Welcome back to the home of #ThursThreads for Week 717. 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, Facebook, Discord, and Mastodon, etc.
Our Judge for Week 717:
Scottish Word Slinger, Dauntless romance author, gluten-free baker, and #ThursThreads host, Siobhan Muir.
Discord | Bluesky | Patreon | Eden Books | YouTube |
And now your #ThursThreads Challenge, tying tales together.
The Prompt:
“No one paid much attention.”
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!
HEATRAGE 2029
I could’ve been a Martian with one giant Cyclopian eye sticking out of my forehead and it would have been just another day at the beach.
I wasn’t of course. I was just me; greased up, a fat-assed sombrero plopped on my head trying to keep my hair from burning.
And it wasn’t just another day at the beach. It was one hundred and twenty degrees and rising. The sea was jampacked with everybody imaginable. People who hadn’t been to the ocean in their entire lives had flocked here, and, so I had heard, to any body of water they could find.
No one paid much attention to the fact that the water here, a formerly chilled ocean, was almost kettle-boiling broiling.
We had become numb to the impending end.
No one paid much attention to the fires that were burning all around, fires that the authorities had declared unstoppable.
We had become more than numb. Way passed numb. Those of us who were still alive had become living zombies., each of us seeking some relief from the inescapable.
It had started in Europe. Europe was a charred mess of ancient times and death.
And here in North America, the choking smoke from our inextinguishable flaming forests, our homes, businesses, hospitals, our everything we held dear, was suffocating us, incinerating us, and so we flocked to the closest coolest water.
Everyone and their dog paid attention to the fact that the earth was a fiery mess.
Apocalypse, anyone?
250 Words
@billmelaterplea
@sterlings-son-2.bsky.social
Martin stepped out of the bakery and headed toward the center of town. He kept walking to pass the Sunrise Bed & Breakfast Inn, and the Nectar Falls Hardware store.
No one paid much attention to him as he scoped out the town, looking for Max Aberdeen’s vehicle. Martin had to hand it to him; the man was smart and drove around in one of the ubiquitous dusty pickup trucks that fit in with the locals. But Martin had memorized the plates; Montana tags 54-1BER. Not local. Corbin’s truck had Cascade County tags starting with the number 2. 54 was from Mineral County, to the southwest.
What the hell is this guy doing all the way up here?
Of course, Max could be borrowing someone else’s truck so as not to be so conspicuous, but Martin didn’t expect him to be that devious.
Martin slowly limped toward the back of the hardware store where there was a little extra parking. He moved like he was headed for his own vehicle, but it gave him a great view of the parking lot for the B&B. On his earlier exploratory walks, Martin had found the bench behind the store, placed there by someone honoring a loved one name Kenny who liked to watch the birds. It sat under a ponderosa pine with a couple of feeders hanging off the lower branches.
Martin liked it for the unimpeded view of the B&B, and no one would question his use of binocs.
248 ineligible #StainlessSteelSEALs words
@siobhanmuir.bsky.social
I took the For Sale sign off the old fire station. It would make a great garage where I could set up a business. My son was the figure head, who would do the day-to-day garage business. He could hire a mechanic or two, and fix some cars for real. Tom Jr’s Auto Repair, perfect. Throw a few old cars around outside, put in a lift, no one would pay much attention to our business. Conducting my business within sight of a police station was icing on the cake. I heard someone coming and my hand went to the gun in my pocket.
“Easy Tom. It’s just me. Zak Matz.”
“Zak what do you need?”
“Just a tiny favour, Butcher. Right up your alley.”
“Disposal?”
“Two bodies in an apartment at 450 Garden Street, apartment 306 about two blocks from us.
“Two? That makes disposal harder in such a busy area, but not insurmountable.”
“Suspicious of my accounting they were also looking at the Candlestick Maker’s cash transfers. No one will miss them.”
“Good that makes my job easier. Can you rent a backhoe for me, under one of your other names?”
“I can, where do you want me to leave it?”
“There’s big backyard with a twelve-foot fence behind us, will dig there and plant the bodies. Meet me at eleven at the apartment.”
The plan went off without a hitch, the neighbours just thought we were renovating, as I poured cement over the bodies for a patio.
249 words @sweetsheil.bsky.social
Aisling hovered on the back fringe of the crowd. No one paid much attention. Everyone was far too invested in what was happening. Spectators lined the sidewalk, all of them attempting to peer over the bridge rail to the river below. She was curious too, but not bold enough to push her way forward so she could see.
“A body,” someone closer to the front said.
“Not another one.” This voice was female, and dismayed.
“How many does that make now?”
“Why aren’t the police doing something?”
The mood changed, becoming something darker, angrier, fearful. The emotions rasped across her skin, abrasive and raising goosebumps. She edged back and sideways and yelped as a strong hand gripped her arm and pulled her along faster. Ready to dig in her heels, she glanced up. It was the man from the library. The one on the elevator.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his tone of voice holding a quiet urgency.
Unsure why, Aisling quite resisting and went with him. “We’ve met before,” she blurted as they cleared the last of the onlookers. “I’m sure of it.”
Ariel muttered, “In my dreams.” Louder, he said. “I do not believe so. I’m…” He stopped speaking. Names had power. His brain shifted and he continued, “Errol Denny.” It was the name on his hotel registration after all.
“Aisling Goodnight.”
He did not say I know. Instead, he gave the polite, “Nice to meet you.” In his head, he wondered, Bu who are you really?
****
250 Penumbra Papers #6 WIP words
Silver James
https://silverjames.com
Yoshimi Yamamoto congratulated her junior through a practiced smile. Yet another younger woman getting the break Yoshimi had been striving for her whole life. The actress had been fortunate to be cast in her first commercial when she was fifteen and immediately dreamed of being discovered and starring in movies.
She did well enough in her commercials. Twenty years later, she wasn’t struggling to live. But no one paid much attention, either. If only they knew just how good an actress she really was. All the bitterness and resentment perfectly hidden by her gentle façade.
Excusing herself, Yoshimi calmly sought somewhere quiet to lower her mask and breathe.
“That role should have been yours.”
Yoshimi reflexively reinforced her mask before smiling at the source of the voice. The matronly woman wasn’t unattractive, but had probably strained too much to squeeze into her dark skirt suit.
“Oh, I’m sure Suzuki-san will do wonderfully.”
The woman laughed.
“There’s no need to pretend with me. I see your heart. And I can make it so no one ever overlooks you again.”
Yoshimi faltered. There was a darkness in this other woman reaching out for Yoshimi’s own.
“Who… Who are you?”
The woman produced what looked like a crystal perfume bottle with metal thorns.
“I am the Demon Queen and in exchange for one little favor, I can make you irresistible.”
Yoshimi licked her lips, eyes locked on the bottle.
236 words
@davidaludwig.bsky.social
Screams rendered the air. The ship heaved to and fro in so much chaos, no one paid much attention to one man going over the side. As he plunged into the waters, she waited.
He dunked into the depths, flailing as he sank. He fought against the inevitable as the storm churned the waves. Astral flicked her tail and swooped closer, letting her arms close around him. She lifted him, swimming toward the surface. They broke through the barrier, and he gasped for air before taking in her magnificence.
“I’ve got you,” she said.
His blue eyes widened and his brow creased. He’d obviously heard what she said, but recognition didn’t hit home.
“How? Who?” he sputtered.
Lightning cracked through the darkening sky, striking the boat’s main mast and setting the topmost sail ablaze. Another set of waves drew upon them. Automatically, he looped his arms around her neck.
The gods were angry. She hoped to appease them with her offering.
“I’m Astral, Mistress of the Sea.”
The wave took them further away and he gazed back from whence he came. “My ship …”
“Will probably go down,” she said. “It’s no place for you.”
“Mermaid? Siren?”
She didn’t mind his confusion. Astral whipped her tail around, showcasing its cobalt and cerulean scales. It reflected the hues of the dark and stormy sea. “Whatever name makes you feel better.”
Meeting his gaze, she grinned, letting her sharp, pointed teeth sparkle.
“Let’s go for a swim,” she said, and dove deep.
@LouisaBacio
250 words
– All the Peculiar People the Frost Prefers Us to Be –
We hold our bodies stiff-tight against the shivering cold.
The frost has convictions. And it only settles on people whose convictions are equal or 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 equal — resolute enough to crystallize.
Sunrise — the mayor is a statue of certainty. The rest of us practice believing impossible things just to preserve our appendages.
We return to the present in reverse. We gather around bonfires, which burn downward. Flames sink into the earth. Fire broils roots and fossils. Fifty-six degrees celsius in the center. Soft enough to cut into segments. Soft enough to devour.
The air grows c-colder, but no one questions it. Fire falls from Heaven, always westward, always toward the center of the earth.
The town psychiatrist finally confesses what she’s been considering all winter.
“And what have you been considering, ma’am?” – independent journalist.
“Well,” she asserts, “Over time, we began to recognize that our dis-ease had molded our personalities in ways that would maximize our ability to get the addictive returns.”
“Dis-ease. Interesting.”
“But no one paid much attention.”
The journalist nods with professional enthusiasm.
Tiny white flowers bloom across our sleeves. Each blossom reminisces about a happier version of itself.
By February, we’re all experts; we’re all the peculiar people the frost prefers us to be. We laugh at mediocre jokes. We mourn hypothetical pets. We love strangers with archaeological devotion.
The bonfire reaches its destination, and the ground hiss-sighs.
We’re actually free to be ourselves, but no one moves.
The cold has been exhausting.
246 words
@krvanhorn.bsky.social
No one paid much attention when Marie drew her gun. Why would they have? They were busy celebrating and dancing and finding someone’s arms to jump into or catching someone else. She sidestepped one man and saw him find two other willing partners, and by doing so, she finally found a path through the chaos.
Keeping her head down, Marie brought her other hand to the gun. It would stay pointed at the floor until her target was close enough. She knew the odds of her target (and, she supposed, herself) being the only casualty were low, but that wasn’t something she could allow herself to care about. Alan had to die, and she had the means, the skill, and the opportunity. What else was there?
There was a cheer, and as if it was responding to a pre-arranged signal, the crowd opened a line of sight to him. She knew it wouldn’t be open long, and felt her arms swing into position. Her heart rate dropped and her eyes locked in on her target.
He’d always been handsome, and the years since she’d seen him last had only made him more so. That he was dancing with her daughter in his arms could have given her pause, but Rachel had made her choices years earlier.
Fate smiled on Marie as her finger contracted once, twice. The moving lights flashed red and the DJ dropped the needle on something that made the crowd scream.
She didn’t even need to run.
250 words
@drmag00.bsky.social
#ThursThreads Week 717 is now CLOSED. Thanks to everyone who wrote this week and I hope to catch you next week.