Welcome back to the home of #ThursThreads for Week 657 of 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 657:
Most Consistent #TT Winner, Newfie mom, and Romance Author, Silver James.
And now your #ThursThreads Challenge, tying tales together.
The Prompt:
“There were always jobs to do.”
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!
Waterfall
Later in the day, they went for a hike back through the village and along a gentle river to a gorgeous waterfall.
“Let’s have a swim,” she’d said.
He was quick to follow.
Standing in the cool water at the base of the cascading falls, he was struck by the simple beauty of the scene. He watched her dive under the water and swim to the spot next to him where the falling water showered down. Just as she reappeared above the waterline, he said, “Tourists give their souls for places like this.”
“Tourists,” she replied, almost scowling, “most of them don’t have souls.”
Was that what he was he wondered. It was likely. He thought he might stay for a time. She seemed amenable. Yelapa, as idyllic as it seemed to him, the way she had immersed herself into the village, there might be room enough for him. He knew she came from old Chicago money. She would always have enough to get by on. He would have to do whatever he could. There were always jobs to do here, he imagined. Fishing. He could do that. They could buy a boat, maybe. Or build one. That would be a useful thing.
“That’s a mite harsh,” he finally responded. “Tourists being soulless. Am I one of them?”
She swam closer to him, reached around his shoulders, pulled him as close as skin allowed, said, “Yes. You, darling, you are my tourist lover. I’ll share my soul with you.”
250 WIP
@billmelaterplea
@sterlings-son-2.bsky.social
Sabina had been there for Mawrhi when her tahshiek Aaran had died. She’d been there through Mawrhi’s triumphs of a thriving mending and alterations enterprise, and the natural sorrows of her children growing up and moving away. And then Sabina had been the one person to share evening tea with her at the end of each day.
And now she’s gone, too.
The finality of the statement made new tears mix with the rain on her face and she closed her eyes. Now Mawrhi was truly alone.
She straightened and took a deep breath. There was nothing in the cemetery for her any longer. There hadn’t even been a body to bury, but Sabina had thoughtfully made sure to have a headstone waiting to be placed at the outer edges of the cemetery so anyone could visit who wanted to.
I’ll visit, Sabina. Even if you’re not here.
Mawrhi turned and walked along the edge of the graveyard under the trees that gave Lake Forest its name. She had several projects waiting for her, and clients didn’t care that her best friend had died. They just wanted their jobs done. There were always jobs to do despite what life threw at her, and Mawrhi needed the income to keep her small, shabby home.
Perhaps she should finish the current tasks and not accept new ones for a while, citing her grief. A little of her distress lifted at the thought, and her shoulders relaxed as she left the cemetery behind.
250 ineligible Sci-Fi words
@siobhanmuir.bsky.social
There were always jobs to do: Frank Halliday received an astronomical number of five-star ratings describing his duties as a piano tuner: charming, the reviews said, a twenty-carat gem, punctual, knowledgeable, reasonably priced. He leaned heavily on that unblemished public persona, careful to maintain the façade. But, beyond the world of ivory keys and concert hall aficionados, Frank lived a more daring existence. He was an artist in both realms—precise, methodical, and always on top of his game. The shadowy people he hung with didn’t need a piano tuner, but they did need a man who knew stealth, who could enter a house undetected, and, once inside, could manipulate intricate mechanisms with deft hands, and who could make things like fingerprints and evidence, disappear in his wake.
Tuning pianos offered him a certain freedom—membership in an elite club where beauty reigned instead of deception. Still, Frank’s limitless imagination played with his psyche. As much as enjoyed quiet rooms filled with music and harmony, he understood the unwritten rules of the other world, the underworld, a furtive existence to which he also belonged. There were always jobs to do.
190 words
“I didn’t kill anyone, will be my novel title.” was the first thing I said to my lawyer, brother, Rob.
“Don’t joke, the cops claim they have proof you committed the crime.”
“I didn’t join a cult…I was drugged, kidnapped and when I woke up, I was told my husband Simon had endorsed me to join the family. I told them I had no husband and they beat me.”
“You didn’t try to escape?”
“Every day for the last year, but I got no food and more beatings. There was always jobs to do. Cooking, cleaning, washing clothes by hand. They believe in traditional jobs for woman and men and you always be subservient to men. I hated Simon, but they killed him and I can prove it. The only one with the key to medicines was Alexander. He killed Simon.”
“Alexander says you took his key and poisoned Simon, but don’t worry I can get you off.”
Some tears later I admitted I’d tried to drug him not murder Simon,
Rob used the defense that they had victimized me torturing me and keeping me a prisoner. It wasn’t far from the truth. As for me? With the help of my shrink I’m moving on slowly. I am unable to trust most people. I don’t go out that often; but the cop who arrested me is my husband now and I feel safe because he had me go to self-defense courses, no one will victimize me ever again,
248 Words
@sweetsheil.bsky.social
Captain Noah Light threw himself into pulling the line taut, willing his exhaustion to weigh on the rope as much as it did on him until he could tie it off. The old man clutched the rail and staggered back to the helm. There were always jobs to do and he had only the memory of his crew to assist him.
The wind stole Noah’s breath. The waves battered his body. Perhaps he should have retired a decade or two ago. But then, he hadn’t built the Sea Beacon out of a desire to be a captain—or even a sailor. His ship was built to help those in need. And that was hard to give up. What he needed was someone to pass the torch to.
The compass in the helm had changed heading in the night and remained fixed since. The Sea Beacon was needed somewhere. Noah Light prayed he could get her there one last time.
159 words
@davidaludwig.bsky.social
𝙈𝙤𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝘾𝙖𝙢a𝙧𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙚
In the morning, the crows came down to clean up the snacks the kids had dropped near the swingsets the night before. The groundskeeper stepped out of his booth to help.
The crows and the groundskeeper shared an unspoken camaraderie—there were always jobs to do. The crows cawed and cawed, and the groundskeeper went about his business.
The Moon and Venus still hung in the sky as the sun began to stretch its way over the horizon. And there was the professional, out on his morning walk—new Nike Airs, sculpted calves, a gold chain. The choreography between crow and groundskeeper flickered on the professional’s periphery.
He adjusted his path slightly. Perhaps there was something comforting there, something familiar. He walked through the littered playground and nodded a good morning.
The groundskeeper nodded back.
The crows cawed.
The groundskeeper’s phone rang. He answered with a soft, “Hi,” smiled and said, “Yes, I got it. Thank you.” His smile grew. “You too, honey.”
When the crows realized the last crumbs were claimed, they flapped back to their perches, and huddled together against the chill, waiting for Venus and the Moon to disappear and for the sun to take their place.
The professional, his 9:00 a.m. meeting drawing near, turned toward home. He considered calling his daughter, but pictured her ignoring the call.
He showered—lukewarm again—and dressed for work. There were always jobs to do. He had that in common with the crows and the groundskeeper.
And he half believed it.
250 words
@krvanhorn (X & Bluesky)
#ThursThreads is now CLOSED. Thanks to everyone who wrote this week and I hope to catch you next week.