New Flash Fiction: The Lost Hand

For our final piece of flash fiction in 2014 (don't worry, we'll be back soon) we have a creepy story by our youngest contributor to-date, 15-year-old Ally Cottrell, who says "I'm a teen writer in Minnesota who subsists on writing the dark, not in the dark, though that would explain the handwriting." We share pain Ally. You can find Ally on Twitter at @alrayco

The Lost Hand
by Ally Cottrell

There was a hand in the darkness, and it held a knife. Well, it wasn’t really that dark, more of a musty grey. And, yes, the hand was missing a couple of fingers, but the general shape of it was recognizable. It also didn’t have an arm attached to it, the stump twisted off in a fray of red. It was rather lonely because of this, but it went on.  

And, it always had its knife. Black and long, the hand’s remaining fingers clenched it like it was the last thing it would ever do. Because, well, it was.

Mandy Strawboon had long since been separated of her appendage, and she was getting along fine without it. There had been a few bumps in the road, but she didn’t miss her hand all that much. She wanted to forget the incident entirely, so she buried her feelings down in the sewers of her mind.

It would never arise again.

Her hand felt this loss much more so, sitting under a damp pile of leaves and a darkening sky. The hand put on its best attitude for the comfort of its knife, but it wanted more of a life than slowly degrading under the colors of fall in the middle of a forest.

Footsteps sounded nearby. While it could not move, the hand tried its best to look noticeable through the falling night.

“To our left we can see an oak tree,” a voice drifted through the trees.

The hand became excited. Maybe this would be the day. Maybe this would finally be the day when everything would get better. It could forget about Mandy and her burning disregard for her lost limb and focus on…

The shrieks began.

First one, and then a chorus, the entirety of Girl Scout Troop 185 stared with small faces twisted into looks of horror.

The screaming decreased in volume as the group ran away faster than any of them had run before. Even the slightly overweight troop leader sprinted, legs and arms pumping, away from the finger that had poked out of the leaves.

The hand’s spirits fell as the footsteps receded. Night soon came, but the hand didn’t notice. It tried to cheer itself up, but as the hours fell away, the quiet remained a reminder of the lost hope.

The screams of the six year olds and the stench of unexpected urine were a distant memory.

Oh, well, the hand thought. At least I have my knife.