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
It’s How You Play the Game
“Congratulations, Cody!” I mostly meant it, despite her consistently beating us. But then, she always won.
My dad, who coached Cody and me since we could bounce a basketball, always said she had something special beyond natural talent — a competitive spirit that wouldn’t let her lose.
“She’s a born winner, Suze. You can’t coach height nor that,” he said. The fact I’m just north of five foot nothing and my team sucked once St. Blaise Academy poached Cody in eighth grade were not lost on me. Especially since they poached my coach with her.
“Suze, you know how much this could mean for us? Your father’s salary as a Phys Ed teacher plus coaching basketball and soccer? We could move out of here someday,” Mom said. Like I was being selfish because my father had gone to the dark side.
So, after Cody got her big Division 1 scholarship, Mom and I went to the party at her new house with my dad’s new car in the new garage with the new hoop over the door and mini-halfcourt painted on the driveway.
“Thanks, Suze,” Cody said focusing over my head.
“Well, I hope you remember me when you’re…”
“Just a sec. There’s the recruiting coach from BU. Coach Jamie!” she said, rushing past me down the driveway.
When Cody tripped, I saw her knee buckle. ACL, MCL and meniscus torn, Dad told me. BU pulled her scholarship two months later.
Yeah, she still had my Dad. Loser.
248 Words
@JAHesch
@jahesch.bsky.social
The two women, one a fae queen and the other a human FBI agent, squared off. Ariel managed two steps before Caleb snagged his arm and hauled him backwards.
“You may be older’n dirt and you may think you know all about women seein’ as what you do for your king an’ all, but I’m tellin’ ya, you do not want to get in the middle of this.”
“Just what is it you think I owe you, human?” Arrogance dripped from every word Titania uttered. “In truth, I believe you should be the one owing me. After all, I refrained from wringing your scrawny neck.”
Sade’s eyes turned to shards of green glass. “I. Was. Four.”
The Fae Queen made a poo-pooing noise.
Briefly closing her eyes, Sade grabbed her patience with mental hands and hung on tightly. Still, she couldn’t resist a jibe. “My patience was already tested this morning, your majesty. It came back negative so don’t push me.” There. That was polite. “You will tell me what the…” She paused, brain scrambling away from the curse words she wanted to use. “Flippity flaming flapjacks is going on. You and the King are up to your chinny-chin-chins in this.”
“It is Fae business.”
Before Titania could react, Sade had her in handcuffs made of cold iron. “Wrong. This is my realm, so my business. You’re under arrest for crimes against humans.”
Titania sputtered while trying to magic the cuffs. Sade smiled. She’d learned and now she always won.
****
250 Penumbra Papers #6 WIP words
Silver James
silverjames. com
Grace had grown up the most popular person, everyone wanted to be her friend. Grace glided through life like all she won was her right, not her privilege, or even that she had a lucky horseshoe. She was born into a rich family who had years of getting everything they wanted for centuries, so it was simply her due. She wanted something it landed in her lap. That was until today, she always won, until she didn’t.
The object of her desire was a man, Rudolph Grey, handsome, kind and penniless it appeared, It didn’t matter. She made advances for weeks, flirting outrageously. He’d walk away but. he was hers; she was sure of it.
She made her play today, hinting that she needed a date to a charity event Rudoph had responded with a death stare. Grace was frustrated b out, “Why blurting out “Why don’t you like me?”
Rudolph answered that he thought she was shallow, wishy-washy and ugly inside, he then proceeded to tell her that she had hurt Caroline Rea, someone dear to him.
“Caroline? She’s not for you,” Grace answered.
Rudolph answered, Caroline was his fiancée. He had more money, than Grace would ever have, but he used it for good. He proceeded to blacklist her making Grace persona non grata.
Grace didn’t learn a thing she just moved on, and now she’s married to another poor sucker who thinks she loves him but she’s bored already and will soon have her fifth divorce.
249 Words
@sweetsheil.bsky.social
Boogey always got her target. She always won by her own strength and talents. But the Arch-Lich had been on her list for too long without so much as getting close to his tower. Now she found herself outnumbered by her allies.
“Oh my,” Hanako smiled at Zee. “Being guided by angels could be quite useful on this quest.”
The goblin looked up sideways at the cleric as Boogey lumbered silently behind them.
“You know, most clerics haven’t believed me that angels speak to me.”
“Those of my faith and angels try to stay out of one another’s business, so my knowledge of them is mostly academic. However, I do not believe you are lying.”
Zee nodded with a satisfied hum. Hanako turned her attention back to Boogey before continuing.
“Still, if we hope to infiltrate the Forlorn Tower, we will need someone capable of disabling at least basic arcane wards. It would not do to be over dependent on miracles.”
Another ally? Boogey growled her irritation, but nodded agreement. Hanako smiled, as usual.
“There’s an arcane college in the next town. With luck, we’ll find someone willing to aid us there.”
Boogey didn’t care for teammates. They cramped her style. But if it was necessary to finally cross the Arch-Lich off her list, she would endure. Because one thing mattered more than style.
She always won.
227 words
@davidaludwig.bsky.social
– A Statement Waiting to Collapse –
The chair disassembled itself. Metal gave up. Screws skittered. When this happened, we understood that Auntie Amy had already said the chair wasn’t stable. You see, her words equaled inevitability, and we couldn’t argue with inevitability. It didn’t need to persuade. It just arrived, and she always won.
If she said the toast would burn, it spontaneously combusted, leaving a message of smoke as a reminder of her foresight.
Our family adapted like an institution. Meetings and prohibitions. Quiet revisions of language. Verbs were the first to go as action invited consequence. We favored nouns, neutral objects. Potatoes or curtains; the less ambition, the better.
It wasn’t perfect, though. Even silence felt dangerous, a statement waiting to collapse.
At a wedding, Auntie Amy leaned toward me. She whispered, “It won’t last,” and the groom disappeared mid-vow. The tux remained, rented and sweaty. We applauded, but we were unsure why.
Last week, we sat in a hospital waiting room in plastic chairs. This time, Auntie Amy said nothing. The doctor emerged and told us, “Everything looks good.”
Auntie Amy nodded. “That’s reassuring.”
Nothing happened. The machines continued beeping. The building stayed vertical. Out in the hall, a Coke dropped from a vending machine. And for a moment, we felt the shock of survival.
Then her phone vibrated. She frowned. “I left my car running.”
Outside, the parking lot eased itself into the river.
We didn’t discuss endings or infrastructure after that.
240 words
@krvanhorn (Bluesky & X)
–The Games People Play–
She was the master of power plays. She gave a little, they gave a little, back and forth as the game progressed. No matter what they did, she always won. Always. Sure, some called her a maneater, but she didn’t mind. The men certainly didn’t, at least not until afterward. But the after was not her problem.
Never again would she allow a man to have the upper hand again. Not after … after him. Simone rebuilt herself brick by brick, play by play, until nothing remained of the weak and helpless woman she was back then. No one would get behind her walls again.
Simone thrived on the game, the tête-à-têtes. Hushed conversations over romantic dinners, intimate liaisons, secrets shared– well, their secrets. Never hers. Anything she ‘confided’ to her companions was never actually a secret, and anything she gave was never actually a treasure. The same ploys he used to her, and now she used them with impunity. It was perfect.
She stood by the dark-lit bar, a perfectly blended negroni in her hand. Her plan for the night was unfolding as expected. She felt a bit of a rush before meeting her latest toy, the anticipation of a new round of games. Based on what she knew of him, this would be exceptional.
“Simone.” His voice wrapped around her spine like velvet all while sending chills up and down her body. It was not a voice she ever wanted or expected to hear again.
It was him.
250 words
@mlgammella.bsky.social
“Why don’t you just let your sister have this. It’s special to her.”
Amelia slowly put down fragile glass and glanced towards the doorway where her mother stood, arms crossed. “Because it’s not hers to have and it’s only special because she expects everyone to give it to her. This is something for me that grandpa left. And I’m not giving this up.”
“Well you let her have everything else growing up. Why is this different?”
“Because I didn’t care about the other things as much as I do about this. It’s one of the few places that he took me for a dig and let me help out. We found these glass cups together.”
“Just some old stuff that someone shoved away. I never understand why anyone would want to have old things.” Her mother sighed.
“Dad sits on the board to the museum. Which has old things.”
Amelia got a hand waved at her. “I only like when they have the parties when they change exhibits and have parties. I don’t really pay attention to anything.”
“Here you are! Ooo, they look so pretty. Let me see.” Her sister bounced in and made a grab for the delicate glass and Amelia jerked her hand back.
“Don’t touch.”
“Amelia Rose. Just let your sister show it off. It’s not big deal.”
“What’s one more time, Am.” Her sister reached out for the cup.
“No.” She glowered, pulling the glass close to her. “Before. She always won. Not this time.”
250 words
@solimond.bsky.social
“Yeah, I’m not getting out of bed for less than six figures. Those creepy bastards should have all their secrets exposed. Hell, I’d do it myself if I didn’t have anything better to do. As far as I’m concerned, the hacker is an undercover hero.”
Hermione looked mildly affronted, but Susan, who’d been around long enough to see the kind of ‘justice’ the DOJ doled out, just nodded.
“We’ll let you sleep.”
Hermione sputtered. “Are you serious right now?”
“Hey, the public should know who’s sitting on the bench for life, making decisions about other people’s lives while getting away with their depraved and unethical actions.” Lisa rolled over. “Wake me if they agree to pay something reasonable, and make sure to get half upfront.”
They left, turning off the light, and Lisa smiled. She always won when it came to logic, commerce, and ethics. She’d meant what she said. She believed the hacker was a bit of a hero for exposing the rich and depraved. Those monsters needed consequences for their actions. If they didn’t want consequences, they shouldn’t have done the actions to begin with.
She didn’t wake up until well after 1300 and Susan reported that the DOJ had declined to up the pay, so she went to find Ki and watch more of You’re Not the One on Netflix. She finally remembered to eat and check her phone for texts from Barrett, but her messages were strangely silent.
She frowned. Barrett texted every day. Why not now?
250 ineligible #SirensInc words
@siobhanmuir.bsky.social
She always won when we played Mario Kart. It wasn’t even close. I tried my best, but from the first time we played on our fourth date until our 17th anniversary, I didn’t beat her once. I was Donkey Kong to her Yoshi, and that little green bastard crossed the finish line before me time after time.
I pulled out the controller and looked over at her spot on the couch. She always looked so relaxed when we played, a stark contrast to the tension I couldn’t keep off my face. That is, until the race was over and she smirked and I grinned. It brought her such joy, and, in turn, fed my joy as I watched her.
The first race started, and I drove like a man possessed. First place. First place. First place. Not Rainbow Road, but fuck that track.
She didn’t smirk, not once. I didn’t grin, either.
When I ran out of energy, I turned off the TV and headed up the stairs. She didn’t follow.
She never would again.
I looked at my left hand, imagining I could see the groove on my fourth finger. I’d stopped wearing my ring the day she’d left, knowing she’d never be back.
Maybe I raced better because I wasn’t wearing it.
When I closed my eyes, I saw Yoshi sticking his tongue out as he celebrated. I saw her smirk.
I went downstairs and restarted the game. Maybe if I raced enough, I’d see it again.
249 words
@drmag00.bsky.social
#ThursThreads Week 693 is now closed. Thanks to everyone who wrote this week and I hope to catch you next week.