Welcome back to the home of #ThursThreads for Week 647. 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 647:
Dead Thing Specialist, Mining Geologist, and Original Book Boyfriend, George Varhalmi.
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And now your #ThursThreads Challenge, tying tales together.
The Prompt:
“I could ask her thoughts.”
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!
Leilani Moon
If she were still here, I could ask her thoughts. I know what she would say. But even if I did know, I would never give them voice.
I once had a bad habit of finishing her sentences, even if they weren’t quite what she meant to say. So it was not unusual for her to snap back and instruct me directly, “Don’t do that you big galumph.”
Sometimes her command to stop would be accompanied by a smile. I craved that smile. Occasionally I imagined the smile was there even when it wasn’t.
Whatever the subject was that we were discussing and often it was politics, we usually were in accord. I thought at the time, before I got wiser, that finishing her sentences was a sign of our shared beliefs, proof that I knew what she stood for. My parents had been like that, but more often than not, it was my mother who completed my father’s sentences. He was not a talkative fellow and my impression was that he appreciated the effort my mother put in to assist him to finish his thought.
I once explained this to Leilani, explained how I was raised, the love that I thought my parent’s shared. She looked at me as if I never buttered bread or cooked with spices. In other words, that I was lacking some of the key ingredients to make her happy.
I see her image in the night moon now.
And I am speechless.
250 words
@billmelaterplea
@sterlings-son-2.bsky.social
“Just letting you know visiting hours are over and the Master Chief needs his rest.” She waved at Martin. “Your friend can come back tomorrow at 0800.”
“Well, guess that means I should go.” Corbin got to his feet and cleaned up the turnover container. “And when I come back tomorrow, I’ll bring some treats for you and your caregiver team.”
The nurse’s smile widened. “In which case, we might give you a special pass so you can come in anytime.” She winked at Corbin and left the room.
Martin snorted. “Bribing the staff already, I see.”
“Oh yeah.” Corbin gathered up his things and the trash. “If it works to get you the best care, I’m not above a little bribery. I mean, I could ask her thoughts on which kinds of goodies will be most optimal for the staff on my way out.”
“You would, wouldn’t you?” Martin shook his head.
“Hell, yeah, I would. Only the best for you.” Corbin reached out and cupped Martin’s cheek as his smile softened. “I’ll always do what I can for you.”
The warmth from earlier refilled Martin’s chest and he had the unreasoning hope that Corbin would kiss him. Their gazes met and held, and Martin thought Corbin leaned forward a bit. But then Corbin’s smile turned friendly affectionate and he pulled back his hand.
“All right. I’ll see you in the morning. Sweet dreams and sleep well.”
“Yeah, thanks. Good night, Corbin.”
Corbin waved and headed out the door.
250 ineligible #WIP words
@siobhanmuir.bsky.social
Ariel’s gaze flitted between the two men sitting across from him. They remained poker faced. He exhaled, shrugging his lean shoulders. “I could ask her thoughts.”
Caleb exchanged a long look with Sinjen, who cleared his throat and replied. “I’m sure she will have some.”
The werewolf covered up his snorting laughter with a protracted cough. The vampire helpfully pounded his back while the perplexed fae watched.
“Yes,” Sinjen agreed. “You could do that.”
Caleb, inhaling deeply to smother another round of laughter, nodded. “Indeed. We all know she has them. Thoughts.”
“And she is never shy about sharing them,” Sinjen added.
Ariel stared at the burgundy liquid in his wine glass. “I have little choice. The King has given me none.”
Grabbing his phone, Caleb scrolled through his contacts. “I’ll call and have her meet us here.”
Slender finger far stronger than they appeared shackled Caleb’s wrist. “No.” The forceful denial burst from Ariel’s mouth.
Caleb stared at the Fae until he loosened his fingers and removed his hand.
“If Oberon has taken away your choices, Ariel, there’s no reason to postpone the inevitable.”
“That’s easy for you to say, Sinjen. You live with her.”
The vampire’s eyes went unfocused. “There is nothing easy about her, my friend.” He glanced at Caleb. “Would you not agree?”
“Oh yeah. Totally.”
“My ears are burning.”
Three pairs of eyes turned to the woman standing next to the booth. The guilt was palpable. Sade got right to the point. “Who needs killing?”
****
250 words in a random scene from a future Penumbra Papers WIP
Silver James silverjames.com
The Hab drifted away, eclipsing fewer stars as the distance between us increased. Soon, it would be out of sight, and I’d never be found in time. If I had a working comms transceiver, I could alert the AI; I could ask her…
Thoughts like that are never productive. I could spin dozens of scenarios that would come to nothing. Most of them depended on somebody seeing me, organising a rescue that would reach me in time, their anonymous suit at the end of its tether propelling itself toward me before my oxygen or its security line ran out.
And yet, there were other options.
I could aim my helmet’s flashlight at the viewing port on the side of the Hab, my steady tumble through space making it impossible for me to concentrate its beam against the glass. Maybe I could control it by turning my head, lengthening the time between its flashes, trying my best to not lose my orientation and my awareness of our relative positions. I could do that; it would be better than waiting for my inevitable end.
A blue light flared out from one of the directional cone clusters, turning the Hab on its axis. It was impossible for it to be by chance.
Maybe it was the AI – it was always watching, surveying the heavens for new life. In a way, I’d be a disappointment to its mission directives. I was unmistakably human and familiar to its sensors.
Hurrah for the mundane, I say.
250 words – twothirdzrasta.blogspot.com
I wished I could ask her thoughts about the whole affair, but she’d died years before. She cast her lot in with the liars and the grifters and the poison-sellers and the criminals (common and otherwise), and when the system came crashing down, she crashed with it. She maintained her way was the right way – the only way – until the bitter end, when there were no hospital beds or doctors, no way to get nutritious food that didn’t involve a gun or gold, no clean water or safe roads. And she died, unrepentant, unmoved, unbroken.
Her grandchildren had died too, one of measles, one of lead poisoning from the pipes, one of lead poisoning (from the bullets that entered his seven-year-old skull at school). That left me alone, unloved, unmoored.
I didn’t mourn her. Who mourns the arsonist when your house burns down. I mourned the kids, a future torn from them by those who couldn’t let go of imaginary pasts. But wearing black didn’t bring them home to me, even before my home burned.
The solstice was coming, and when I was a child, I would have been on the lookout for snow, but it didn’t get snow-cold here anymore. It would likely rain, though. I’d have to stay inside. The water does a number on my skin.
I wish I could talk to her, to make her see what happens when you choose so poorly, but she was dead. The rest of us just wish we were.
249 words
@drmag00.bsky.social
His office echos with thunder and a bolt of lightning singes the desk. With the wave of one skeletal hand, the scorch marks are gone, the raindrops that crinkled the paperwork on the desk dry, and the thunder recedes. After a few minutes, his head cocks to one side.
“Do you feel better?” Horace asks, his eye sockets staring at me.
“No. You upset my best friend.”
A lightning bolt strikes his sternum through his black robes and he brushes the damage away. My best friend somehow got rooked into taking over for The One True Death, which went over like a fart in a church.
“The family tree has made its selection. If it would make you feel better, I could ask her thoughts; why she chose your friend.”
He waves off the damage from six more lightning bolts and a hurricane force wind gust. His attitude isn’t helping this situation in the least. My friend is pissed and so am I. She’s not part of the Death family, despite how often I vent to her about my job. And now she’s been chosen to take over a job she doesn’t want and isn’t even in line for!
“You’re not helping. Can’t you appoint one of your nephews or something?”
He shakes his head, spreading his hands. “It is done without my control. Your friend has been chosen, and the sooner she comes over to study with me, the better.”
Three tornadoes destroy his office as I storm out.
@Aightball
250 words (might end up in my book)
She’s done all the paperwork; and hauled me to the passport office, where we turned it all in. We’re getting passports. My guess is this means she wants to travel. I could ask her thoughts on this, but that would spoil the surprise, wouldn’t it?
She had me look at all the cruises offered by two cruise lines. She didn’t say, “Pick out a favorite sounding cruise.” In fact, she never asked me anything specific about the cruises, other than, “What do you think of the ships?”
I suppose I’ll be going somewhere in the future. And it will be on a ship at sea. But I’d rather not know about it before I have to get ready. That would spoil all the fun. That would remove the surprises of such a trip.
I know her. She’ll map the whole thing out. Have each day planned. What we’ll do at what time. Where we’ll be. All of it. And I’ll tag along for the ride.
Now you would tell me to talk with her about the trip. I will. When the time comes, and she asks me about it, I’ll talk about it. But. You see. I like spending time with her. I don’t really care what we’re doing, or where we’re going. As long as she’s there, I’m good.
It will be another journey with her. Which means it will be fun, and I’ll always remember it.
I like the surprises.
247 Words (Per Google Write)
@mysoulstears.bsky.social
Her name was Lila. She had dark hair and eyes. Attractive for a human, I suppose, but merely a shadow next to my brilliance.
We grew up together in our mothers’ performing troupe. At first, the children learn all the skills until they find the ones they’re best at. I particularly excelled at dance and the darbuka. Lila learned the rabab. I don’t remember if she was good at anything else. But the rabab complemented my dancing well.
The other kids avoided me. I guess their inferiority made them uncomfortable. But Lila stuck by me like my shadow. It was nice.
As we got older, she started spending more time alone in libraries wherever we found one on our travels. I mean, yes her playing had sort of plateaued and I kept improving even after leaving the adults behind. Maybe she was jealous. I could ask her thoughts at any point; but who really cares what a human thinks?
I wonder what made me think of her again.
168 words
@davidaludwig.bsky.social
𝘽𝙚𝙩𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙣
Facts are suggestions. Suggestions are weapons. Republicans quote Chomsky. Jesus loves fried chicken.
Somewhere, a sermon is being delivered.
Coffee with his eco-urban-planner-architect friend who reads op-eds, making her an expert in the socio-political implications of apple cider vinegar. The self-appointed Intelligentsia. 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦’𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩.
.
“Social constructs abound,” she concludes, eying a couple nearby. She waits. Garcia sips. Her turquoise earrings sway. Her yoga leggings cling. Her sneer calls Garcia a fascist.
At the office, Garcia’s colleague gripes about energy-saving appliances beeping and judging his decisions. He quotes documentaries: “No one is truly indigenous.” Declarations everywhere. Evidence nowhere. He waits. Garcia tongues a piece of food wedged between his molars. His colleague’s tie is crooked. His watch, heavy. His smirk calls Garcia a commie.
Driving home, Garcia lists his addictions. Is the red dye in his juice painting his organs like a Jackson Pollock? “Siri, what does the endocrine system do?” He needs to figure out how to pay for his kid’s braces. “Siri, how much do braces cost?” He has life to think about.
He’s exhausted. No social GPS. No echo chambers to flee to. Everyone sees him as sinister. Outrage and fear are the new gods.
Reason and nuance don’t trend. Garcia fits nowhere, so he’s suspect to everyone. Every opinion is a declaration of war.
Ahead, brake lights bloom red. He should drive straight into them and see what happens. It might be an argument worth having at least.
@krvanhorn (Bluesky & X)
250 words
#ThursThreads Week 647 is now CLOSED. Thanks to everyone who wrote this week and I hope to catch you next week.