Welcome back to the home of #ThursThreads for Week 660. 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 660:
Programmer by day, writer by night, Katheryn J. Avila.
Facebook | Bluesky | Goodreads |
And now your #ThursThreads Challenge, tying tales together.
The Prompt:
“One thing was certain.”
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 Doldrums
I was grabbing a breakfast bite at Dinky’s Diner. It’s a regular thing with me. The diner is pretty much a cave, burrowed deep into the hillside of Moon City.
Yup, capital city of the Moon…and the only city on the Moon.
Founded back in 2031. A brilliant idea at the time, I suppose. Made sense then. Earth was busting at the seams. Thirty billion people. Oceans clawing back the land. Wars up the ying-yang.
One thing was certain. Earth had maxed out.
A world wide one-baby quota was initiated. But the back up plan was ship as many folks as possible into the heavens.
Space tourism had been a thing for years. Mostly the hoity-toity. Thrill seekers and the like. But, the technology was buzzing.
The Governments of the world, at least the ones that were talking with each other, decided to do a series of Noah’s Ark trips. Called them Yesah’s Arks Project. Trying to put a positive spin on the effort.
My Grandparents were young cops in Toledo at the time. Signed up lickety-split. The moon would need law and order and that would be their assignment. Not theirs alone as space law was in its infancy and nobody knew what might unfold.
Thing was, humans being what they are, it was the same old same old.
Larceny!
Adultery!
Murder!
It’s now 2111.
Eighty years we’ve been stuck here. Not just me. But the Moonsters.
I’ve a Private Moon Eye.
Dick Doldrum at your service.
250 WIP (possibly)
@billmelaterplea
@sterlings-son-2.bsky.social
Growing up on an Iowa farm, with a Mom who teaches, one would think my youngest would approach life more grounded in reality.
Apparently not.
Because he just bought a funeral home. In a small town in Iowa. And small towns are great, considering we live north of a map dot ourselves, but it’s hard to establish yourself no matter how long you’ve lived there. His Dad and I made faces we’re glad he couldn’t see over the phone. It’s not that we’re disappointed it’s that he clearly hasn’t thought this through.
But the ink is dry, the previous owner has had his retirement party, and Brandon is now the proud owner of Hergenschmidt Funeral Home, established 1875 in Atlantic, Iowa. His first funeral is Saturday, since the previous owner had that ready to go. And he has one more after that. And that’s it so far. Not that I want people to die, but I do want him to be successful. Without any help…help that comes at a steep price.
Over the phone, in his excitement, he said that one thing was certain: this was the best thing he’d ever done! He’d be his own boss! And the bookkeeper was staying on! Because he’s awful at math. And people trust the funeral home! It’s the only one in town! And he’s worked there for five years!
Lord help me when he finds out how much small town Iowa trusts a new funeral director that’s not even from that area.
@Aightball
250 words
As Aisling left the library that evening, she didn’t ignore the prickles on the back of her neck. That sense of dread, of being watched had become more frequent. At first, she’d chided herself for an overactive imagination. She was a librarian after all. She lived the lives of the characters in the books she read.
Drawing on that reading, she surreptitiously surveyed her surroundings. Nothing out of the ordinary that she could see. Traffic stopped and started on the street, as was usual for this time of day. A few pedestrians hurried down the sidewalk, some of them heading to the library’s main entrance.
The rain that had been threatening for days still wasn’t falling but drizzle clogged the air. She headed up the sidewalk on her usual trip to the bus stop clutching her raincoat a little tighter. Darkness came earlier this time of year and the cloudy skies didn’t help matters.
RTS, Rochester’s mass transit service, didn’t bother with benches or covers at the bus stops—just a pole with a sign. Two teens were waiting for the same bus as she arrived. They were busy on their phones so she ignored them but continued to be aware. Situation awareness, she thought, remembering that phrase from a military romance she’d read.
The bus arrived and she boarded. Taking her seat, she glanced out the window and saw…him. The darkly handsome man who’d invaded the restricted stacks was watching her.
One thing was certain, she wasn’t paranoid.
****
250 Penumbra Papers WIP words
Silver James
https://silverjames.com
I ‘m scared but I know what is right and this isn’t it. My boss says, “There are people complaining that this wasn’t what they voted for, but one thing was certain, “There’s a sucker born every minute”: the quote from P. T. Barnum still held weight . You could sway them into believing anything if you just repeated yourself enough and made the disenfranchised think you were on their side.”
My job as a publicist and chief representative for the future re-election of our leader, People didn’t even realize their rights were being taken away bit by bit, that by the time the election rolled around we’d have it sewed up and they would vote but none of their votes would count. I am working hard to defeat the government secretly from within.
“Frederick Schmidt?”
“Yes,” I answered and troops seized me.
I have suffered a trial and will likely be hung tomorrow but my words which I have sent with the resistance will live on and hopefully eventually take down this corrupt dictatorship.
The Allies have rescued me and I will testify to the crimes of the administration in exchange for the forgiveness of my crimes. Yes, crimes unknown but still I am responsible. For I know knew that children and adults had been tortured and killed and it was done by people that I worked for so, that made me too culpable, how I can forgive myself I do not know. Pray God History doesn’t repeat itself.
250 words @sweetsheil.bsky.social
Stop ogling his ass and get lunch started.
Her Gima’s voice echoed in her head and she snapped to, trying to remember what she planned to make for them to eat. Unfortunately, Deshawn had to be in the kitchen with her to repair the faucet. Under the sink. With his ass showing.
Lawd, I’m never gonna get anything done.
She headed for her little pantry as he carried the box with the new faucet into the kitchen and set it on the counter.
“You need any water for lunch, I suggest you get it from the bathroom ‘cause this is gonna take a minute.” He gave her a smile as he knelt in front of the open cabinets with the wrench.
“I thought I’d make grilled cheese sandwiches with soup from a can. Nothin’ fancy, just warm and hearty.”
“That sounds good.” He nodded and ducked under the sink to start removing the old faucet.
Damn, his ass is nice to look at.
One thing was certain. It wasn’t a hardship to have him in her kitchen working on things.
She headed to the fridge so she wasn’t caught staring, hoping her face didn’t flame with her interest in his very fine form. She pulled out the cheese, tomatoes, cold cuts and bread before taking them to her little island where she could stand with her back to the sink.
Better that than to stand facing him and staring the whole time.
242 ineligible words
@siobhanmuir.bsky.social
𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙍𝙤𝙤𝙢 𝘼𝙗𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙍𝙪𝙡𝙚𝙨
No one used the top floor anymore, not since the ladders were declared unsafe.
They said the upper rooms were built on soft logic, faulty beams of intuition. Anyone who climbed too high came back speaking in symbols, sketching clouds that looked like feelings, and naming birds things like Couldbe and Almost. So the ladders were burned. The windows nailed shut. The blueprints redrawn with straighter lines.
Still, each night, a light flickers up there like a candle trying to recall an ancient sun.
I asked the Archivist once. He said the top rooms were where the mind used to wander freely, before the Great Narrowing. Before thoughts had to be filed and shelved beside the soup recipes.
“One thing was certain,” he added, polishing his glasses, “unchecked wonder always knocked over the inkpot.”
Last week, I found a bent nail in my pocket, warm as toast. I don’t remember putting it there.
Tonight, I climb.
Rung by rung, my body protests, too long trained to walk flat and think at right angles. At the top, the air smells like chalk and honey.
And there she is. The girl who disappeared during the last audit. She’s barefoot, wearing a crown of maybes, humming sideways laughter.
“You made it,” she beams. “They said no one could anymore.”
I nod. My thoughts dissolve like sugar in her smile.
There’s music in the walls like mice playing wine glasses with wet paws. And windows that open both ways if you ask them to.
250 words
@krvanhorn (Bluesky & X)
“Is anyone else getting a creepy feeling from those fairgrounds?”
Starlee Swann played a hand over the pommel of her rapier as she studied the faded shades of tents atop the hill before them. Angelina Dawning, their windcaller, was the first to catch up to the swashbuckler.
“Why did the Sea Beacon bring us here?”
“Please tell me there’s food!” Blitzen Brün groaned from the back of their line.
“I’d not eat there, my friend.
At this fair, many meet their end.”
Pippi Pierrot had switched to her sad mask under her jester’s hood next to Blitzen. Starlee turned back with an arched eyebrow.
“You know this place, Pippi?”
“Unfortunately I do
And never wished to return
To what once was home”
“This is where you performed?”
“Ask me not to say
We must hasten our stride
To reach the other side
Afore end of day.”
They couldn’t return to the ship without fresh stores. But if one thing was certain, it was that they did not want to be here after dark.
Pippi prayed her demon stayed asleep that long.
181 words
@davidaludwig.bsky.social
#ThursThreads is now CLOSED. Thanks to everyone who wrote this week and I hope to catch you next week.