Congratulations to our Flash Fiction Contest Winner, Shelley Malicote Stutchman, author of PEEK-A-BOOB: Uncovering Breast Cancer! Here is her story!
Our old black truck coughed and chugged its way toward the gas station. The gas gauge had been broken for days, but my husband assured me he would fix it. His words were like our gas tank, empty promises.
A dark figure caught my eye as my husband filled our truck with gas. It sat hunched over on the curb, a black hoodie pulled down on its face. I felt an inexplicable urge to approach it. I couldn't shake off the dread that something was wrong with this person, but my curiosity was piqued. I cautiously approached and drew closer and closer until I could finally see its face - or rather, the absence of it. The bright sun shining in my eyes almost made it look like there was no head under the hood, except for the tired eyes staring back at me.
When I was standing close to this person in the black hoodie, I noticed small hands and the curves of a woman's figure. I cleared my throat, hoping she would acknowledge my presence. But she didn't move. I wondered if her husband had abandoned her at this gas station, just like mine did after I once took too long in the restroom. The memory made me feel empathy towards this stranger.
I touched her shoulder, “Are you alright?”
She stirred, hiding her face from me, and said, “I’m thirsty and hungry.”
I noticed my husband engaged in a conversation with a trucker and knew he would be occupied for some time; he always enjoyed listening to their tales, and they were thrilled to have an audience.
I stumbled into the decrepit convenience store and grabbed a few items off the dusty shelves. I headed toward the hooded figure still sitting on the curb. She snatched the bag from my grasp as I approached her and consumed its contents ravenously.
“Is there anything else you need?”
“A ride to the amusement park that closed a few years ago. If it's not too much trouble.”
I took her hand to assist her to her feet and instantly felt a chill run down my spine when she grasped it. Her skin was flaking, and a drop of blood oozed from a gash on her palm onto my hand. I feared the possibility of contracting some unknown virus from her blood.
I helped her into the back seat of our pickup truck, her face hidden in the darkness of her black hoodie. She curled up in the backseat, clutching her tattered backpack. She drifted into a deep slumber before I could remind her to buckle up. I noticed the emblem on her hoodie—a sinister quill and hawk symbol belonging to the infamous publishing company known for printing cursed books.
My husband ambled back to the truck with a Mountain Dew and a grin. As usual, he didn't bring me a soda - it was always just for him. As he approached the truck, he noticed the figure sleeping in the back seat. And then he saw the crimson stain on my hand. With a chuckle, he took my hand and licked it clean. Turning to me with a menacing smirk, he whispered, "It's almost Halloween, my dear. And I am no mere mortal – I’m a vampire."
For a split second, I entertained the thought of him being a vampire. He would sleep all day and wander the streets all night; I’d never have to bother with him again. But then I realized the true horror - if he was a vampire, he would never die, and I would be stuck with him for eternity.
I pressed my finger to my lips, then gestured towards the sleeping woman in the backseat. I watched his face contort into a deep shade of crimson as he bellowed, "What in the name of all that is unholy have you done?"
The woman shifted in her slumber but did not stir. "I promised we would take her to the abandoned amusement park where she lives," I whispered.
“That’s eight miles out of our way. Do you think gas is free?”
"Please, just do it," I begged. "I'll even make your favorite apple cobbler as a thank you," I added.
My husband would do anything to appease his insatiable sweet tooth, especially when it came to apple cobbler and a heaping scoop of vanilla ice cream.
We arrived at the abandoned amusement park, and I gently shook the woman's shoulder. She stirred, her eyes opening to reveal a haunting emptiness. Clutching her worn backpack, she rose slowly. "I'll help you out," I offered.
She stayed put, unzipped her worn backpack, and pulled out a manuscript. "Do you like to read?" she asked my husband.
“Reading is for sissy boys.”
“I like to read,” I said gently.
“I have several manuscripts in my bag,” she cackled. “They cost a piece of your soul. You must take one before I leave your truck.”
“Hell no,” said my husband.
“Then I will put a spell on you.”
“Ha,” snorted my husband.
“Beware of the Quill Hawk Curse. It can bring unspeakable horrors,” she replied.
“You some sort of Voodoo Queen?” he asked.
As the full moon rose above us, she whispered, "I am a Quill Hawk," her eyes glowing with an otherworldly intensity.
I begged and pleaded with my husband, desperation dripping from my voice. "Just take her manuscript," I implored, praying to any deity who would listen.
He snatched the papers from the lady's rough hands and ripped them to shreds, scattering them into the wind. He laughed, "Paper holds no power against me."
“But words do,” whispered the woman before vanishing into the night. From that day on, my husband was cursed to speak only in Pig Latin. Every time he tried to say anything straightforward, his mouth would fill with worms and slime, causing him to shriek in horror. As for Quill Hawk, it was noted the publishing company became a spirit in the publishing world, its books finding those who used words to harm others and cursing them to be haunted by their own twisted tales forevermore.
