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
Aisling opened her mouth to chastise him but snapped it shut. In retrospect, she couldn’t fault him for toeing that damnable book. She swiped her hands against her skirt, an involuntary movement to rid her of the feel of those cold flames dancing across her skin. How could flames be cold? And slimy. She shuddered but hid the action by turning and crouching to gather some scattered papers into a loose pile.
Looking around, Ariel found a broom and a metal dustpan. He used them to scoop up the recalcitrant book. He carried it over to a metal file box and dumped the book inside. With a quick flick, he closed and secured the lid. He surveyed the room. Aisling remained on the floor picking up papers and books reaching up to place them on a nearby work table. There was so much magic in this place it made him dizzy.
Since Aisling’s attention remained focused elsewhere, he watched her. All the feelings he’d suppressed rose. Distracted by her, he picked up a book and recognized it immediately. It had been stolen from Oberon’s library almost a century before. Doubt crept in, dampening his ardor.
“Aisling, how did you come to work here?”
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
“Fine,” Ariel said losing his inner battle. “I didn’t want to talk anyway.”
Before Aisling could move, he’d drawn her into his arms and kissed her. Hard. Which quite effectively silenced her next words. And she didn’t mind at all.
****
250 Penumbra Papers WIP words
Silver James
https://silverjames.com
My parents say I was born in the wrong decade, musically speaking. Well, that’s not my fault; that’s on them. My receptionists don’t always appreciate my taste in music, but we trade off who picks the tunes through the week. And sometimes I make a face at their music, too.
Today it was my turn to pick and I went with songs performed by the original artist. Most of these were written by others, but rather than, say the 90s version, I find the very first recording. And today’s a good one. Written by Danny Whitten, first performed by Crazy Horse in 1971 to end their self-titled album, I Don’t Want To Talk About It is the perfect opening anthem for today.
“Justin Gordon!”
One by one the recently departed file into the lobby, sorted into groups based on which level of unpleasantness awaits them. Honestly, I’m nicer than my Dad, Stan Sr.; I don’t torture anyone. But if people were awful topside, they don’t get to sit in the lap of luxury underneath, either.
“Justin?” One of my receptionists locks eyes with the new arrival and his eyes widen. “What’d you do to get assigned to Hell?”
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
This one sounds fun. I spirit him into the first level, where the hosts will get out of him what he did before sundown. Then I’ll decide where he goes. For now, the 70s disco tunes can be turned up to 10 until he cracks.
@Aightball
250 words
Oceana continued, “They kept you alive at first, didn’t they?”
“I don’t want to talk about that.” Sunshine looked at the ocean, “I was angry and hurt. I didn’t know what I know now.”
“Good.” Oceana stood beside Sunshine, “Have you thought about what you might do when you finish your journey? Or even where your journey will lead you?”
“Around the ocean.” Sunshine looked to the south, “Back to where I started. Beyond that, I don’t know.”
“They all miss you. Your sisters. And Mystica.”
“I miss them too.”
“Perhaps you will find your future on your journey?”
“Time will tell.”
Oceana stayed with Sunshine that day. They walked along the shore of the ocean. They stopped to eat food at one point. They walked late into the night. They saw nothing but the ocean and the endless waves upon it.
“I suppose I should leave so you can sleep tonight.” Oceana nodded at Sunshine. “I will let Mystica know you are doing well, and are finding yourself.”
“Thank you.” Sunshine walked ankle deep into the ocean with Oceana. They said good bye. Oceana walked on the water out from the shore for a distance, then the circle appeared on the water, and she slowly sank into the ocean once again. One her way home.
Sunshine picked a place on the shore, among the dunes, to settle for the night. The machines left her alone that night. They let her sleep in peace, and quiet.
246 Words (Per Google Write)
@mysoulstears.bsky.social
Barrett opened the door and beamed. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Come in. Are you thirsty or peckish? I have cheese and crackers.”
“That sounds good. I brought fresh tomatoes and a mini watermelon from our garden. Ann insisted.” Lisa held up a plastic bag full of red orbs in one hand and a much larger green one in the other.
“Ooh, I love fresh watermelon.” Barrett closed the door and followed her into the kitchen. “Let me get a colander for the tomatoes.” They pulled one from the cupboard and helped her load the tomatoes into it. “How was your day? Productive?”
“Yeah, somewhat, but I don’t want to talk about that right now. I’d much rather find out what’s going on with you.” She brushed aside her day as if unimportant, but the tightness around her eyes suggested there was more to it than the usual. They let it go for the moment. “Tell me about a client giving you the trout. Was it in exchange for some therapy?”
Barrett nodded as they rinsed the tomatoes. “Yup. I offer short, one-on-one sessions for folks going through stuff, and since I don’t have much overhead without an office, I can take other things in exchange for time. I’m helping folks with their issues, and I get fed. Win-win for us all.”
“And the State’s okay with that?”
“As long as I keep my license up to date, and keep records of the sessions, there’s no law against paying for therapy with trout.”
250 ineligible #SirensInc words
@siobhanmuir.bsky.social
“Have you been avoiding us all?” Only the lamp was switched on as Thos closed the office door behind him.
“No,” she barely looked up from her paperwork, but he could see she was tracing across the same lines to look busy.
“Elena?” He sat on the chair opposite her, the desk splitting them up.
“No,” she repeated, no more convincingly the second time. He waited patiently until she finally looked up at him. She wilted slightly under his calm gaze. “Conversation, is hard.”
“I know but you’re getting better.” When she had first woken up, she hadn’t spoken for weeks. The words slowly came back but not without issue. It took a lot of concentration to work through the stutter and he knew it caused immense frustration.
“They don’t like it.”
“They just don’t like seeing you suffer,” he began but her glare cut him off. He knew the others were uncomfortable, but what she didn’t see was it was partly their own guilt. “Rowan said you haven’t answered any of her text messages.”
“She sent contact.” The more stressed she was, the more she skipped words. Instead of finishing, she just jabbed her head.
“Ah, she sent you therapist details. She wants to help. You need to talk…”
“I don’t want to talk about that.” She bit out every word with immense effort. “No more people, in my head.”
“Ok, then you and me can sit in silence together.”
“Why?”
“Because you refused to abandon me once, remember?”
250 words @Lexikonical, Alexandra Eve
Blanche Brassard was, thankfully, alone in the kitchen. Unfortunately, she seemed to be in one of her moods. Kuroko Ikari winced. She’d hoped to find her housemate more agreeable.
“Oh! There she is!” Blanche gestured aggressively at Kuroko. “Forget something, ma biche?”
Was Blanche reverting to French because she was upset? Or because it annoyed Kuroko?
“Uh, can I talk to you for a minute?”
Kuroko met Blanche’s dagger gaze. The Frenchwoman raised her eyebrows like she always did when infantilizing Kuroko.
“About how you didn’t take the garbage out last night?”
Kuroko groaned, “I don’t want to talk about that.”
“Oh? Then maybe about how you broke the shower knob? Again?”
Kuroko clenched her teeth into her best smile.
“No. May I please talk?”
Kuroko hated being diplomatic. Blanche huffed and tossed her long blonde hair back from her shoulders before clicking toward her housemate in heels more expensive than Kuroko’s biker jacket. Once the fashionista loomed over the brawler, the celestial squirrel on Kuroko’s shoulder made himself visible to Blanche.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est que ça!?” Blanche recoiled from the golden rodent in horror.
“This is Angel. He gave us all superpowers last year. But, for some reason, only Rose remembers that. That’s why she’s been acting so weird. She was going to go it alone, but now she’s in trouble and only your power can save her.”
Yeah. That still sounded crazy to Kuroko. And Blanche had the least tolerance for crazy out of any of them.
249 words
@davidaludwig.bsky.social
#ThursThreads is now CLOSED. Thanks to everyone who wrote this week and I hope to catch you next week.