Welcome back to the home of #ThursThreads for Week 710. 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 Facebook.
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 710:
Slightly past-it Canuck and word chucker, Bill Engleson.
And now your #ThursThreads Challenge, tying tales together.
The Prompt:
“He couldn’t do it.”
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!
Mac knew he could do it. Run that long arc toward the bar suspended just below his head level, plant his left foot, spring up, twist onto his back, flip his legs over the bar, shoulders landing on that thick mattress of foam rubber.
He was certain he wouldn’t clank the bar again and both end up in an X marking the spot where gravity and reality proved stronger than hope and technique.
“Shuffled your stride again, Mac. Slowed down like you were afraid the bar’d give you the herp or something,” Coach Wills said. “This phobia isn’t helping you. Thought you were gonna headbutt the concrete pole-vaulting yesterday.”
“Messed my steps, Coach. I know I can beat ten feet.”
“Why do you keep trying to do stuff your body’s not capable of Mac? At least not at this level. You’re a fair second-leg relay runner, meh long jumper, and let’s not talk about the hurdles experiment. Your best event’d be 800 meters but you won’t run it.”
“He ran the 800”
“Your brother?”
“Yeah, school record, twice regional champion, full-ride,” Mac said as that freshman flew over 5’8” on her first try. Ever.
“I’m going over to the discus ring coach. Then the shot.”
“Okay, Mac. Just don’t kill any cheerleaders over there. No javelin!”
The jumps coach sidled up to Coach Wills and said, “Seriously, why’s that kid keep courting failure when he’d be decent at something else?”
“Because he couldn’t do it. Gotta admire that.”
250 words
@JAHesch
@jahesch.bsky.social
“Sacrifice”
Elara rained fire over the kingdom, her great wings feeding dust devils of oxygen to the stone-melting flames.
“Do it,” Vera commanded. Her face was flushed, windburn. Soot stained her jaw, temples, and the delicate digits of both hands, but her iron resolve shone like starlight through her hard gaze.
Colt could hardly stand the sight of blood at her temple, her forearm, or the bruises on her knees. She was too beautiful to be maimed in any way, too honest, too pure. Of course the sacrifice they needed would come from such a heart. One mortal life—that’s all it would take. One mortal life—freely given from the ancient bloodline—would throw the witch and her beast back into the hellscape.
Tears broke from the corners of Vera’s eyes, taking in the destruction, the death, Elara drawing nearer. “Do it now,” she pleaded.
“Not you, my love,” Colt wept. He couldn’t do it. Loathed the idea. But he already held the blessed dagger at her throat.
“Gods and mortals were never meant to be.”
Colt made his slice quick and deep, allowing death its sweet swoop without suffering. He met his lover’s eyes as the magic unfurled in a golden light around her. He never made promises, especially not to mortals, but this was different. Vera was *his*. “I’ll find a way to follow you. No heaven, hell, or border between worlds will stop me.”
239 words
@gorashade.bsky.social
Bran took a mental step back. How did Ariel know Orin’s true name? He grabbed the back of Orin’s leather jacket just as the man lunged toward Ariel. He flexed his magic and Orin stilled.
Sliding off the boulder, Ariel faced the two Unseelie Fae. His expression remained neutral, showing no emotion, though power reverberated through his words. “Do not get in my way, Bran, and keep your minion leashed.” His gaze flicked over Orin dismissively. He allowed a cold smile to stretch his lips briefly before he added, “Tell Mab her time is coming.”
The other Fae sneered at him. “Tell Oberon the same. My queen will return, despite the Seelie Court’s decree.” Bran pivoted and walked off.
Orin stood staring at Ariel for a long moment before he, too, turned and sauntered after Bran.
Ariel flexed his fingers as the two slipped into the tree line, leaving the glen empty. His palms itched to grip his sword and loose his magic. If he was prudent, he would follow and take them down in an ambush. Orin’s demise would cause no regrets. But Bran’s? He couldn’t do it. Bran had once been a friend.
He walked the opposite direction, his head ringing with the words he knew both Titania and Oberon would be flinging at him. He easily imagined their diatribe but it was Sade’s voice that rang loudest, “This will bite you in the ass, Ari.”
“Yes,” he muttered. “I will come to regret not killing them.”
****
249 Penumbra Papers #6 WIP words
Silver James
https://silverjames.com
“I didn’t think visiting family at this time of year would be so difficult. Hard, yes, but damn near impossible? Yeah, not on my list of holiday experiences.”
“Hopefully from now on things will go much easier.” Jayson used a big flashlight to examine the front of the minivan. “It looks like there’s only minimal damage. I think we could probably yank out the front fender to make it driveable. Deshawn.” Jayson waved to him. “Do you have a crowbar or something to bend this out of the way of the wheel?”
Deshawn narrowed his eyes and nodded slowly. “Yeah, I think Moe has one and we’ll be able to get it done.”
He headed over to the tow truck and asked Moe for her crowbar. The woman gave him an amused smile. “What size would you like? Medium? Large? Or Caber-sized?”
Deshawn laughed. “I’ll just stick with large.”
She handed off the large metal bar and he moved back to the minivan. It wasn’t that he couldn’t do it alone with his own brute strength, it was that Moe was human and none of the Elder Races knew if she was aware the folks around her weren’t human.
Deshawn inserted the bar beneath the fender and moved enough so Jayson could grasp it, too.
“Ready?”
“On the count of three. One… Two… Three!”
They both shoved with human-level effort, which meant just enough to make it move, and soon the fender bent away from the tire.
247 ineligible #SirensInc words
socel.net/@SiobhanMuir (Mastodon)
I remember the day he admitted he was old. It took him enough years. But one day he called me. “Can you come over and help me move a portable air conditioner up the stairs?”
This was my father. The man who built two sections of fence by himself a few years ago. Dug the holes. Put in the posts. Moved the fence panels into place. Screwed them down. All by himself.
Sure, it took him a few weeks. But he put up a panel a day. 16 panels total. You know how much those panels weigh? Somewhere north of 100 pounds each, that’s how much.
The man never asked for help. He simply did what he did. Of course, I worried about him. He wasn’t so young anymore. It was one thing when he was 62 or 63. But at 67? He couldn’t rebuild that fence if he tried. And he knew it.
He still did all the yard work. All the mowing. All the edging. All the weeding. He had a hard time keeping up with it all. But he was stubborn and would keep doing the yard work as long as he could. Until it nearly killed him. Then he might stop and hire someone.
You can imagine how I reacted when he called to ask for help. “Yes! I’ll help! When do you need me over there?”
It was the first time my father admitted he couldn’t do it.
244 words (per Google Write)
@mysoulstears.bsky.social
“Your parents expressly forbade this.”
Celeres stood uncomfortably between the princess and her objective, careful not to physically block her path while still ready to respond to further threats from any angle.
“It’s our fault that they crashed. We must do what we can for the survivor.”
The princess started toward the flaming wreckage. Celeres held up a tentacle, eyes scanning the sky.
“Please remain on the ship, Princess! I will fetch the survivor.”
Celeres rushed to the human boy before the princess could object. He delicately removed the twisted metal blocking access to the Earthling with a powered arm of his adaptation suit. Cradling the limp form in a tentacle, the royal guard returned swiftly to the ship.
“Bring him to the rejuvenator.”
The princess instructed, activating the med bay control panel. Celeres had barely removed his tentacle from placing the boy before the princess initiated the pod. Even with a lifetime of experience on both sides of rejuvenators, the grizzled veteran had never heard one make such sounds as this. Was it damaged in the crash?
“Oh my.”
The princess pulled data out to dozens of extra screens. Celeres circled around to look over her shoulders. What he saw made no sense.
“Is he…?”
“His subconscious has taken control of the rejuvenator to guide his own recovery. With a Power like that on our world, there would be nothing he couldn’t do.”
“It might be best to get him off the ship. Now.”
“Not before he’s healed.”
249 words
@davidaludwig.bsky.social
The moon was rising, an overhead light switched on as he stood still just staring into space. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t propel himself forward to place the rose on the coffin. He never thought this could or would happen, Helena was dead. As this outdated ritual was taking place people who never had a nice word to say about Helena were now crying crocodile tears. Was there anyone here besides him that truly cared?
He looked again. Helena’s former boss, Geoff was there. Geoff was a creep and had been handsy with Helena; how dare he be here? Peter took another look around as the rain began to come down. People had unfurled their umbrellas but as the rain began in torrents they ran away like their lives depended on it. Only Kara remained as the service concluded and dirt was thrown upon the coffin.
Peter looked around again, making sure the grave diggers were gone and began to dig .As he reached the coffin he heard scratching sounds. He lifted the lid and Helena stepped out grabbing Cara and sucking her dry.
He smiled and took Helena’s hand.
“Are you glad we’re married now?” Peter asked.
Helena asked, “Will we really leave forever?”
“As long as we are not caught or go out in sunlight.”
“who was at my funeral?”
Peter listed the people and Helena nodded happily until he got to Geoff.
“That creep!! Can I drain Geoff now?”
“Let’s go get him dear!”
248 Words @sweetsheil.bsky.social
He couldn’t do it without crying, and he was saving that for later. He watched them, his wife and his son, as they put on bedsheets and unpacked clothes and set the couple of childhood things he wanted to display and all he could think of was early mornings in the blue recliner watching Pop-Up Video and rocking, whispering “Papa’s got ya” and feeling the warmth as the tiny head settled against his chest.
He knew he wasn’t the only one trying to fight off the syn-propanethial-S-oxide in the air. Dads and moms of all types pausing when they thought no one was watching, taking a deep breath, and then bringing in the next load from the car or setting something just so on a shelf. But his counselor told him that it didn’t matter that what he was feeling was common, it was still his to feel.
It was all so stereotypical, he knew, but his life really could be divided between the time before was Dad and now, finding a capacity to love and to get out of his own head only for the newborn who somehow had facial hair and was now a legally-recognized adult – and the others that followed him. And he knew he wasn’t looking at the end of his time as Dad, but it was changing.
The hug hit him hard, and he grabbed on tight.
It was easy to see that he’d get where he’s going. The hard part was letting him go.
250 words
@drmag00.bsky.social
I shamelessly stole the last line from Jason Isbell.
#ThursThreads Week 710 is now CLOSED. Thanks to everyone who wrote this week and I hope to catch you next week.