Welcome back to the home of #ThursThreads for Week 653. 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 653:
Jolly cynic and Transcendentalist groupie, K.R. Van Horn.
Bluesky |
And now your #ThursThreads Challenge, tying tales together.
The Prompt:
“He opened it anyway.”
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!
Shadowed
“It will rise over the mountains, “ she had said pointing to the Blue Hills to the east. The forest beyond had assumed a gun barrel cobalt hue. She hadn’t explained further, and he chose to let any questions drift into the calm of the evening. He relished the sound of the water lapping on the rocks just below them as they rested in the Palapa.
A slender cooling breeze from the quiet sea whispered in.
Across the bay, the sound of two guitars and laughter skipped like melodic stones across the water.
He had wanted to say how magical it was but that seemed too obvious. She had held him tight, and he had hung on as well, pleased with the moment but aware that he needed to know more.
He would be gentle in his probing. She had always been a closed book, something she had admitted when they had first met at Berkeley. Back then he was content to just be with her. Here, there was too much mystery, too many unknowns, certainly for him. She might not want to share her darker stories but for his own piece of mind, he opened it anyway.
“You wanted me here,” he declared. “I need to know why. Maybe not tonight. This…this is paradise…but tomorrow, or the next day, if I’m to be any real part of your life here, you need to come clean. Whatever it is.”
As he made his case, she turned away.
And laughed.
250 maybe WIP
@billmelaterplea
@sterlings-son-2.bsky.social
Corbin didn’t know where the endearment came from. He’d never called Martin anything other than friend or buddy. But in his head, Martin had always been his sugar bear, a big, burly, comforting presence, sweet like his own cinnamon rolls.
“I know it’s scary, but you’re not alone.” He shouldn’t open up so much of his heart, but he opened it anyway, trying to show Martin through his eyes that he’d be there. “I’ve got you and I’ll help any way I can, okay? You’re still learning how to deal with this and like baby steps, you’re gonna fall down from time to time. No one criticizes a baby when she falls, they just encourage her to keep going. And that’s what we’re doing with you while you’re healing. You got this. It won’t be forever, and you’ll learn how to deal with it happening. Promise.”
Slowly, Martin’s body relaxed from it’s rigid state and his breathing changed from panic to normal. Corbin held him until Martin was able to move his arms, struggling to rise. Corbin released him, but watched in case Martin’s body failed again.
“How are you feeling?” The nurse crouched beside them, her expression a mixture of encouragement and caution.
Martin swallowed and nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“Can you help us get you up into the chair?” A wheelchair appeared on her other side, and she offered her hand to Martin to help him up.
He nodded again, and Corbin scooted out of the way.
250 ineligible #StainlessSteelSEALs words
@siobhanmuir.bsky.social
Before you ask, it wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t President Casmir’s fault, it was Ranak’s!!
The box had arrived on my doorstep with a note,
”Do not open this! Keep this safe for me. ~ Casmir.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t home when the package arrived and my next-door neighbour collected it. Sarah was a good neighbour, her husband, Ranak was not. Ranak hated that I was a virologist, that I was smarter than him. Ranak opened it anyway.
The box was beautiful ornate and probably should have held gold and jewels for someone else but it was lead lined and painted with chemicals to contain the virus. The virus was so lethal it would contaminate anything with 100 miles and quickly mutate and spread through the population. Ranak opened it a half-an hour before I arrived.
Now we live in a time where everyone believes they are smarter than everyone else and it’s dumbing down the population. Everyone questions everything to the point where nothing is working. I found a cure. Casmir has decided for the good of the population an arial spray vaccination is the ticket, but will it work?
It worked on most, but some still live the virus, so government has decided when they get in position of power, they cannot be reasoned with, they must therefore be neutralized. They say it is the kindest cut after all. Unfortunately, Casmir has recommended this for me, but who I warned who else is next? Casmir? Your next door neighbour?
@SweetSheil 250 Words
Counting Steps
“My name’s Bob and I’m an alcoholic.”
That’s how I address the group, all of us sitting in a circle. Been to lots of meetings, about six different groups. New one for each time I fell off the wagon.
“Hi, Bob,” they sing back, like I’m some priest and they’re my choir. Ironic, since we’re sitting in the basement of St. Vincent’s rectory. That’s the pastor over there. We went to school together.
I once asked how he squares staying clean while having to splash some vino into his chalice seven days a week. Not to mention his Saturday matinee and any funerals he presides over.
“The secret, Bobby, is tipping barely a drop from the cruet and then adding lots of water. The Lord knows it’s the thought that counts. Plus, I pray a lot. More than the job requires. Helps most of the time,” Padre Eddie said.
“Only most?”
“Still here each week, right?”
“God bless you, Eddie,” I said to the guy who bought my gateway quart of Hedrick’s.
“Praying for you, Bobby,” Eddie said. “Top of my Step 8 list of people I’ve wronged.”
“We’re all somewhere on the path. See you soon.”
Too soon.
From his sacristy doorway, next morning, I spied Eddie praying. He pulled a bottle from the vestry closet. I heard him say, “Lord, please,” but he opened it anyway and downed it to the shoulders.
On my way to the bar, I lost count the steps we tripped over that morning.
250 words. Somehow.
@JAHesch
@jahesch.bsky.social
In the Death world, when there’s no immediate successor, the family tree combs through the descendants and picks someone. My boss is trying to avoid retirement and thinks hiding his family book at my house will prevent his eventual successor from taking over. He did say not to open it, which is as good as giving a kid a popsicle and saying don’t eat it. My dad did that to my brother once; he opened it anyway and enjoyed a popsicle.
My best friend, my brother, and I all stare at the book. I feel like we’re three kids in a cheesy television show. This is the point where the nosey kids open the book and unleash the fury of witches that have been dead for three hundred years. Brandon slowly pulls the cover back, their gold edged pages catching my overhead light, twinkling.
“Well, that was anticlimactic,” I say, looking at what appears to be a table of contents. “Nice handwriting, though.”
The curved elegance of calligraphy graces the yellowed page. Squinting, I try to make out the first few words; I’ve never been good at reading calligraphy. The script is certainly beautiful, though.
“This book is causing all the problems?” Brandon asks, and I nod.
The middle of the book falls open and we all jump when a literal tree spreads out, like a popup book. At the bottom, there’s a branch so small it might be a twig. And on that branch is written ‘Horace’s Successor, TBD’.
@Aightball
250 words
Sade blocked the doorway. “You can’t go in there, Ari.”
“What are you hiding?”
Nothing. Everything. The thoughts whipped through her mind but she didn’t voice them. “I’m here on official business.”
Ariel stiffened. “As if I didn’t see your badge. Move aside, Sade. I do not wish to hurt you.” He stepped closer, halting only when his chest met the palm she extended.
“Really? We’re going to play this game?”
“It is not a game, Sade.”
“You’re right. It’s not. That means it’s Agent Marquis to you.”
The Fae flicked his gaze to the man standing a few feet away. “Do you desire to test your strength against my magic, werewolf?”
Caleb shrugged. “Sade’s right. This is a crime scene. We’re FBI agents. You’re not. Go home, Ariel. There’s nothing you can do here.”
He opened his mouth to retort but the lights dimmed. Sade’s hand immediately reached for her weapon. Caleb also reached for his, though his hand had grown fur and claws.
Swirls of darkness danced across the ceiling. Before any of them could react, the shadows dove to the floor and slid beneath the closed door.
“What the hell?” Sade whispered, her 9mm pistol in hand.
Ariel reached around her and grabbed the doorknob.
“Don’t go in there.”
He opened it anyway. “I’m the only one who can.” Ari stepped through and was swallowed by darkness.
Caleb exchanged looks with Sade. “We have to go after him.”
“Well, shit.” She braced and nodded. “Let’s go.”
****
249 Penumbra Papers WIP words
Silver James https://silverjames.com
The notebook was hers. She’d locked it shut for a reason, and he knew that. But she’d been dead for two years. He figured she wouldn’t really mind anymore, so he opened it anyway. All it took was a screwdriver, wedged between the cover and the lock. The lock broke easily.
At first, he stared at the notebook and had one last debate with himself about opening it. After all, he’d known her for 52 years before the cancer got her. What could there be in the notebook that he didn’t already know about her?
He opened it to the first page. It was neatly printed. He knew he would have no problems reading the words.
To his surprise, it was not a diary. It was not a journal. It was poetry. It was drawings. It was her experimenting with words, learning to say what she thought, what she felt. Learning to capture fleeting moments of time on paper.
Stories of blue skies and white clouds. Words about frustration with children, and how they never understood what she said to them. Poetry of emotions. Crying one day for no reason. Laughing on another day. Phrases of loss when each of the cats died. Finally reaching the knowledge that her days were numbered, and the cancer would win. Words of learning to live in each moment. Each heartbeat.
Words of hope that he would learn to live without her.
Words to let him know all things end.
246 Words (Per Google Write)
@mysoulstears.bsky.social
Lord Eric Pembroke smoothed his pencil mustache with a finger while contemplating the telemetry from his battle suits. The first four were all disabled within the first thirty seconds of contact, but the fifth lasted the better part of a minute on its own after that. Eric attributed that to the pilot. The contrasting data was a bargain at a few measly million dollars.
A silent alarm drew his attention to one of his security monitors. He would have preferred to be left alone with the data, but it wasn’t entirely unexpected that Dream Girl would figure out where the battle suits came from. The colorfully caped do-gooder could, of course, phase right through the blast door protecting his lab as easily as if the composite steel were open air. He opened it anyway.
“Dream Girl? To what do I owe the pleasure?”
The domino-masked young woman hovered into Eric’s laboratory, clearly on alert for any tricks or traps. Eric was more interested in the level of fine control she had over her flight.
“Lord Pembroke. I’m sorry to say, some of your technology wound up in terrorist hands.”
Eric pondered which of his clients might have sold him out. And what he might extract from them in recompense.
“That is distressing. I trust they weren’t any trouble for you to apprehend.”
“I had to do quite a number on your suits. You might be able to get the pieces back from the government.”
“I’ll look into that.”
248 Lord Pembroke and Dream Girl words
@davidaludwig.bsky.social
#ThursThreads Week 653 is now CLOSED. Thanks to everyone who wrote this week and I hope to catch you next week.