Welcome back to the home of #ThursThreads for Week 666. We are a secular challenge, so this number is a simple demarcation of the number of weeks we’ve been writing consecutively. There’s no special meaning and we hope you write with joy. Can you believe we’re here? So many weeks (almost 13 solid years!) It’s also 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 666:
College professor, equality enthusiast, and romance author, Louisa Bacio.
Facebook | Bluesky | Instagram |
And now your #ThursThreads Challenge, tying tales together.
The Prompt:
“No one tells you it never stops.”
Again, we are secular challenge, so the number of weeks we’ve been doing this is just a number. Thanks for writing.
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 Sinkhole
Old Mr Tomkinson observed it all from his porch perch across the street.
To say that the practical joke had backfired would be unfair; the prank itself went off without a hitch.
“Darlene!” little Jeremy Cheaver had roared in his reedy falsetto pitch as he hid behind the dumpster in the laneway beside the house. He had placed a bucket over the door a few yards away, awaiting his sister’s emergence, the pail full of iced water a thumb’s nudge away from falling. Then, the concrete beneath both him and the weighty metal skip fell away, sending them plunging. Fourteen-year-old Darlene came out to the back porch to see the hole appear and the dumpster fall into it. Simultaneously, a bucket of iced water landed on her head. She screamed in fright at the water’s frigid temperature, pulled the bucket away from her face, and rubbed her eyes to ascertain if they had deceived her.
A confluence of weird events had confounded Darlene Cheaver as she tiptoed slowly to the hole’s edge to peer downward.
“Jeremy?” she asked, calling, looking around, staring back into the pitch black vacuum, an inverted tower of darkness. “Jeremy? Are you down there?”
The only response was a bleak, over-awing silence.
Old Mr Tomkinson staggered across the street.
“No one tells you it never stops.” He joined Darlene at the hole, and looked at her. “The portal.” He shook his head, pointing into the darkness. “It’s never-ending.”
244 words
@ragtaggiggagon
“Sweet sparkles and bangles, this just can’t be happening again.” Mama Audasity wrung her long-nailed hands and paced in the little office.
“Happening again?” Lisa looked up from the keystrokes. “What do you mean, again?”
“I’m sure you read it in the papers. Carl Weinstein, our own Suzie Cue, was killed two weeks ago just before the big Butte Pride Festival where she was supposed to compete. Suzie wasn’t very nice, a catty bitch if there ever was one, but she was our own. The cops just wrote it off because they don’t like drag queens any more than the local hicks, but she was still part of our troupe. Misty isn’t like Suzie. Everyone liked her.”
“Likes, present tense. She’s not dead.”
Not if I can help it.
But the idea that another drag queen from Big Timber had disappeared and wound up dead filled up Lisa’s stomach with lead.
“When you become a drag mother, you think you just have to worry about catty behavior and the occasional fights. But now I worry about keeping them safe.” Mama Audasity sat down and rubbed her hands on her thighs. “No one tells you it never stops, the worry. But I never expected there to be real fear that they won’t come home.” She turned her extra-long lashed eyes to Lisa. “Please, you have to find Misty. She’s such a good person. She takes care of the other queens almost as much as I do.”
245 ineligible #SirensInc words
@siobhanmuir.bsky.social
The MoonTram Eyeball
While it was good investigative practice to catch the late night MoonTram pretty much at the same that Katie Klopp had lost her LapTipTop, I wasn’t in the mood for staying up late.
Yeah, maybe it was embarrassing but I craved sleep and moon nights, let alone moon days, are a restless time. Asteroids are always a threat so cavern home life, whilst confining, is always the wisest option.
Still, we had plenty of moderately useful moon daylight so we caught the Moontram about noon. She showed me where she had parked her tush and I immediately noted that the CCTV must have caught the whole theft.
The Moon was under constant surveillance. It had become second nature so much so that my generation had ceased thinking about it. No one tells you it never stops if they never tell you it’s on.
It’s just there.
Allegedly unmonitored, it records our existence every second of our lives.
I pointed it out to Katie.
“So,” she said.
“Well,” I replied, “Somewhere there is a recording of your trip last night and maybe what happened to the LapTipTop…”
I could see her peacock blue globes start to swirl with crashing brilliance.
“You mean….?”
I nodded my noggin, wishing for a moment that Fedora’s were still a thing.
“Okay,” she added, “what’s next?”
There I was befuddled with my ignorance. I had no idea where the CCTV footage was stored or how one accessed it.
Luckily, I knew a guy.
250 WIP maybe, much more likely
@billmelaterplea
@sterlings-son-2.bsky.social
Molly closed the door softly, satisfied that the steady breathing was a sign that Kayla was actually asleep and not in that hybrid state where she seemed to be asleep but any effort on Molly or Cooper’s part to leave caused crying. She paused outside the door for a full 20 seconds, then slowly padded downstairs to the kitchen.
The water was running but Cooper wasn’t washing dishes. He was standing in front of the sink staring at the floor with a haunted look in his eyes. Molly knew what he was seeing – a jelly stain, pulverized Cheerios, and toys under the table.
Plus a counter covered in dishes, pans, snacks, a power drill, and a laptop open to a PowerPoint presentation that he’d been trying to edit for five hours but was still on slide three.
Molly walked over to her husband and felt his warmth as they wrapped their arms around each other. “Can you believe that it’s only been two days since your Dad watched Kayla and we scrubbed every inch in here?”
Cooper snorted. “No one tells you it never stops. I mean, they try, but you can’t know until you know. You know?”
“And we still outnumber her. What’s it going to be like when the twins are born?”
“I’m going to cover the house with plastic and we’ll powerwash everything.”
Molly smiled, kissing her husband.
“Let’s finish this up. We can probably watch half an episode of Poker Face before we pass out.”
“Deal.”
250 words
@drmag00.bsky.social
My husband drove his car to work and, on the way, he crashed the car into a tree. My friends and family rallied around up to the day of my husband’s funeral and then everything went back to normal for them. I tried too. I went to work came home and slept briefly averaging about five hours a night. Soon I had shadows under my eyes, I hadn’t cut or dyed my hair since before the accident. People started making comments and I tried to appease them by acting like everything was fine in public but soon I didn’t care anymore.
My boss said “Your husband died a year ago shouldn’t you be over this Catherine?’
I j burst into tears, excused myself and went home.
My friend ,Melanie suggested a therapist. I laughed and said, “I’m not quite crackers, yet.”
“No one said you were crazy, you just need to talk to someone.”
“So, I looked through the list on the internet. The first one was a man and a dud he didn’t seem to understand anything and I was in the mood to hear and how does that make you feel. I searched again and found one with glowing references , a doctor who specialized in grief.
There first words out of her mouth were reassuring, “No one tells you it never stops. It fades but it never goes away. You just learn to cope that’s all.”
I’m coping now, but I will always love and miss Reginald.
250 Words @sweetsheil.bsky.social