Death For Sale

Every week over at Indies Unlimited they have a flash fiction challenge. The prompts (a picture along with a written prompt) are released on Saturday and entrants have until Tuesday to get a 250 word story written based on the prompts. Voting starts on Wednesdays and ends on Thursdays. In theory, the concept seems fairly easy. But in practice, it takes some effort and practice to learn what to include and what to leave out of a very short story.

Each week when I have written a piece for this contest I post their written prompt and then my story here. It gives everyone a chance to read my story and know that they should vote for me (only logical right, cause well, I rock).

So as the weekly battle goes, head over to Indies Unlimited and get your vote on. But before you go take a few minutes and check out…

Death for Sale

death for sale

Photo by K. S. Brooks

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…

The car needed a wash again. His excuse, his reason for leaving me alone. That damn car, always that damn car pulled him out of our apartment at the oddest times.

An affair was out of the question, unless you counted the car. All of his time now went into the car and upkeep of the thing. Show car quality, he said. Like he knew anything about show cars.

Earlier tonight he even mentioned that he was going to get it listed as a historical object. Imagine, the car would then have better insurance than I do and our baby… I hadn’t told him that part yet. About the baby, that is.

Not that Eric cared. His car was way more important than anything living. “Easy killer.” Baby put a foot in my ribs again. This baby hated the car as much as I did. “Daddy will be back soon.”

This is the worst part. He spends so much time with the car he doesn’t even notice. He hasn’t touched me like he touches the car since the night we made the baby. Wow, that was before the car too.

One good thing that came from all this though, I started cooking again. I even sharpen the knives I use in the kitchen myself. As crazy as it is I take some satisfaction from a super sharp knife. With a good knife I can remove muscle from bone in record time.

Was that a car in the driveway?

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