Welcome back to the home of #ThursThreads for Week 668. The end 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 668:
Scientist, Dad, and flash fiction author, Eric Martell.
And now your #ThursThreads Challenge, tying tales together.
The Prompt:
“But the time wasn’t idle.”
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 Brooding Moon
It took Clemmie Crockett over three hours to extract the exact CCTV recording of the moment Katie Klopp’s LapTipTop was purloined.
He was scrolling and swearing like a crazed moon banshee but Katie seemed amused by his antics. In her world, I assumed, blaspheming business types, deep-cavern engineers exploring the depths of the moon, building burrowed living spaces and such, many behaved similarly.
Me, I was a more contained soul, managing my highs and detective lows with a noirish style. Or so I pretended.
Clemmie was a character. I had to give him that.
I lit up a sour grass stogie and waited. He’d get there, tormented though he seemed but the time wasn’t idled away. Addled perhaps but not idled.
Finally, he cut loose with a victory howl. “There! There’s your light-fingered brigand.”
Katie and I peered at the screen. Blurry though it was, the face was as clear as a moon sky.
“Oh, no,” Katie blurted.
I palavered, “You know that face?” thinking that it must be her work nemesis/stalker, Gizmo Sage.
“I do. Oh, this is terrible…”
“I can manage terrible, “ I reassured her. Dick work was frequently depressing although I had to admit humans in moral and physical disarray was pretty much a constant and always fascinating fuel for this human organ grinder.
“Then spill the moonbeans, m’lady,” I implored.
“It’s Dack Dinge…”
“Your employer?” I queried mightily.
“No, Dirk’s son. His heir apparent.”
Another classic I thought.
A ravenous cannibal offspring.
250 WIP maybe, much more likely
@billmelaterplea
@sterlings-son-2.bsky.social
REVISION
The Brooding Moon
It took Clemmie Crockett over three hours to extract the exact CCTV recording of the moment Katie Klopp’s LapTipTop was purloined.
He was scrolling and swearing like a crazed moon banshee but Katie seemed amused by his antics. In her world, I assumed, blaspheming business types, deep-cavern engineers exploring the depths of the moon, building burrowed living spaces and such, many behaved similarly.
Me, I was a more contained soul, managing detective highs and lows with a noirish style. Or so I pretended.
Clemmie was a character. I had to give him that.
I lit up a sour grass stogie and waited. He’d get there, tormented though he seemed but the time wasn’t idle or wasted. Addled perhaps but not idle.
Finally, he cut loose with a victory howl. “There! There’s your light-fingered brigand.”
Katie and I peered at the screen. Blurry though it was, the face was as clear as a moon sky.
“Oh, no,” Katie blurted.
I palavered, “You know that face?” thinking that it must be her work nemesis/stalker, Gizmo Sage.
“I do. Oh, this is terrible…”
“I can manage terrible, “ I reassured her. Dick work was frequently depressing although I had to admit humans in moral and physical disarray was pretty much a constant and always fascinating fuel for this human organ grinder.
“Then spill the moonbeans, m’lady,” I implored.
“It’s Dack Dinge…”
“Your employer?” I queried mightily.
“No, Dirk’s son. His heir apparent.”
Another classic I thought.
A ravenous cannibal offspring.
250 WIP maybe, much more likely
@billmelaterplea
@sterlings-son-2.bsky.social
669: Wild Mustangs
Perched high above the valley below, Dante sat in his 1968 Mustang.
Sweating, fingers fumbling, heart racing… he paused to look out the windshield of his classic American muscle machine and take in the view.
This should have been something to savor. Straddled between the visitor center parking lot and the entrance into Monument Valley below, the sun had risen hours ago on a beautiful day in Arizona. The fog had all but burned off, and the steep buttes of the ancient valley shone like giants rising from the ground to start their day.
Monument Valley… *mostly* restored vintage Mustang… alone with his own company… this would have made for an otherwise perfectly idle day.
But the time wasn’t idle… and he couldn’t get the car to start.
*click*
The sound of the starter trying to turn over.
*fzzt*
The smell of the wires burning as he rubbed them together.
He restlessly fiddled with the wires as he shot a furtive glance to the view mirror.
He didn’t need to see it to confirm it. The sound of their moans and the stench of their decaying flesh long preceded them, even out in this dry, arid climate. He wondered how much worse it would have been in his muggy home of Alabama.
As the undead began to scrape the rear bumper of his car, the starter finally turned over, and the engine sparked to life.
hey Jacob, please reply with your social media handle so we can easily contact you.
Thanks. 🙂
Sorry just saw this!
@captain__valhalla
Aisling pulled on white cotton gloves. The book smelled of mold and dry leather. She adjusted the goose neck lamp so it’s beam shone directly on the ancient tome. She examined it without touching. The pages were edged in gold. The cover’s leather was cracked and the gilt lettering had flaked. Letters and symbols danced in a language all its own.
Her hand shook slightly as she gently pried the front cover open. Water stains marred the front piece and the top page. Part of the ink was smeared, a few bits were missing, and the language remained foreign. It wasn’t Latin or Greek. She could read both. While Egyptian hieroglyphs weren’t her forte, she could recognize them. She was also semi-proficient in reading alchemy symbols.
Nothing about this book made sense. How had it come into the possession of the library? It obviously belonged here in special collections but where had it come from? And why had it drawn her? For it certainly had.
From nowhere, a breeze swept through the room, ruffling the books’ pages and making the hair stand up on her arms. She glanced down at the newly exposed writing. Her eyes watered and she blinked hard. When her eyesight cleared, she could read one line of text.
But the time wasn’t idle.
“What does that even mean?”
“It means we have made good use of it.”
She whirled but no one was there. She was alone in the room. And, very, very scared.
****
248 Penumbra Papers #6 WIP words
Silver James
https://silverjames.com
Today started off like every day ;except today was no ordinary day head office had decided a number of us were redundant and the boss was headed my way.
I grew angry ,I loved this job I wished I could stop time and to my amazement, time stood still. I could move touch the people in the room, but they were still almost lifeless. What a conundrum did I want it to stay this way ,or could I change it back and did I really want to?
I kind of floated to the breakroom and grabbed the chocolate bar I brought. No one noticed or even cared. Sitting down at my desk observing the room. Eloise was crying, so was Bob, Luis and Roberto. I was shocked men didn’t cry ,did they? Silly me of course they did. I swiveled my chair and Eloise seemed to notice something. She screamed and pointed for a moment ;I was sure I was back in the right time but then I realized they were still moving slowly.
I was getting slightly tired of this firing wasn’t so bad I could get another job but I needed to be in the same time as everyone else. Concentrating hard I thought it would work but it didn’t, I was still apart from them. But the time wasn’t idle, I was. I had been so upset I’d died. So ,now what? Where was my white light? It appeared and I entered it ,a new adventure awaited.
250 words @sweetsheil.bsky.social
Lisa even found some purple cat’s eye glasses that appealed to her.
If I truly need glasses.
Her gaze slid to the glass side table and she found a newspaper along with a few magazines. She almost pulled out her phone to keep her mind busy when her gaze snagged on a small article about a body found in Sheridan, Wyoming. She almost moved on to the larger headlines—bodies were often found in remote areas—but the phrases “drag queen” and “hate crime” made her look closer.
Apparently, the body was being attributed to the Queen Killer, a serial who preferred drag queens as their victims. Lisa’s blood ran cold and a chill skittered up her back. She pulled out her phone and looked up the paper’s online site before the optometrist’s assistant took her back to check her eyes.
Lisa settled into the chair to wait for the doctor, but the time wasn’t idle for her. She read more about the Queen Killer online. According to the article, it was the fifth body found attributed to the killer. The victim was Chris Hooper, AKA Ruby Tinsel, the Redheaded Rascal, a long-time performer at The Bison Boudoir in Sheridan. He had been missing for six months and they just discovered his body, marking him as the Queen Killer’s first victim.
Something about the timing jogged her memory, but the doctor came in and she had to put her phone away.
241 ineligible #SirensInc words
@siobhanmuir.bsky.social
“Angel?! What happened to you?”
Rose Freeman rushed to the collapsed rodent in the corner of the yard. Angel’s golden fur lacked its usual luster, his little wings splayed awkwardly, and his halo was barely visible. The squirrel had never looked worse.
“Oh, come on…”
Rose crouched by the collapsed celestial. Was it safe to move him?
‘A soft bed and bowl of trail mix would go a long way toward my reconstitution.’
Rose sighed. Angel’s telepathic voice was faint. But reassuring.
“It’s been over a month! Where have you been?”
‘I don’t remember everything,’ Angel raised his head weakly, ‘but the time wasn’t idle. I was imprisoned and stripped of most of my power.’
Rose scowled.
“Nothing so obvious on this end. But I’m the only one who remembers anything about us being superheroes.”
Angel pushed himself up, with some effort, to a sitting position.
‘That’s alarming. But you all still live here?’
Rose swept her kinky hair back with a noncommittal shrug.
“Well, it is still easier for college kids to split rent five ways.”
Angel tucked his wings back in against his body and considered the soft-figured human before him.
‘Five? Who did we lose?’
Rose cast her gaze to the ground away from the celestial squirrel.
“Hideki. He moved back closer to his parents. But!” Rose rallied. “There weren’t any attacks while you were gone. Maybe the world doesn’t need superheroes anymore.”
‘More likely, this has been a calm before the next storm.’
247 words
@davidaludwig.bsky.social
– The Time –
In a dusty wing of the city’s oldest museum hung a painting no one remembered buying. It showed a sun that never quite rose over a field that never quite ended. Visitors who stumbled in by accident lingered before the image. Then they left with their shoelaces untied and their thoughts slightly out of order.
The placard read: “The Time, Oil on Canvas.”
What no one knew was that 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘪𝘮𝘦 was not only the name of the painting. It was something more. Tangible. And it had been trapped inside the painting for centuries, brushed in with hurried hands by an artist who’d used stolen minutes from a thousand sleeping clocks to finish it. And thus, for ages, The Time coiled in the space between strokes of gold and rust, a sentient shimmer aching to stretch.
At night, the shadows slept and the cameras blinked. But The Time wasn’t idle.
The painting wept oil onto the floor. The Time crept like molten wax toward the exits, dripping footprints shaped like calendar days that never existed. Clocks in the museum slowed, and the night guard aged an entire week during his nap.
The Time rewound dreams frozen inside ancient sculptures and whispered leap seconds into the bones of the marble lions.
In the morning, the curator noticed the frame had grown warm to the touch. She pressed her ear to the canvas and heard a ticking pulse.
And for just a moment, the sun in the painting blinked. Only she noticed.
250 words
@krvanhorn (Bluesky & X)
#ThursThreads is now CLOSED. Thanks to everyone who wrote this week and I hope to catch you next week.