I had an incredible run of good news and harder work last month. On the heels of a wonderful trip to Japan, I learned that my short story “Tanuki’s Dream Salon” placed 3rd in my group for Round 1 of the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Contest. That left me sitting pretty heading into the second round, with a total of 13 points.

The top 5 combined scores after two rounds will survive the first cutoff and advance. On the one hand, YAY! On the other, Round 2 overlapped with a busy weekend involving the PNWA Writer’s Conference, which I was speaking at.

Alas, I love a good competition — even if it means I only really had about 18 of the 48 hours to write my story — and sleep.

The rules for round 2 were just like last time: contestants received their story prompts on Friday night and had 48 hours to complete a 1000-word story. I was several beers into a good old-fashioned gossip session with some conference organizers at a DoubleTree when I finally got around to checking my email. Here’s what I saw.

I’m not feeling as confident as I was after round 1, not only because I only had Saturday to really work on it (it’s admittedly a bit rough), but also because I decided to veer away from a “scary” ghost story. I can only hope the judges don’t hold that against my entry. There are 30 people in each group. I figure if this story can snag me a top 8 finish, I should advance. Without further ado, here’s my entry presented as submitted.

Rhonda tugged the handle and cringed at the elegant fastness of the door’s closure. It wasn’t the gentle thud that annoyed her, but its echo. Echoes of her late husband’s bloviated lectures about the marks of Italian luxury. His favorite anecdote? The door. No clank, not a single rattle. “It’s like an airlock,” he’d say, snorting at his own cleverness before making a crack about her Acura. Always with the Acura. Rhonda’s car was good enough to get her to and from the job that paid for his toys, but that was a detail conveniently forgotten. Just like he’d forgotten to remain employed — or faithful.

The Maserati was off limits to her until the day the police called to say he was dead. She’d been chauffeuring him around ever since.

She swallowed a quick sip of air and checked her lipstick in the rearview mirror. Then, with manicured finesse, Rhonda fluffed her copper curls, smoothed her skirt, and started the car. The V8 roared with baritone gusto and sent a wisp of pulsation rippling through her seat — she’d certainly miss that once it was sold. Ironically, it was the faulty engine mount that caused the titillating vibration, or so the service tech said when she woke up beside him last week.

Rhonda pointed the car toward the Maserati dealership and channel-surfed the decade-themed stations, singing along to Britney then Janet, Madonna and The Bee Gees. The 60s station was always risky and, sure enough, that godforsaken Beach Boys song was mid-chorus. She toggled the next preset, gritting her teeth as a lifetime of annoyance ran its course — fellow boomers singing her name back at her, pleading for assistance, as if she hadn’t heard it a million times before. No sooner had she joined in with Elvis on another channel before AL Jardine and Brian Wilson interrupted, as if by magic.

“What the?” She turned again, this time to NPR, only for the radio to switch back to the Beach Boys with a  jump in volume that launched her from her seat.

“Not funny, Marc,” she hissed. It wasn’t that she always believed in ghosts, but her husband sure loved this car. Enough to die in it while out banging some perky plaything. For which, he’s since promised to make amends. But he of all people knew how much that song tweaked her. “Asshole.”

She slapped the off button and drove the final miles to the dealership in silence. With any luck, she’d be rid of the car by midday.

Rhonda took a seat in the service center’s minimalist waiting room, positioning herself at the perfect angle to watch Tyler or Cody, or whatever Mr. Six-Pack’s name was as he worked on the car. He must have appreciated her seasoned talents, judging by how fast he had the hood popped. He strode across the polished floor not twenty minutes later with a clipboard and a naughty, knowing grin. His name tag read Dylan.

That’s right, Dylan. The little lamb that could, Rhonda thought, recalling their tryst. Her first lay in six months.

“Good morning, Mrs. Griffin.”

“Rhonda will do.”

He glanced toward the service desk then squatted before her.

“I’ve got the parts to repair the engine mounts, but the diagnostics suggest there might be an exhaust leak. I’ll put her on the lift and check.”

“On the lift?”

“It’s probably nothing.” He waved her concern away, then lowered his voice. “We don’t normally buy without a new purchase, but the general manager is willing to take it from you as-is — then lease it to me.”

“You?”

Dylan blushed. “The Granturismo is my dream car. We don’t get many in. You’re probably not gonna like the offer, but it’d really help me out.” He gave her knee a quick squeeze. “Give it some thought, then I’ll walk you over to sales.”

Rhonda didn’t need time to consider. The thought of Dylan wanting the car was positively delicious. Sweeter still if Marc’s spirit was around to see it.

Rhonda crossed and recrossed her legs while Dylan raised the Maserati on the lift. A sudden chill swept over her as she watched him inspect the underside of the car, so she decided to warm up with some tea from the swank hospitality table. While the Earl Grey steeped, she helped herself to a croissant and one of the neatly stacked jars of honey. She couldn’t help wondering why, given the car’s six-figure price tag, they don’t have a barista.

Back at her chair, she struggled against the honey jar’s lid, ultimately dropping it onto the coffee table, spilling a slick of honey. “Oh, for chrissake.” Rhonda shivered as she raced to fetch paper towels from the restroom, thankful the waiting room was devoid of customers to witness her clumsiness.

As she bent to clean up the mess, she saw a message had been written in the smear: “Help Me, Rhonda.”

Rhonda scowled then attacked the message with the towels before someone saw it. She thought she’d succeeded, only to stare as an invisible finger scratched an arrow in the sticky residue.

On cue, the supercar’s V8 sprang to life as her gaze followed the arrow toward the service center. Despite the glass wall between them, she could feel the engine scream and the car buck atop the lift as its rear wheels spun maniacally. The roar sent the teacup dancing within the saucer. Employees sprinted into the service bay from all corners, like moths to a flame — the flame of a pearlescent blue rocket ready to launch.

She knew she should run, but couldn’t bear to look away. Instead, Rhonda stood squeezing the honey-soaked towels as the car leapt from the lift, crushing Dylan as he tried to flee.

She gasped, taken aback by the violence of the crash, but quickly regained her composure.

“Shame about the boy,” she said with a sigh. “But I gotta hand it to you, Marc. You did it. The insurance check makes us even.”

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