The 2014 Indies Unlimited Flash Fiction Anthology is not only available, it’s free [on Kindle] through May 25th.
AND in it, you’ll find one of my submissions, from the January 11, 2014 contest: Death for Sale.
Here’s the prompt:
The car was a 1954 Pontiac. Her first owner was Bill Keenan, a newspaper reporter for the Kansas City Star.
Bill drove the car home and his wife met him out on the front steps and shot him dead. She’d found out about Bill and his secretary.
Now, you can say that didn’t have anything to do with the car, and I guess you’d be right. Still, it seemed to have gotten the car off to a bad start. Over the years, she was owned by 13 people. Every one of those folks was murdered.
I don’t really consider myself to be superstitious, but I don’t see no reason to tempt fate, neither. That’s why I tried to talk Eric out of buying the car. It was useless, of course. He was in love with the thing.
It took me longer than I expected because I needed to do some research, but the research is a huge part of what I enjoy about putting together a story. Anyway, below is what I wrote in response to the prompt. I titled it Bit of a Poke.
This was my response:
“For Christ’s sake, Eric, as if this old heap isn’t bad enough, the steering wheel’s on the wrong side,” Fiona said. “What could possibly have possessed you to buy it?”
“The seller told me a great story.” Eric smiled the smile, the one that, long ago, had beguiled her into marrying him. “Get this. All thirteen owners died, uncannie like. Murdered.”
“And dunderheid that you be, you believed him. I dinnae ken what gets into you sometimes.”
“The original awner, a guy named Bill from Kansas, well, his wee wife shot him the day he brung it home. Apparently ol’ Bill was giving his secretary a bit of a poke on the side.”
Fiona felt her face burn.
“The seller swears a brollachan possesses this here motorcar. Swears it pops out every now and again and enters a human’s body. Poor awners always seem to get the warst of it.”
She clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms. “Really?”
“The second awner, another damn American looking to live in the Highlands, brung it over and, get this, he ended up being kil’t by an axe murderer. In the garage. Right beside it. It’s wickit. A brollachan makes sense.” He smiled again, darker this time. “And the murderers either weren’t caught or convicted.”
“So why the f– Why would you buy it, you eeejit?” She watched Eric’s eyes go dark, then glow red.
“Did I forget to tell you, you unfaithful cow, I put the car in your name?”