Week 342 of #ThursThreads had many fantastic tales. I'm honored to see all the writers come to tie a tale in our sixth year. If you’ve been doing it a while, thank you. If you’ve just found us, welcome! May you come back again and write more great flash. Thousand thanks to Eric Martell for judging this week. Check out the #ThursThreads #flashfiction Group on Facebook or the #ThursThreads Group on MeWe to keep up with news, etc.

Entries:

• Cara Michaels | @caramichaels
  
• Siobhan Muir | @SiobhanMuir
• Barbe Crabtree
• Bill Engleson | @billmelaterplea
• Daniel Swensen | @daniel_swensen
• Mark A. Morris
• Jo Hawk
• Silver James | @SilverJames_
• David A. Ludwig | @DavidALudwig
• Sheilagh Lee | @SweetSheil
• Ruth Long | @Bullishink

 
Winners Announcement:

Honorable Mentions

Silver James | @SilverJames_
Eric says: I know it's part of a longer story, which sometimes leaves me lost in flash, but this made me want to read more.

David A. Ludwig | @DavidALudwig
Eric says: Coming from someone who totally would burn things down on accident if he had to use a literal torch....yeah.

Ruth Long | @Bullishink
Eric says: For that last line.

“My foot!” Halsey screeched as Bassett shoved him through the car’s passenger side door.

“Hush,” Bassett snapped. Two minutes past midnight, and she was already done with this entire day. One of her team dead, the other hobbled, and a supernatural threat bearing down on them both from the ruined cathedral.

Five years in this job, and she’d never run from a fight before. She’d never had to, until they’d saddled her with these two.

Halsey gave a high-pitched shriek as he glanced in the rear view. “They’re coming!”

“Believe me, I know it.” Bassett walked briskly around the back, loading her pistol with the special Institute rounds. Silver-tipped, blessed by a priest, whatever. They cost thousands a pop. She’d been told: never use them unless she had to.

Now she had to.

Bassett took aim and fired as one of the rippers loped up the street. It blew into night-blue fragments, a metallic hum shuddering through the air as the abomination returned to its own dimension.

The other creatures paused, shaggy heads tilting, gorilla knuckles punching the earth restlessly. So they had a sense of self-preservation after all.

Good enough. Bassett ran to the car. Got in. Started the engine.

“I’m sorry,” Halsey said as they roared away. “It was an accident.”

“Your birth was the fuckin’ accident,” Bassett said. “Your ignorance was deliberate.”

“I’m sorry!” he wailed.

“Nevermind,” Bassett said. “There’s still a chance we might not die.”

They roared into the night, the rippers in close pursuit.

Congratulations Seven Time Winner Daniel, and Honorable Mentions Silver, David, and Ruth! Don't forget to claim your badges and display them with pride. You certainly earned it!

Pass on the great news on Twitter, Facebook, Google Plus, shiny mirrors, Morse Code, and signal flags. Check out all the original tales HERE. Thanks for stopping by and happy reading! :)

Welcome back to the Weird, the Wild, & the Wicked. Today is Thursday and that means it’s time to start flashing. We’ve reached our Sixth year of weekly prompts! This is Week 342 of #ThursThreads, the challenge that ties tales together. Want to keep up each week? Check out the #ThursThreads #flashfiction group on Facebook 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 Twitter handle or email in the post (so we don’t have to look for you)
• The challenge is open 7 AM to 8 PM Mountain 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, etc.

Our Judge for Week 342:

Scientist, Dad, and flashfiction author, Eric Martell.

Eric on Facebook
Eric on Twitter
Eric on Google Plus

And now your #ThursThreads Challenge, tying tales together.

The Prompt:

“It was an accident.”

All stories written herein are the property (both intellectual and physical) of the authors. Now, away with you, Flash Fiction Fanatics, and show us your #ThursThreads. Good luck!

It’s that time of year again, folks.

Wish lists expand and checking accounts shrink.

Temperatures drop and tempers flare.

Let’s combat the holiday chaos with the Tipsy Santa Flash Fiction event! Below is my contribution to the Tipsy Santa event, with just a dash of suspense to whet your palate for more. The full story should be out in 2019 under the title, ANGEL INK, book 3 in the Concrete Angels MC series. Right now, you're with Haley Michaels and the holiday party is not going the way she'd like. If you want to read the beginning of the scene, you can find it HERE. Want to write your own entry? Click HERE.

Happy holidays and happy reading!

I had to find a way to both report on the ADA’s death and get the cops involved because I couldn’t do a damn thing about a dead guy in the stairwell. I crept up to the door and peered around the edge. The room beyond looked like a new office space with furniture wrapped in plastic and boxes of office equipment piled around. Nothing remained of the murder except some blood splatter on the floor and plastic wrap.

I reached for the door to pull it open but stopped. Think forensics. The last thing I wanted to leave were footprints or fingerprints. I used the heel of my shoe to tug the door open wide enough to slip through, careful not to step in any of the blood. I wanted to bolt toward the elevators, but I forced myself to go slow enough to miss smudging the evidence. Forensics, forensics, forensics.

I made it to the elevators and used the heel of my shoes to press the down button. Take only mental pictures and leave nothing else. Yeah, didn’t have the same ring to it as the usual line, but I didn’t want to broadcast my involvement. I put my shoes back on, the heels tight and cold, and stepped into the car. Shit, how am I gonna press the floor number?

I stood there a few moments, trying to decide when I remembered the party on the next floor down. Hundreds of people had pressed that floor number to get to it. Mine would be with everyone else’s print on the button. Despite that reassurance, I used the hem of my dress to cover my finger as I made my selection.

I could hear the holiday music long before the doors opened and the volume blasted at me as soon as they did. I grimaced and stepped into the room, the party going full swing. More so if the bra hanging from the overhead light fixture is any indication. People were “dirty dancing” in the middle of the room where they’d pushed the furniture aside. Some were pretty good at it--er, correction, those people might actually be having sex—while others swayed drunkenly along the edges. One woman bent over, her shoulders heaving as she puked. On her knees. In some guy’s lap? Definitely not puking.

Holy shit, I’d gone away for about an hour, and the party turns into a drunken holiday orgy while the ADA gets murdered upstairs. Might as well be the Nakatomi Plaza. Yippy-kai-yay, mudfucker. I spotted my “date” sharing a ménage with the man and women he’d been hanging around earlier and headed for the coat room. Was sex at a holiday party considered prostitution? I didn’t really want to know. I had to find a phone.

I threw my coat over my shoulders and shoved my arms through the sleeves just as someone stumbled into me. Two someones. I lost my balance and fell into the mass of coats on the hangers, dropping to the floor. A high-pitched giggle was followed by the sound of a belt buckle coming undone and a drunken male grunt.

“Oh, yeah, baby. Whip out that man-meat.”

They’re not gonna—Never mind.

Another male grunt combined with a matching female grunt and the sound of bodies hitting the wall, rhythmically, filled the coatroom space. The scent of arousal mixed with alcohol perfumed the air and I rubbed my face with my hands. I so don’t need this.

Gritting my teeth, I stood up and pushed my way through the coats. “Excuse me.”

The woman squawked, which was pretty impressive since the guy had her damn near folded in half against the wall as he jack-hammered into her. He didn’t even pause as I shoved past and I left them to their conjugal relations. I needed to get out of here and find a phone.

And a ride. How the hell was I gonna get home? What I really need is a guardian angel. I stepped onto the elevator and let it carry me away from the folks getting carried away upstairs.

When the elevator doors opened, I headed for the security desk, but the phones had been shut down for the holidays. Great. Outside it is. But the moment I stepped outside, my gaze landed on the man waiting for me on his bike in the snow. Holy shit, it’s the guy from the Museum.

742 #CockyBikerWIP words
#flashfiction #TS2018
@SiobhanMuir