hope that he enjoys this job as much as I do.
@Aightball
250 words from a different perspective
“Are you okay?”
“Apropos of what?”
“There you go again, using those big words.”
“Fine. In reference to what?”
“In reference to anything. It’s a simple question.”
Maybe for him it was. For her? Not so much. And she felt just ornery enough to argue the point. “How is it simple? For instance, am I okay with being stuck here with you? Am I okay that my life is falling apart? Am I okay that I’m broke? Am I okay that—”
He held up his hands in surrender and cut her off. “Okay, okay. I get it. You aren’t okay. Excuse me for asking. I’ll leave you alone now.”
Barely acknowledging his retreat, she listened to his footsteps fade away. Alone again. She might even prefer it. Oddly, there was comfort in the silence. A flicker on the other side of the window caught her attention. She watched as huge, fluffy snowflakes drifted from the sky like powder sugar shifted onto a chocolate cake by a meticulous decorator.
She rubbed her forehead, wishing the headache would recede. Stress. Once, she’d been carefree and confident. Now? Her world was hard, hurtful, with sharp corners.
Sensing the presence behind her, she didn’t move from the window. Arms circled her waist. “Sorry I’m late, babe. I couldn’t get away when your brother called.”
Leaning against him, with his warmth sinking into her very bones, the world softened. And made sense now that he was there.
“Yeah,” she whispered, knowing the answer. “I’m okay.”
****
250 random words
@Silver James_
**When Words Wait**
I overheard some guy say no one cares about poetry until someone they know dies. Until someone breaks your heart and they don’t love you anymore. “And all of a sudden, you’re desperate to make sense out of this life.”
His words hung on me, heavy. And I thought about you, about our last conversation—how I told you the world softened when you were around, and how you said my stories sounded like they rhymed, even though they didn’t. That was the best compliment I’ve ever received, before or since.
Your mom convinced me to go in alone to see you—to say goodbye. She waited outside, hands wringing. The room smelled like chrysanthemums and dust and wood polished too often. The white glare of the lights made everything too bright, too real.
The cold, waxy press of your forehead on my lips was the last thing I would ever feel of you, and to this day, I curse the idea that open caskets offer closure. Did you know I kissed you? Did it even matter?
Now I’m here, graying and looking back years. Fleeting years that held a low, steady hum but never quite broke the silence of your absence.
I haven’t written a word since, whether it rhymed or not. I didn’t get it. Maybe I didn’t even know I was sad. Maybe I didn’t understand until now that poetry doesn’t wait for you to find it. It builds, presses, until it has nowhere else to go but out.
250 Words
krvanhorn@bsky.social
Suzy didn’t believe in magic swordspeople. Even she recognized each one she’d seen as either a mage with a sword, or a swordsperson with a few spells. Not that Suzy could cast spells or handle a sword. She just knew none of the magic swordsmen or swordswomen she had seen were as good as they pretended to be.
Morrigan angled her obsidian longsword into the yuki-onna’s icy breath, cutting as easily through air and cold as through the spirit she sliced and diced from every side. Suzy wasn’t sure what the point of that was. But the swordswoman’s shadow magic flowed as overwhelmingly between offense and defense as her frightful blade. If any of it seemed to hurt the yuki-onna, Suzy would have said the spirit was badly outmatched.
The mouseling rubbed her frozen paws together in the bitter cold behind the snowbank where she was hiding. What was Morrigan trying to do? Each time the yuki-onna was broken into harsh snow, her discorporate flakes simply swirled back together. Wait. Did the spirit just stumble? Suzy’s eyes widened.
Quickly packing a snowball together, the mouseling waited for just the right instant to fling it into the yuki-onna’s face. Defending against Suzy instead of Morrigan’s next blow doomed the spirit. Her shock barely registered before she burst into gentle flakes that didn’t reform.
The world softened. It was still cold, but not bitterly so.
Sheathing her sword, the magic swordswoman nodded appreciatively back at Suzy.
244 words
@davidaludwig.bsky.social
President Carter’s death has been on my mind. He just seemed so genuinely good so when this prompt came up I thought of him. Here’s my story.
“Oh no!”
“What is the matter?” I asked my grandfather
“Former President, Jimmy Carter. Is dead”
“He seemed nice enough.”
“President Carter was from the golden age of government, when a politician actually lived up to his promises because he cared and meant what he said. He didn’t tear apart the country with terrible rhetoric that attacked the people that are the heart of our country, or our allies.”
“But he was so old.”
“He did so much for the world and our country.”
“Like what?”
“He helped saved North America as U.S. Navy lieutenant he helped Canada when they had a nuclear meltdown at Chalk River and risked never been able to father a child doing that. As president he signed into law bills that established the United States Department of Energy, the United States Department of Education and successfully pursued the Camp David Accords, the Panama Canal Treaties, and the second round of Strategic Arms Limitation Talks. He was the reason of a successful bid for the Atalanta Olympics. He was just a people person you know?”
I wish I had met him in person. The world softened when he was president and the people were better. They tried harder to be neighbors and friends to everyone. Even his neighbors after his presidency said that. “
“This is a great loss Grandpa.”
“Yes, it is to the world, child. Rest in Peace Jimmy Carter, we will try to keep your memory alive by being kinder to one another.”
@SweetSheil Bluesky and Twitter
250 words
“It’s important that you are on the ship to the island.” The old woman shoved things into a suitcase without much care before going to a small table by the bed, items scattered across it haphazard. She took a large jewelry box and upeneded it into the suitcase on top of the clothing before snapping it shut.”Make sure you are covered up and no one sees your face. Go out the kitchen. Phillip is waiting there with the carriage. Your sister is already out there.”
“But I don’t want to leave you.” Deni straightened up from where she stood. “Grandma, please don’t send me away. I”m sorry. I don’t mean to be strange. I’ll be better.” Her brow furrowed and her chest was tight since this morning. There had been visitors the night before and it had been the one time she heard her grandmother yell at someone. I’ll be good, I promise.”
The woman straightened up and gave Deni a tight smile, her eyes bloodshot and shadows sat under her eyes. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You are perfect. The world softened. But people haven’t. It will take time. And I promise, I will be waiting here until you can be safe. Please take care of your sister. I love you.” The old woman pressed her lips against Deni’s forehead. “Be safe.” She paused and pulled off the cameo necklacace around her neck. “Don’t forget me, my darling. I’ll wait for you to come home.”
@solimond (X and Bluesky)
249 words
#ThursThreads Week 641 is now CLOSED. Thanks to everyone who wrote this week and I hope to catch you next week.
Tremors rocked the earth. She placed her hand against the wall, widening her stance for balance.
Mira closed her eyes. Already, she stood in the best place to be during an earthquake— in the hall, under the doorway, without any nearby windows.
The floor lurched, undulating beneath her, and her stomach along with it. It didn’t matter that she’d lived in Southern California her entire life, born and raised. She’d never take for granted that it wouldn’t be the Big One.
Ten, twenty, thirty seconds. She counted, using her internal monitor to judge how bad it was. From the kitchen, her dog barked while outside the birds grew quiet. The windows in the living room rattled.
Thirty-six. It stopped. Then jolted: One final hurrah to keep her speculating. She ran her fingers over an existing crack in the wall. Someday the house may split in two, but not today.
The world softened and she left the safe harbor.
158 words
@LouisaBacio
Not eligible