Welcome back to the home of #ThursThreads for Week 693. 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 693:
Dead Thing Specialist, Mining Geologist, and Gamer, George Varhalmi.
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And now your #ThursThreads Challenge, tying tales together.
The Prompt:
“She always won.”
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!
The Olympian
“I thought of her as an Olympian. The Olympian of my love.”
“George, she wasn’t really…all that athletic.”
“She walked quite a lot, Howie. That counts for something, right. I mean, two miles in and I’m huffing and puffing and she was still zooming along, encouraging me to keep up.”
“I went on some of those walking excursions with you and Gracie. She got quite pissed at you as I recall. She’d say, ‘get a move on old hoss…giddyap. You’re slowing me down.’”
“Fine, I’ll give you that. She got quite worked up but she knew I was always slow to move…I was always happy just to be there with her…”
“Always behind her if I recall…”
“Yeah, always behind…but there, nevertheless. I mean it wasn’t really a race. Just us keeping fit.”
“It may not have been a race but she always won. She liked to win.”
“Yeah, she did. At whatever she tried. You know, with life being a race and all, she’d be a mite perturbed that I won this one. “
“The race of life?”
“Yup. Truth is, I always expected her to win that one too.”
“Yeah. But it didn’t happen. Where are you going to spread her ashes?”
“On the trail we usually went for a walk on. Seems appropriate.”
“Then lets do it…”
“In a moment. I just need to stop and catch my breath.”
“Take your time, old friend. There’s no rush.”
242 Words
@billmelaterplea
@sterlings-son-2.bsky.social
The party was in full bloom, guests flowing from the patio and out to the glistening lawn overlooking the Sound.
The post-regatta gala at the Greenwich Yacht Club was my least favorite event of the social calendar. But needs must, as they say, and my appearance was calculated to let me remain in the tenuous good graces of my family.
Still, it wasn’t all bad. Unlike my sister Carrie, I was not paraded around by our mother for introductions to an important, up-and-coming (and eligible) guy at Goldman or JP Morgan or one of the hedge funds that shared the Greenwich view of the Sound.
It freed me to stand off to the side, which is what I was doing, content with a fine white in my left hand while my right picked from the plate I’d placed on the patio’s stonewall with finger food that was, frankly, another of the not-all-bad parts of the torture.
My survey of Carrie’s bounding from one small group of well-dressed assholes to another like a pinball was interrupted by a hand that lightly touched my arm. I turned. Franklin Everett, one of the WASPiest of the WASPs with whom I’d gone to Greenwich High School.
I held my wine glass out towards the lawn, pointing.
“Carrie,” I said as I pulled the glass to my lips for a sip. “She always won.”
I felt his arm encircle my waist. “Not this time,” he said as he pulled me closer. “Not this time.”
@jpgarlandauthor 249 words