Welcome back to the home of #ThursThreads for Week 673 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 673:
Programmer by day, writer by night, Katheryn J. Avila.
Facebook | Bluesky | Goodreads |
And now your #ThursThreads Challenge, tying tales together.
The Prompt:
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
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!
And Then There Were Some
It was last Friday night and I decided to stay in. Not a whole lot different than any other night. Staying in has become my thing.
Then the doorbell rang.
I’ve been meaning to decommission it. Plays that classic Dum Dum Dum DUM. You know the one. Drives me nuts.
Anyway, I answer and it’s the neighbour. Franklin. Retired teacher. Smart as a whip and always cracking wise.
Knows more about everything than any man or woman I’ve ever meant.
“Evening Frank,” I say. Hates being called Frank. Want’s the whole Monty of his name.
He lets that slide. Jumps in with, “I heard a noise in your backyard. Wondered if it was a burglar.”
I shake my noggin, say, “I heard nothing.” Which was more or less true. Raccoons been coming by lately. Even saw a fox. Or maybe it was a little red mutt.
Then I decide to toy with him a bit. “Zombies, maybe?” Franklin hates the notion of the dead coming back. One night a few years earlier after his wife, Marge, packed it in, up and died, we got drunk together and he shared that Marge had threatened to come back and zombiefy his life.
“I don’t want to talk about that stuff, George. No it isn’t Marge and you’re reprehensible for bringing it up.”
That’s Franklin for you. Can’t just call me a jerk.
Then I heard moaning!
Clatter!
I looked.
Dozens of them.
“MARGE?” I yelled.
Franklin fainted.
250 Words
@billmelaterplea
@sterlings-son-2.bsky.social
The Made Man
They stood over the body, staring as a brief tendril of smoke wisped its way out of the small cavity in the man’s forehead like a soul leaving his pineal gland, his face unblinking and expressionless.
“When I told you to put him down, I didn’t mean for you to put him down like a… like a dog.” The boss’s tone was almost reverential as he pointed at his underling’s pistol. “I meant for you to shoot him in the knee or the hip.” He waved his arm around, and then pointed at the body. “This is bad.”
The henchman planted his gun back into its holster beneath his jacket.
“I wasn’t aiming for his head exactly.”
“You weren’t?”
“It was him or us. I just fired.”
“Quick Draw McGraw.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“It was autonomic muscle memory kicking in, right?”
“Screw you.”
“Don’t talk to me like that. Why’d you have to blow his brains out the back of his skull?”
“I don’t want to talk about that. I already told you.”
“Couldn’t you have just shot his legs out?” Silence descended on the pair. “Wait. This is your first kill?”
The underling got down on his hunkers and took a series of deep breaths.
“You okay?” the boss asked.
“No.” The underling vomited.
The boss cursed. He pulled out his pistol.
“Your DNA’s all over that puke, moron. You’ll have to stay here too. First kill. Last kill. Well done.”
@ragtaggiggagon
249 words
Daniel had been at uni for all of four months, but heading back home for the Christmas break that felt like a lifetime. He wracked his brain about what he most missed about his hometown. He could only think of seeing his grandparents again. They’d always been good value.
At uni he’d got a taste for things which he’d never come across before. The boy who’d left was now a different man. He popped a few pills on the coach and at breaks he got off and for his special cigarettes. His parents wouldn’t understand. He told himself all change was progress.
By the time the coach passed the town sign Daniel was oblivious to the world. He was a different person than when he left the town, he was a different person than when he boarded the coach.
The police officer knocked on Daniel Snr’s door. ‘Excuse me, Sir. Do you know this character?’ Pointing at the man in the back of their car.
‘Er, yes. That’s my son, Daniel. What’s happened?’
Half an hour later Daniel was back in the family kitchen for the first time in months after the interesting trip home which he didn’t exactly remember.
‘How the hell did you end up at gran’s old place—and up that bloody great tree? They’re still in the Evermore Home.’
‘I’m blaming misfiring neurons.’
‘I can smell that. What’s that damn neck tattoo about? Who the hell is Derek?’
‘I don’t want to talk about that.’
——
WC: 249
Bluesky: @zevonesque.bsky.social