Welcome back to the home of #ThursThreads for Week 681. Year Lucky 13! The last year of the cycle, the Moon Year. To those who keep coming back, I’m delighted to see you again!
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 681:
College professor, equality enthusiast, and romance author, Louisa Bacio.
Facebook | Bluesky | Instagram |
And now your #ThursThreads Challenge, tying tales together.
The Prompt:
“I don’t need to belong.”
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 in the Moon Year. Good luck!
I had to make edits on this old school Noir tale
The Darkened Window
I wait here in the shadows, the moon sneaking through a sliver of glass not covered by the blinds. Meant to fix that gap when things mattered, when I was on a roll, when making an impression was worth something to me.
It ain’t worth bupkis now. Nothing is. Wish it did. I mean, no one wants to see their light start to flicker and then burn out. It’s always the other guy in the crosshairs of failure.
Never you!
Never me!
I had plans, big plans. Expand the agency, move into insurance work. Meaningful labour. High paying. The insurance investigation racket’s a gold mine. I don’t need to belong to the hoity toity upper crust. Never wanted to be that rich.
But I did want more.
That was my Achilles heal.
I wanted more.
It’s the little steps along the way that always trip you up. I had bits of intel, embarrassing details that I figured certain people would pay to keep on the q. t. So I made my pitch. Wasn’t greedy. Wasn’t looking for a massive score, just enough to finance the next step along the way.
The Senator seemed a safe mark. Guys like him are always rolling in dough and can’t let their weird peccadillos become public knowledge.
Should’ve known he was connected.
They’ll be here soon. Whoever they are. Sure, I could take it on the lamb but they’d find me.
I’ll just wait here.
Pay the piper my death duties.
250 Words
@billmelaterplea
@sterlings-son-2.bsky.social
Hope took a long pull on her bottle and a longer look over the lake, long enough that Ben wasn’t sure if she was going to answer him. Finally, she spoke, her voice quiet but steady. “I don’t need to. Belong, that is. Not with people who would treat me like that.”
“You’re not…lonely?”
Another long pull emptied the bottle, and Hope hurled it out into the water. “There’s different kinds of lonely.”
Ben’s bottle followed Hope’s. Then he snorted. “Probably should have put messages in them first.”
“There’s nothing to say. Not anymore.” She stood up and brushed leaves and twigs off her ass. She knew Ben would watch. Maybe later she’d see if he wanted to be lonely together.
Ben turned back to the water, pulling another bottle from his pocket. This one was filled with a thick, dark brown liquid. He held it up to Hope, who hadn’t walked away yet. She shook her head, so he pulled out the cork and took a mouthful. Then another.
Hope stared at him, then reached her hand out for the bottle. “Might as well get fucked up. Put all their bullshit behind me, right?”
Ben nodded. He could smell frost coming, the first of the season. They were going to have to go inside soon, maybe get something to eat. He reached up for the bottle, but Hope wasn’t holding it out for him. He heard her sniff, then sob, and decided to let her hold on to it.
250 words
@drmag00.bsky.social
By the time he reached the church, Benjamin was sweating. He’d run out of gas a half-mile earlier, his little Triumph puttering to a pitiful stop along the curb.
He jumped from the convertible. Run. Run.
Then he could see the church, the black limos lining the street in front. He rushed across the small manicured lawn between the steps and the sidewalk. As he got close, a burley gentleman wearing a boutonniere stepped in front of him, extending his arm to stop the underdressed, heavily breathing interloper with insane eyes.
“You can’t go in,” this gentleman said. “You don’t belong.”
Benjamin pushed the man’s arm back. As he passed, his own right arm reaching for the door, he called back, “I don’t need to belong.”
The church was full. The door to the apse was locked so Benjamin raced up to the choir loft. Then he saw it. The bride and the groom, flanked by the maid-of-honor and the best man, standing in front of the priest who was reading something. Benjamin tried to call, but a glass bordered the loft. He was left to bang his hands on the pane.
“Elaine! Elaine!”
Then she, Mrs. Robinson, was glaring at him, her face a mask of uncontrolled fury at the interruption. But, she knew, it was too late. It had to be too late.
Elaine. Sweet, beautiful Elaine saw him and she saw her mother and she saw the make-out king she was about to marry.
“Ben!” she screamed.
The Graduate. @JPGarlandAuthor (bluesky). 250 words.
I dislike parties. Small talk, dancing, too many people making too much noise; it is not my scene. But when one’s father retires one is expected to show up. Our small Iowa farm house is filled with well-wishers, making too much noise and small talk; thank goodness for champagne.
“Horace! Have you and Mathilda set a date for the wedding yet?”
That is a tricky subject. Mathilda and I are not exactly together, except when I am required to bring a female companion to an event. My mother must be spreading a hopeful rumor on my behalf.
“Not yet. We would like to enjoy each other’s company a bit longer.”
My aunt nods, giving me a serious side eye, before moving on to harass one of my cousins. I do not need to belong; I have no desire to marry or have a family. Mother is always reminding me I must raise an heir to the scythe, but I wish to have my youth a bit longer. And kids and I do not get along well; I make babies cry by being in the same room.
“Horace! It is time!”
Mother beckons me into a downstairs bathroom, beaming with pride, holding her father’s scythe. It is tradition for grandfather’s scythe to be passed down. The ceremony starts in half an hour and I must get my robes on. The One True Death waits for no one, not even his son.
@Aightball
240 words
Aisling’s foot tapped to the music completely of its own accord. Once she became aware, she stopped. It was Wednesday night and she still hadn’t figured out how Carla convinced her to come to Cavanaugh’s Irish Pub. Here she sat in the midst of music and laughter. The Bees—Brad and Bruce from Apartment 1A, had come with them. They were currently involved in a spirited game of darts.
“I have to work tomorrow,” she repeated for the umpteenth time.
Carla smirked. “It’s only nine-thirty. I know for a fact that you don’t start until ten tomorrow morning.
A waitress paused briefly at their table, dropping off pint glasses of ale and sweeping up the empties. She flashed a cocky grin over her shoulder as Carla yelled, “Thanks, Kelly!”
The music changed and Aisling’s foot twitched. She surrendered and let it tap it’s little heart out. She couldn’t help herself. She was of Irish ancestry and the jigs just kept coming.
“Look, Aisling, here’s the deal. These are all people from the neighborhood. This bunch is like the one over at the Daily Grind. You should get out and about and mingle. You’re one of us now. You belong in our little community.”
“I don’t need to belong.” The words blurted out before she could think about them. She’d never belonged. Not anywhere. Even her own family made her feel like a stranger.
“Tough. You belong here with us.”
Was it possible? What if she did? Then what?
****
248 Penumbra Papers #6 WIP words
Silver James
https://silverjames.com
“I appreciate your honesty.”
He grinned. “I was hoping I’d figure it out when I arrived and found you. But…”
“What? No miracles or message flashing in the sky?” I grunted as I used some clean bandage to wrap his hand. “Yeah, that never worked for me, either. The Life Mother just kinda let me try to figure out where I belonged in the grand scheme of things. It took me a long time to realize I don’t need to belong anywhere or with anyone. I just exist. I’d saved the planet—but for whom? All my people are gone and I’m here alone. There is no striding into the sunset because the sun comes up the next day to this.”
“You’re not alone anymore.” Rysh gave me a hopeful look.
“Which is a bigger surprise than when four-limbed invaders came.” I wrapped up his hand and put the medical supplies away, biding my time before I told him the hard truth. Taking a deep breath, I met his hopeful gaze. “Is it possible that your purpose in coming here as to let me know I’m not the only species that survived, and now you’re free to go home to your people?”
The look of befuddlement on Ryshtar’s face was almost comical, and I grunted in amusement in spite of myself. Stark reality aside, I didn’t really want him to retreat to his own people. I rather liked having him to talk to. But I had to be realistic.
250 ineligible #SciFi words
@SiobhanMuir on Patreon.com