Welcome back to the home of #ThursThreads for Week 689. 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 Discord 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 Bluesky, MeWe, Discord, and Mastodon, etc.
Our Judge for Week 689:
Gamer, writer, and responsive connoisseur of characters and stories, David Ludwig.
And now your #ThursThreads Challenge, tying tales together.
The Prompt:
“There was no blood or body.”
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!
Despite Felicia’s desperate urge to grab Jamison and drag him down to one of the private rooms below stairs, there was no blood or body worth her dereliction of duty to Aislynn. Felicia’s loyalty ran deep and strong, and even if she wanted to indulge with her hot detective lover, he still didn’t know her true nature. Hell, he didn’t even know his partner Chayse’s true nature. The Moon Singer had kept that from his human partner, and she wouldn’t be the first to expose the Elder Races. She’d learned that lesson the hard way centuries ago.
Jamison nodded and some of his tension fled. “All right. Do you want me to leave you alone right now, or may I stand by your side while you surveil the club? I could provide backup.”
She had to give him points. He didn’t miss much, and even though she said she was Aislynn’s personal assistant, he understood she was also the club’s enforcer/bouncer.
She snorted softly. “I don’t need backup.”
“Everyone needs backup. Teams are safer and stronger than one alone.”
She shot him a quick sideways glance, but his attention had drifted to the club scene, taking in details in the sharp way he looked at crime scenes.
I could do worse than have his help in security.
The only worry was his humanity. While many of the Underground’s members were good old humans, there was a large enough population of Elder Races to make his awareness problematic.
247 ineligible #SilverStateMysteries words
@siobhanmuir.bsky.social
Office Doddle
Sarge, I admit I took my time getting there. Had to stop off at the grocery store to pick up some bananas for the missus or she would have my head in a basket…she loves bananas. That didn’t delay me all that much but then there was a totally unexpected but, you know, predictable traffic jam, and the flat tire, can’t forget that…well, hell, I’m all thumbs these days and its been a decade since I last changed a tire…so all of this added up to a bit of delay.
My bad! Isn’t that what the kids say?
I finally get there. The scene of the alleged crime. The report was of a shooting…unclear who was shooting whom…or is it who? Anyways, there was supposed to be a body apparently, with a gusher of blood flowing like a geyser…which sounded really messy and how much blood would have actually blasted into the air , eh?
Well shiver my timbers, Pilgrim. Guess what? There was no blood or body.
Nada.
I take that back. There were numerous houses, eyes peering out behind a bevy of curtains,. Curtains and drapes…the odd set of blinds. They get so dusty don’t they?
So I knock on a few doors. It’s like a Kitty Genovese neighbourhood. No one wants to opine. Finally, this fellow steps out. He made the call. Says a van appeared right after. Scooped the body, sucked up the blood…and whoosh.
Gone.
CIA or Russkies, I figure.
Or maybe aliens.
250 Words
@billmelaterplea
@sterlings-son-2.bsky.social
Wentz finds March in the smoking lounge—also known as ‘beside the dumpster.’ There’s a shadow beneath his eyes that says he hasn’t slept recently enough, and he’s pulling on his vape like it’s the only thing keeping him going.
“Find anything good out there?”
“Sort of. Maybe.” March shoves his free hand in his hip pocket, rocking back on his heels. A haze of berry-scented carcinogens floats around his head. “Something curious, at least.”
Wentz lets the silence sit. March has that look about him—something at the scene didn’t go as expected, and he’s unsettled by that.
“The site was clean. Eat-your-dinner-off-the-floor clean,” March finally says. “Damnedest thing.”
“Yeah?” Wentz pulls his own smokes—the honest type that smell like they want to kill you—from his shirt pocket and taps one loose. He slips it between his lips and lights it. The first drag always hits so good. “What was?”
“There was no blood or body—”
“No body?” Wentz sucks his teeth. “Well, fuck. I thought for sure—”
“Let me finish, dipshit,” March huffs. “There was a body. In better shape than mine.”
“Not a stretch.”
“Fuck you and listen. There was no blood or any kind of bodily fluids.”
“Okay, so—so, what? The cause of death was—”
March shakes his head. Slowly, but firmly.
“No fluids,” Wentz says. Then, it hits. “In it?”
“Now you’re getting it.” March pulls on his vape. “Poor bastard was sucked drier than your sense of humor.”
250 words
@raethye.bsky.social
There was no blood or body but the scent of death sullied the air. Caleb glanced at Sade. “I can shift but not sure it’ll do any good. There was a body here but that’s the only scent.”
“What does that mean?”
“Like I should know?” The werewolf toed the flattened grass. “The body was here. Evidently, it just…poofed.”
“Bodies don’t just poof, Caleb.” Sade turned her attention to the Fae standing silently at her side, and stilled. Ariel’s face looked like it had been carved from white granite. “Ari?”
“It’s not her,” Caleb blurted. “Hell, Ari. Sorry. It’s not Aisling’s scent.”
The stark fear did not drain from Ari’s expression. In a voice as somber as the tomb they stood in front of, he said, “Are you sure this one was dead?”
“Yeah, buddy. I’m sure.”
Sade touched Ariel’s arm. “Will you tell us what’s going on?”
His gaze locked on the spot at their feet, Ari shook his head. “I can’t. King’s orders.”
“I call bullshit on that.” Sade whipped out her cell phone but snake-fast, Ari’s hand intercepted hers.
“No. You can’t call him.”
“Watch me.”
“No, Sade. I forbid you.”
“You are so not the boss of me, Ariel Daione. How ’bout I call Titania instead. She owes me.”
“That depends on what you call me, Sade Marquis.” The Queen of the Seelie Court stepped up beside them.
“Well, hell,” Sade muttered. “We are so fu—” Caleb surreptitiously kicked her shin. “Screwed,” she finished lamely.
****
249 Penumbra Papers #6 WIP words
Silver James
http://www.silverjames.com
I knew he was dead when he sang to me. I never could get him to sing, no matter how much I pleaded. I could get him to laugh, to orate, to whisper, to shout. I could get him to cry out in passion or surprise. I could get him to giggle and curse and do a dramatic poetry reading (though only once).
But I never could get him to sing, no matter what I promised him, to give him, to do for him, to do to him. I never heard him sing in the shower when he thought I wasn’t home, never got him to sing a lullaby, never got him to shout along with the chorus at a concert when twenty thousand other people were losing their minds.
He couldn’t sing, you see. That’s what he told me, and he was unwilling to waver on that point. He loved music, loved it with a passion, loved the poetry and the melodies and emotions. But couldn’t sing.
Wouldn’t sing.
I understood once I met his family. They were unflinching in their judgement of him. He constantly hid parts of himself to please them. Most of those he revealed to me. All but one. I never knew what they’d done to him to keep his songbird wings clipped forever, but there would be no relenting.
Not until tonight.
There was no blood or body to be found; never would be. But I knew he was gone.
He sang to me.
250 words
@drmag00.bsky.social
There’s a soul waiting on the side of the road. The soul rocks ever so slightly on their heels, as if bored. I wait on the sidelines, cot and body bag ready to deploy as soon as I get the okay. The sheriff crests the ditch, a puzzled look on his face, gravel crunching under foot.
“Got you out of bed for nothing, Carla,” he says. “There was no blood or body; sorry about that.”
I shrug, smiling. “No worries. It’s always good when you don’t need me.”
The local police chief sighs as he joins us.
“Must be that old ghost story again.”
“Ghost story?” I ask.
He sighs. “Oh, some old story about a teenager that allegedly died here back in the 60s, who haunts the area. Something to scare the kids. Bunch of bunk if you ask me.”
I swear the spirit mocks the chief. He walks back to his car, the rest of us following. A few steps from where we’re parked on the side of the road, the spirit stops.
“Never bad to scare them straight.”
He rolls his eyes, and leaves with the sheriff.
I walk back to the spirit. “You want to crossover?”
They’ve been here so long I can’t make out details except a hopeful nod. Making sure the coast is clear, I summon my scythe, disconnect the tether and walk them across to the waiting arms of an aunt. The ghost story will live on, but the subject can finally rest.
@Aightball
250 words
A call came in on the switchboard at the police station this morning, A woman whispered into the phone in a voice raspy and barely there,” My name is Nicolette Fairbanks, Paul Young stabbed me. I’m being taken away in a tarp with all the evidence. Please find me and make him pay for my murder. Then the phone call dropped.
The cell phone call had been traced to a home on Garner Avenue, owned by Paul Young. The neighbours said Nicolete had lived there for over a year and that Paul was always yelling.
There was no blood, or body; so how could anyone call this a murder? I, Lieutenant Gregory Franklin had a job to do. Paul wasn’t home he was at his office. A sympathetic judge allowed me to search the grounds for Nicolette. I searched everywhere just as I was about to give up, I spot a small piece of fabric on a wall. I tapped the wall and found it hollow. Tapping everywhere I found the secret lever and the wall popped open; in front of me a a body wrapped in a thick tarp. Unwrapping it I touched my gloved hand to the body’s neck.
She was alive? I pressed on the chest wound and prayed the ambulance would get there in time. In her hand I found a ball of hair pulled from the roots, either way Paul’s goose was cooked, but I prayed brave Nicolette would live.
245 Words @sweetsheil.bsky.social
“We don’t usually like your kind around here… But, well, the sheriff is the one who would normally handle this kind of thing. And we don’t have anyone else.”
The village headman explained, straining unsuccessfully not to stare at Hanako. The gravel of the twilight road crunched under their boots. She smiled gently.
“Oh, I’m happy to help any way I can.”
The headman raised a trembling finger toward the jailhouse ahead and dropped behind Hanako.
“We’re sure something’s happened to the sheriff, but no one knows what. He had gotten increasingly paranoid over the last week. Said something was watching him.”
Hanako nodded. She unslung her shield from her back and gripped her holy symbol in her other hand as she crossed the threshold. There was no blood or body, but the signs of struggle were obvious to even the most untrained eye.
The cleric sighed. Then released her holy symbol and returned her shield to her back.
“I can say a prayer for your sheriff, but I’m afraid you’ll never see him again.”
“What? How do you know?”
Hanako clasped her hands and lowered her head.
“Because one of my kind did this.”
The headman blanched and fell against the wall for support.
“A-are we in danger?”
“Oh, probably not. How bad are your sins?”
217 INELIGIBLE words
@davidaludwig.bsky.social
“If there was no blood or body, why did you call me? I’m homicide. There’s no murder here.”
“Look at this room …” Charlie spread his arm wide as though introducing it. It was trashed: broken mirrors, picture frames, pictures off walls, everything swept off tops. The bed also looked like it had been turned upside-down. “And the two that live here are missing.”
“They could be anywhere—”
“They’re not. They were at their workplaces, witnesses saw them come home. Then neighbours called the police due to all the screaming – two people screaming.”
“Kidnapped? It’s still not homicide,” Stephens moved to the door ready to leave.
“I’ve got a hunch.”
“A hunch?”
“Yeah. Come on. Help me with this.” Charlie pointed to the bed.
“What are you seeing?”
“Something is not right with this bed. You see the mattress? It’s too lumpy.”
Stephens frowned, but looked at the bed. He’d known Charlie a long time; he trusted him. “What do you want to do?”
“Got a knife? I want to rip this thing open.”
Stephens pulled out a knife from a sheath on his belt. He stepped forward and sliced into the mattress, cutting into it like a cake. He cut the corner open and the two of them ripped the material back.
Both men stepped away covering their mouth and noses. Two sliced up rotting bodies revealed. The stench was high.
“Blood and bodies,” Charlie said. He’d been right.
Words 241
@purplequeenpub.bsky.social
Splashes of blood marred the freshly fallen snow. She leaned over, carefully placing the stem of white rose into the embankment.
“I thought there was no blood or body?” Maggie gestured toward the makeshift memorial. “She was shot in the car.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Maybe in the process of transfer with medical professionals. She had to get into the ambulance somehow.”
They both stood looking at the crime scene: an ideal neighborhood marred by unnecessary and senseless violence.
“She was a poetic warrior, only trying to help others,” Maggie said, wiping away tears before they froze on her cheeks.
“Or simply on her way home from dropping her son off at school,” Kyle offered. “She didn’t expect this chaos. She didn’t expect to die today.”
Slowly, others gathered on the street, sidewalks and available yards. Most held candles or lights or held up their cell phones. Someone played a melodic song. The music so faint on the breeze, she couldn’t capture the words. A swelling of communal emotion flowed over Maggie and she closed her eyes, trying to block out the videos she’d watched, the horror and accumulation of hate.
How could they get to this moment when a mom of three is brutally killed in her own minivan by those ironically supposed to be protecting the public?
She shivered, feeling the sadness deep within her soul. Kyle slung his arm over her shoulders, offering comfort that did nothing to take away the pain.
@LouisaBacio
248 words
It was normally a quiet neighborhood. Lawns were neatly mowed. Sidewalks swept. Birds chirped. Nothing was out of the ordinary except the dry rustling of yellow police tape and the garish flash of blue and red lights atop the handful of squad cars parked outside one of the unassuming homes. Uniformed officers milled in and out of the house, radio chatter a low hum in the background. Neighbors gawked from the tree lawn, whispering amongst themselves.
A female detective entered the house with her partner following a step behind. Her head swiveled from side to side as she took in the scene. The room looked like a bomb went off in it. The walls were scorched, furniture blackened and broken. But, there was no blood or body, just … bits. Bits and strips of dessicated human flesh, like macabre fruit roll ups on every available surface.
“What in the Hell happened here?” she muttered as she stepped further into the house, dabbing eucalyptus oil under her nostrils to combat the noxious smell permeating the room.
A forensic tech walked in from another room, looking haggard. “There’s more down the hall.”
“Is this all from the same person?” her partner asked as he flipped through the notes given to him from the officer first on site.
“Unknown yet, Martinez. We are still gathering samples,” the tech responded tiredly as he moved onto another room.
“Who lived here?” she asked.
“Name on the property record is Damien Ophidian.”
“Wow, the Antichrist?”
249 words
@mlgammella.bksy.social
#ThursThreads Week 689 is now CLOSED. Thanks to everyone who wrote this week and I hope to catch you next week.