Thursday, May 3, 2012

#ThursThreads - The Challenge That Ties Tales Together - Week 21

Welcome back to the Weird, the Wild, & the Wicked. Right now it's Thursday, so what should you be doing? Writing #FlashFiction, that's what! Welcome to Week 21 of #ThursThreads, the challenge that ties tales together. 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.
Rules to the Game:
  • This is a Flash Fiction challenge, which means your story must be a minimum of 100 words, maximum of 250.
  • 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 (or be excluded from judging)
  • Include your Twitter handle or email (so we know how to find you)
  • The challenge is open 7 AM to 7 PM Pacific Time
  • 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 Facebook, Twitter, and Google Plus

Our Judge for Week 21:

Me, the Scottish Word Slinger herself, Siobhan Muir.

And now your #ThursThreads Challenge, tying tales together.

The Prompt:
"It was a much better monument than a cold stone in a manicured cemetery."

Away with you, Flash Fiction Fanatics, and show us your #ThursThread. Good luck! :)


  1. The glass of orange juice sweated in Justine’s hand. “But I don’t want Botox.”

    “We’re under strict orders that you are to have the full package. No exceptions.” The bored technician studied her dagger-like nails.

    “But . . . I don’t want it.” Her voice was softer now, almost a whisper. It didn’t matter what she wanted.

    The technician—Moira, her name tag read—glanced up, brows drawn together. “Don’t you want to be beautiful? People will be looking at you forever. Well, not you, really . . .” She plucked the glass out of Justine’s hand and pushed her down the hall.

    It was as though every thought coalesced into a scream. Justine could barely think over the wailing, but one thing was clear. There was no getting out of it.

    Moira flung open the last door at the end of the corridor. The shiny blade of the guillotine gleamed the corner. “Have a seat, and we’ll get this moving. I’m to do the final procedure after the Botox injection.”

    “And what then?” Justine asked. She clenched her fists, edging her back against the cold vinyl.

    The technician pointed. “We separate you right at the base of the neck. You won’t feel a thing, of course. Taxidermy takes over then.”

    It was a much better monument than a cold stone in a manicured cemetery. Justine closed her eyes. “I’m ready.”

    231 words

    1. Ah, the cost of eternal youth and beauty. Creepy!!

  2. In Justice
    Raymond C. Morris

    The head had ceased dripping blood some time ago, though some congealed mess still leaked out and splattered at the base of the statue. The concrete horseman, rearing with sword lifted in defiance to all that was unjust. The sword was now a spear, thrusting up through useless gray matter and causing milky eyes to bulge out, almost as though they were surprised. The mouth sagged open, something large and flaccid having been stuffed into it. The chin was as filthy as a child’s bib on spaghetti night.

    At the base of the statue, two hands lay, made into fists. The knuckles were scrapped and cut open; they were the hands of a fighter, or a hitter at the very least. Tattooed across the fingers of each hand was the word LOVE, in faded blue lettering. Perhaps it had been meant to mean that he loved twice as much. The hands met in a V shape, the ragged wrists pressed together and glued to the concrete by way of viscous gore.

    The macabre ensemble stared toward the courthouse, filmy eyes filled with what Katy assumed was regret.

    She gathered with the rest of the growing crowd, staring up at the man, or what was left of him. No longer the nights of hot, furiously scrubbing showers; no more the pitiable looks or the covering makeup. This, it was a much better monument than a cold stone in a manicured cemetery, for this was how he would forever be remembered.

    249 words

  3. The large robotic unit waited in the shadows of the trees. The army's best cloaking technology made the camouflage redundant. A young man and woman walked by hand in hand.
    "Jerry, you know we're not allowed to be out here. The whole base is on lockdown until they neutralize the rogue mech. That thing is nearly indestructible. Even missiles couldn't keep it from extracting the brains of thirty-five soldiers."
    "You're ruining the mood Kim." Jerry got on one knee. "Kim, will you…"
    Kim screamed.
    "I was hoping for a yes."
    Huge metallic hands lifted Jerry off the ground.
    "Please don't hurt her!"
    The unit glanced at Kim and made a noise. "Do not resist." Impassive robotic eyes focused deeply on Jerry. "Please, do not resist."
    Comprehension soothed Jerry's maddening panic. The metal creature recognized itself as an abomination. It wanted a mind, a soul. The previous uploads had all failed because the victims had resisted. Jerry relaxed and the pain receded.
    Unit J3R3 stood in the shadows of the trees. A young man and woman walked by hand in hand.
    "They say it's been five years since the mysterious attacks ended."
    "I don't want to talk about it."
    "I'm so sorry. I forgot he was one of them."
    "The last one before they destroyed it.
    The army had lied but she didn't need to know that. Kim felt safe and finally moved on with her life. It was a much better monument than a cold stone in a manicured cemetery.

    250 words

  4. Reality Vs. Fantasy
    By Lisa McCourt Hollar

    Sabrina hunkered down in front of the fireplace, prepared to wait out the storm. It was a vision of white outside as the snow swirled around, obstructing roads and closing the local airport. It’s not like she had any place to go anyway, Brad had called last week and told her not to bother visiting during the holiday break; he’d found someone else to keep him warm. Sabrina hadn’t been angry, her last few visits with him had been disappointing and she found herself comparing him to someone that didn’t exist, not really. How she wished though…

    Opening her book, it fell open where she’d left off before the power went out and read, "It was a much better monument than a cold stone in a manicured cemetery."

    Sabrina chuckled at the innuendo. James, the hero of the book was reputed to be well endowed. Sighing, Sabrina fell headfirst into the story, imagining she was Veronica and it was James held in his arms.

    “Their lips brushed..” Sabrina felt pressure on her lips...“His mouth found her breast, his tongue teasing her nipple…”

    “Damn,” Sabrina thought, sucking in her breath, “why couldn’t Brad be like that. Instead he was wham, bam, thank you ma’am.”

    A knock at the door pulled her from Veronica’s …and by extension, her orgasm. Her heart was hammering. Who could be out there in the middle of a snowstorm.
    Cautiously opened the door. Standing outside was a man that fit the mental image of her James.

    250 Words

  5. Dang it! It's supposed to read, imagining it was she James held in his arms. Must have deleted the she when editing and didn't notice. :-(

  6. After five years of our engagement he wanted to break-up? After I spent years making everything perfect? And he wasn’t even moving out until the end of the week? He still expected me to cook, clean and wash his clothes? Stupid jerk! It almost made me want to poison his pancakes.
    I had given him the best parts of me and now he was leaving me for her? That dizzy, Marilyn Monroe wannabe, who lived next door. Her name was Emma for Pete sake not Marilyn .I had plans a life with him and children with him. Now all that was gone because of her! Well okay him too. I hated them both. I should kill myself no them. Make it look like a murder suicide. I’d set the house ablaze after drugging them both and leaving a suicide note at her place on her computer. I of course I’d have an ironclad alibi.
    A week later I am wiping away tears as the police come.
    “Ms.Brewer. We are so sorry for your loss. The coroner has ruled this a murder suicide.”
    It worked. My plan had come to fruition. It had been ruled it a murder suicide. I had all Henry’s lovely money being in his will and of course being his grieving fiancée .It was a much better monument than a cold stone in a manicured cemetery. I was alive and they were dead and I didn’t miss Henry one little bit.
    244 words

  7. “I don’t want a stupid tombstone in a cemetery somewhere as a memorial to the life I had.” He looked at me. “I want a memorial that people will see. That people will remember.” He waved his arms in the air. “I want to be remembered forever!”

    I handed him the authorization form. “Then read this, sign it, and granting us permission to use your name and picture.” He did, guaranteeing that he would have his own form of immortality. Some people are so vain. And we don’t hesitate to use them to help manage problems. Like population. And government budgets.

    After he died, we kept our word. We used his name, and his image. And set up a series of operations. Bombings mostly. That killed several thousand people over ten years. We blew up restaurants, stores, movie theaters, even a couple of child daycare centers. And one hospital. Just for good measure. Always airing a video of him taking credit for the incident.

    Hell, it worked. It always had. Always would. That’s what we do. Set up fake terrorist organizations for governments. Upon request, of course. Keeps their populaces in line. Keeps their economies booming. Keeps their citizens paying taxes for government services, national defense, rebuilding infrastructure like roads and sewers. And we guarantee that the faces and names that we use will never be forgotten. None ever have.

    And yes, it was a much better monument than a cold stone in a manicured cemetery.

    1. Oops... Forgot... Silly me...

      249 Words.

  8. A bright pink scrap of cloth was nailed to the doorframe. Many of the patrons walking through the door stopped to look at it. They knew who owned those panties, well, anyone who had been in the bar more than a few times did. Josie was a force of nature. She didn’t take to the stage often, preferring to direct her girls, but when she did, she never failed to please. Even at fifty, her body was fit and trim. She might not garner the whistles her girls did, but she always dropped jaws when she started moving. Every man who nodded to the memorial would happily strangle the man who killed her, if they ever learned who did. Her body had been found in a ditch without more than a few bruises to show anything had happened to her. Her death remained a mystery the authorities didn’t feel pressured to solve. Josie had no family and all her friends were of the morally ambiguous sort. That left an entire establishment feeling lost and adrift. The girls danced on the stage, but their hearts weren’t in it. Half the men weren’t watching, instead sharing stories about one performance of Josie’s or another. Eventually they all shuffled off, looking once more at the pink thong in the doorway. It was a much better monument than a cold stone in a manicured cemetery. This one suited her perfectly.

    236 words

  9. Timothy kept picking at them. Like flecks of paint on an old metal cart, his skin on the bottom of his foot was peeling. At first he figured it to be a callus, and he’d purchased a razor blade to have a go at it. He scrubbed and sliced, continually shedding off flakes of his disgusting, hard, scaly epidermis. For weeks this went on, each day drawing blood and bringing renewed agony.

    Then one day he pulled his boot off, and he knew immediately he had a serious problem. The cracks in his skin hadn’t healed overnight like they normally did. His white sock was spotted with blood, and his foot was oozing, forcing him to the bathroom to apply hydrogen peroxide and antibacterial cream. He knew he had procrastinated, should have seen the doctor a long time prior, but now the situation looked dire.

    Timothy made an appointment with a podiatrist, who scheduled him immediately. He wrapped up his foot in gauze, slipped on a flip-flop, and jumped into his truck. A mile away from his destination, a semi merged into his lane, and when he tried to brake, his flip-flop caught on the gas pedal, causing him to accelerate into the back of the monstrous vehicle, killing him instantly and causing a multi-car pile-up.

    As his soul drifted away, he saw his severed foot resting beside a guardrail, and his only thought was that it was a much better monument than a cold stone in a manicured cemetery.

    250 words

  10. Dash led me into a long hall. At the far end, an altar bathed in a soft nimbus of sunlight waited. The building itself showed clears signs that it had been extended several times. On either side of the walk, figures stood tall and straight, seeming to stand guard.

    I approached the closest one on my left, a blonde woman with opalescent violet eyes. At just a glance, I would have thought she was alive, she looked so eerily real. She lacked the spark of animation and soul though, and I backpedaled from the empty husk.

    “What are they, Dash?”

    “A tribute,” he said. “I guess someone thought it was a much better monument than a cold stone in a manicured cemetery.”

    A shiver worked its way through me. “This is how your people remember the dead?

    Dash shook his head. “This place is only for the sacrificed. That we might remember them and the blessings their deaths wrought.”

    “Your ancestors got together for coffee one morning and somebody said let’s make creepy ultra real mannequins to remember the innocents we slaughter each year?”

    He winced. “They—they aren’t mannequins, Kat.”

    “Then what the—” My brain caught up to Dash’s meaning and stumbled to a stop. I stared at the blonde woman. “These are—their bodies? Their actual bodies?”


    “Oh, no,” I whispered, backing away from Dash. “No fucking way.”

    He caught me by the shoulders. Next to us, an empty pedestal waited for its next ‘tribute.’


    250 #WIP500 words

  11. She remembered the way he introduced himself, self-deprecating and almost proper: “I’m Charles Anderson, the scientist; and you are lovely.”

    Posterity Inc. had told her he was an unusual case. They didn’t tell her he was tall, clean-cut and subtly magnetic. His nearness unbalanced her and she had almost bungled the interview by tripping over her chair trying to maintain a professional distance.

    “I’m terminal, not contagious.” He had laughed, white teeth flashing between boyish dimples.

    The interview lasted over an hour, discussing genotype and probability. He was so blessedly – normal. When it was time to make her decision, he had strolled behind her chair, suave as James Bond.

    “I may be dying, but I assure you I can still do this.” His hand traced the line of her biceps in one teasing stroke, brushing her breast in passing. A palpable thrill flushed her cheeks.

    She noted the smoky intensity of his intelligent grey eyes. “I would like something more than a Chuck-was-here sign. Do we have a deal, Ms. Bruckner?”

    She hadn’t spoken, only nodded.

    Sweeping her hair from her neck, he had placed delicate kisses from shoulder to ear, sending erotic heat to her very core. One night of primal lust and erotic rhythms, just one, and her job was done.

    That was eight months ago.

    Gliding her hand lovingly over her rounded abdomen and the tiny elbow within, she had to agree it was a much better monument than a cold stone in a manicured cemetery.

    249 words

  12. The world had forgotten them and moved on. Standing in weather-worn and weary ruins, Em hugged herself as an icy breeze pierced her diaphanous robe. The centuries hadn’t changed her. Crumbling walls and shortened pillars reflected what she ought to look like.

    As a youth, she had run down the slope from the sanctuary to the sea cliff and watched the waves while dreaming of adventure in a wide world. Salt mist now stung her face like tears, the slope gone and the sea cliff right under her home. Soon the last of her world would crumble into the depths.

    What a high price adventure had. Persecuted as a monster, many had tried to destroy Em for being different, in a world where no one was really the same. All had failed, of course, but Percy had been special. Though he swore to destroy her, she felt that he understood her—felt closer to him than any person she’d ever known.

    Their battles grew in scope and infamy until they could no longer continue. She retreated to her sanctuary, but Percy had followed her. For him to be here, in her special place… The swelling of emotions had crashed in her chest like a storm-tossed sea. It had to end.

    Running her hand over Percy’s rough stone face, Em laid her head against his petrified chest. She’d protect his statue as long as their sanctuary remained. It was a much better monument than a cold stone in a manicured cemetery.

    250 words

  13. Virtueless Patience

    Stage 4 liver cancer.
    It wasn’t the long hours, the constant stress, or sketchy sub-contractors that finally did my father in. It was time. At age 78, he’d lived long and hard, and amassed the fortunes of ten kings of old.
    “What arrangements can I make for you, dad?” I asked at his final bedside.
    “The finality of my body is of very little concern to me, my boy. Burn it, bury it…drop it into the heart of the fucking ocean if it brings you solace.”
    “There must be something…”
    “There is,” he said. His voice gathered strength to see his dying wish aired. “In the safe, there is an encrypted list of names. Talk to Mr. White, he’ll guide you in making arrangements.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “You will.”
    I barely remember his funeral now, my mind was consumed by the task given me at his death bed. The names belonged to evil men. To a one, they were the worst of the worst, brought into my father’s path by business, politics, or crime. He swallowed his anger and dealt with them at the time, favoring patience. It was his life’s regret that he couldn’t live to see them all die.
    That job was left to me. His gift to the world was to remove from it the cancers on humanity, with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel.
    It was a much better monument than a cold stone in a manicured cemetery.

    244 words

  14. His final wishes…we looked at each other with amazement. We knew that he would not rest if we did not do as he asked. We had less than two days to steal his body and drive a thousand miles.

    No one noticed us as we removed his body from the small town’s mortuary. During the drive across county, our memories of everything he taught us flooded our minds. We told stories of his idiosyncrasies with smiles and tears.

    We arrived at the end of the road with several hours to spare. The hot breeze bounced across the plains, giving us little relief from the heat as we took turns lugging him and carrying the shovels along the path.

    Standing dry and leafless was the tree, its bark silver and black. The air around it stood still, even though the wind eddied dirt feet away. The heat scorched us, but we did not stop digging until we were finished.

    We lowered him into the warm, hard ground and with small silent prayers covered him with dirt. Sweat muddied the dirt on our faces. A cool breeze caressed our sore shoulders. Chirping from the branches crescendoed. Red sparks of light exploded around us. We exchanged bewildered looks and backed away to see what was happening above us.

    The tree exploded with life. Leaves and flowers burst forth from the dry limbs. Everything around us was aglow with luminescence. It was a much better monument than a cold stone in a manicured cemetery.

    250 Words

  15. "The Forest of the Sepulchre"

    Trees dominated the landscape.

    The leaves of the canopy seemed to shimmer in the sunlight, and the breeze caused the branches to sway, hissing with every gust. It was as though I floated on an ocean of green.

    I remember coming here as a child. This place was a constant in my life, despite everything else that happened, all the sadness and loss I knew that this would always be here, just as it was for centuries since before my grandfather’s grandfather.

    But it was not always like this.

    Legends tell us that this mighty forest grew from the seeds of battle. Where these majestic titans now stand was once a vast plain that rang with the clash of battle. The reason for those battles is lost to far antiquity, but the rivers of blood which nourished the soil tell a story far more poignant than any soothsayer or historian.

    The trees that grow here are a monument to the sacrifices made in the name of petty human endeavour. Leaves green and full of promise in the summer sun offer hope of a new tomorrow, and when red like blood in autumn remind us of the cost.

    It was a much better monument than a cold stone in a manicured cemetery.

    216 Words

  16. Siriana paused at the opening to the temple grounds and waited for her heart to slow. The goblin male beside her looked beyond her shoulder, but quickly turned his eyes to her, one eyebrow raised. She didn’t wish to explain the sacred space to the ignorant fool.

    “What’s –”

    “Hush!” She pointed to the ground. “Sit.”

    “I’m not a dog.” He crossed his arms over his chest and she tried not to appreciate how the muscles of his shoulders stretched his tunic taut.

    “Sit. Please.”

    His jaw clenched and he swallowed, but he sat, holding a brooding silence. She suspected he’d demand an explanation as soon as they’d gone. Not that I’ll give him one. If he’s the prophesized Goblin male, he should know it already.

    The grove boasted tall, thick aspen trees, their full, up-swelling crowns rattling like beads on an abacus in the wind. Feathers strung on leather thongs with bright crystals swung from the lowest branches, waving and sparkling in the afternoon light. Most were tribute to those who’d gone before, lost in the ravages of time and war. It was a much better monument than a cold stone in a manicured cemetery.

    Siriana laid her spear aside and removed her boots. Then she folded her hands and stepped among the sacred grove of the Heliotron, the spiritual Gryphon oracle. Siriana felt naked entering the grove in her bipedal disguise, but it couldn’t be helped. Until she’d vetted the Goblin outside, she wouldn’t show her natural form.

    250 ineligible #WIP500 words

  17. It was a much better monument than a cold stone in a manicured cemetery. It was what he deserved as a true hero. He had saved many lives and had been cited for bravery many times.

    The last time, however, had been too much. Just as the child he had led out of the burning home had made it to safety, the structure had collapsed directly onto him.

    That child now joined the Mayor in unveiling the new statue in the town park. Although some attempted to fight back their tears, most just let them flow freely. Everybody understood that they had known a rare greatness that few people ever encounter. Everyone acknowledged their gratitude and the suitability of the memorial.

    Certainly, nobody complained that he had only been a dog.

    131 Words

    1. Oh my—that just brought tears to my eyes! Lovely.

  18. Give

    She read the news with a sigh and lowered her head. She didn't know anyone serving overseas; she'd never been personally affected by a death in battle.

    That didn't stop it from pulling at her heart whenever she read of them. Almost every time, tears welled in her eyes and she took a breath of silent reverence for the departed and all who loved them.

    They would be memorialized physically, of course, laid to rest in the even, regal rows that served as a testament to this strange facet of humanity. Still her being yearned to comfort, to heal, to offer what she could to hold the pain of people and planet.

    The inspiration landed as she crossed the room, and she stopped. Gently she dropped to her knees. Her eyes closed, she reached between her legs and stroked herself softly, differently from when she felt only urgency, the craving for an orgasm that was purely self-contained.

    She focused all her consciousness on those hurting, whether from war, death, or any private pain no other presence may even know about. Peace, beauty, joy, healing—the words emerged silently until they weren’t words anymore but energy, focused inside her and gathering at her fingertips. When it burst forth her breath shuddered, something from beyond her beaming like a rainbow from her body.

    She couldn't say it was a much better monument than a cold stone in a manicured cemetery. But it was something she could give.

    246 words

  19. The Atman

    The tattoo artist wiped the skin one last time and admired his work.

    “Done, Mr. Atman,” he told his client.

    “I've told you, it's just Atman. No mister,” Atman replied.

    “Whatever. You're done.”

    “You've still not asked what it is or what it means,” Atman said, admiring the tattoo in the mirror. It's flames and tendrils twisting, turning, and intertwining up his arm to his neck, reaching just below the jaw bone.

    “You're right and I don't really care. I just want you out of my shop. You creep the bejeesus out of me,” the artist replied.

    Atman just smiled. Creepiness wasn't something he worked at, it just came naturally.

    “It's a monument to an old foe and it's taken lifetimes to achieve,” Atman said.

    It was a much better monument than a cold stone in a manicured cemetery. This chronicled eons of struggle and strife and was written in the one constant currency: flesh. Once outside, Atman's two shadows could be seen plainly.

    “No car still?” the second shadow asked.

    “An Atman doesn't drive, they are driven,” Atman preached.

    The shadow chuckled.

    “What's so funny Inman?” Atman asked

    “You won't be driven anywhere,” Inman, the shadow said.


    “You're so full of yourself. 'It's a monument to an old foe.' Didn't it seem too easy to capture me?”

    “I've been planning for centuries,” Atman said.

    “I know. You were so busy with planing my capture that you didn't see the signs,” Inman said.

    “What signs?”

    “The Osman is returning.”

    250 words

  20. He stood there adrenaline pumping, bodies strewn across the field where they had done battle. He had not been in such a melee in his life. Even though they were half his size, the Rondrats gave him one hell of a fight. The Koochens rushed in and swept him up onto their shoulders, parading him back to the village. In the clan leader’s tent he heard recounts of his daring deeds in battle, it all seemed surreal. Just twelve days ago he was a simple farm boy on a colony planet. Now, according to the clan leaders, he was going to be the namesake of the village. It was a much better monument than a cold stone in a manicured cemetery, which going in, he was certain was going to be the outcome.
    133 words

  21. For some reason, through a storm of emotions, another memory floated into his mind and it calmed him. He remembered that he loved cars – racing them; fixing them up; running his hands over the smooth, candy-apple red hood, cool mirrored chrome and supple leather.

    The memory faded and he was back in the junkyard and, despite what was happening – even though he should be fighting back – he smiled and looked around. It was a much better monument than a cold stone in a manicured cemetery. If he was going to die, this was a good spot to meet his end.

    100 words

  22. “She always said she wanted to be a tree in the next life. One that lasts for millennia. Then she could watch over many generations of progeny,” I gingerly touch the dying redwood, craning my neck to see the top.

    “I never expected to live long enough to witness her rebirth, much less to see her perish once more,” The bark begins to smolder beneath my touch. “She’s the one who helped me figure out what I am.”

    “What do you mean?” My son tilts his head inquisitively.

    “She raised me. My parents were nowhere to be found when she happened upon me. I had only instinct and humans to learn from. So, when her first body perished, something stirred inside me that I had never felt before. The desire to burn. I could feel her spirit trapped within. I understood what I had to do.” The last of life fades from the tree, her spirit remaining behind. My fledgling boy can feel it, too.

    “Is that… When I look at the tree I feel hot.”

    “It is a phoenix’s duty to reduce the dead to ash, freeing the spirit so it can be reborn.” I wrap my wing around my son. “My surrogate mother is here to witness your journey to adulthood.”

    He ignites the wooden body with jets of flame. “It was a much better monument than a cold stone in a manicured cemetery.” He comments, making me laugh.

    “I’ll never understand that human tradition.”

    247 words

  23. It was a much better monument than a cold stone in a manicured cemetery.

    Wasn’t it?

    She just wasn’t sure. Sophia’s newly-languid limbs trailed across the moist grass, moonlight shuddering through her uncertain form. She moved around the boulder in question.

    It was lodged into the ground, big enough to sit two, waxing on about a sword and a king. Moss had grown up its side and it faced the sea, looked over a cliff. The house hunkered behind it. And blood splattered the top.

    Sophia hadn’t see it coming. Neither had Larry. But they both should have. The affair had been going on for months. His wife had to have known, but Sophia—her heart wouldn’t let her consider being without him.

    So they were caught. And killed. And buried beside the rock. Sophia had only been 23. She’d had so little done. And now? Now, she would just float on. To nothing.

    But at least Larry would float on with her.


  24. #ThursThreads is now CLOSED! Thanks to everyone who wrote this week and we'll see you next week. :)

  25. Ghost Dance

    We stood in the woods and looked at the stone cairn we'd built for Maggie.
    It was a much better monument than a cold stone in a manicured cemetery.
    Didn't mean I had to like it.
    “Ain't like she's in there,” said Agent Green. “She's roaming free with the hunters. Ain't that what you people believe?“
    “You don't know anything about us, Agent Green.” I growled.
    He started mewling. His bony frame shook. It was not cold.
    I tuned him out until he ran out of mouth.
    “How did you say she died?” I asked.
    He took a step away. “Can't be sure. I went over to her trailer, just to talk to her. Scout's honor. I wanted her help us, to help herself. Things are getting' hot around here and she's makin' it worse.”
    “She was alive when I left. And pissed off.”
    “Who killed her, Green?”
    He backed off again. Stones rolled off of the cairn.
    I didn't answer. I didn't have to.
    “Jesus,” sputtered Green. “You think it was me? We're on the same side here. You're a cop, dammit!”
    “What was her crime, Green? Wanting better for her people? What do you think she saw?”
    “Somebody's got to pay!”
    “Somebody will.” I drew my revolver.
    Green gurgled something incoherent and bolted over the rise.
    I watched him disappear and then followed.
    He started to scream before I was even halfway there.

    250 words

  26. It kept looping on the age verification page. I'd click on the yes I want to enter and it'd just refresh that same page over and over.

    1. I understand that one. I try to turn it off for #ThursThreads but this week my interviewee posted an adult excerpt inappropriate for folks under 18 and I had to leave the warning. :(


Comments are on moderation, so they'll become visible once I've read them. Words, words, words. I love them. Have you a few to lend?

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