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From: drspin@austarnet.com.au (DrSpin)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: Fri, 24 Sep 2004 12:53:54 +0000 (UTC)
Subject: {ASSM} Little Flashmarket (Day 3 of 16)~various Ruthie's Club authors
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Date: Sat, 25 Sep 2004 04:10:01 -0400
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Little Flashmarket
(A not-so-typical English village)

Welcome to Little Flashmarket, a little English village, and 
the stories of its inhabitants. It looks a nice little town, a 
quiet place. But, like the river that flows through it, Little 
Flashmarket has deep pools and swirling undercurrents.

This is a developing, continuing tale, and stories will be 
published in batches of 10, finishing at No.160. The Ruthie's 
Club authors who contributed brought to Little Flashmarket 
their flair and imagination in an open, free-wheeling, few 
rules environment.

The authors had wonderful fun in Little Flashmarket. They were 
required to contribute stories in past tense and in a Flash 
fiction format, each containing no more than 300 words. Any 
character who hit the streets was up for grabs by another 
author, and there was much grabbing. And pulling, and 
twisting, and scheming. Some of the stories are dark, some are 
hot, some are cold, and very many are truly hilarious.

There's just about everything in this little town -- horror, 
murder, conspiracy, intrigue, crime, exploitation, and of 
course lashings of sex.

THE AUTHORS:

Neil Anthony - DrSpin@austarnet.com.au
Howard Barton - howardwriter@hotmail.com
Carmine de la Croix - carmine@cybermesa.com
Desdmona Dodd - desdmona22@aol.com
Father Ignatius - FatherIgnatius@ananzi.co.za
Selena Jardine - selenajardine@yahoo.com
Ozmanga - dai@austarmetro.com.au
Jordan Shelbourne - j_shelbourne@yahoo.com
Alexis Siefert - AlexisinAlaska@aol.com
Bradley Stoke - bradley_stoke@hotmail.com
Julian Swan - riposte@earthlink.net

THE STORIES:

21. Raggy Meg
(251 words)
by Neil Anthony

Raggy Meg scattered cats with shooing hands and found the 
ringing mobile phone hidden under a pile of plastic sports 
drink containers. That damn phone. It had been lost for days.

"Hello?" she ventured suspiciously. But it was only them 
again. It must be a Sunday. She told them she'd be up there in 
half an hour.

That was all right. As long as it wasn't that awful Spiewak 
woman, always nagging, always pushing her to sell. The last 
time she came around, Raggy Meg had put a hex on her. May she 
live in misery and know no joy.

Meg chose to live in her extended caravan with her cats on the 
property left to her by her father, living off the land and 
scavenging Little Flashmarket's garbage tip. On monthly market 
days, she set up a stall in the town and told fortunes. Hence 
the mobile phone. Sometimes she got a call to read a palm. 
Sometimes it was from them on Sundays.

She wheeled out her recycled bicycle and set off for the 
Little Flashmarket Cricket Club. Somebody must have got out 
for a duck on the first ball. When that happened, they called 
Raggy Meg. She'd go into the changing room, hike up her long 
skirt, and the duck-maker would fuck her while his team mates 
stood around and jeered.

It was a tradition that went back a few years now. Raggy Meg 
didn't mind. They gave her five pounds. She could buy mince 
for the cats.
 
* * *

22. Pepper Dresses for Dinner
(297 words)
by Howard Barton

". . .and Pepper? Wear something sexy to show off those 
gorgeous boobs of yours. . ."

Pepper laughed as she put the phone down. Her husband Ian 
believed the success of his accountancy business depended on 
social networking, and he'd been angling for an invitation to 
the Friday night dinner dance at the golf club since they'd 
moved to Little Flashmarket. She could hear the relief in his 
voice that Andy Brock had asked if he and Pepper would like to 
join him and his wife Valerie that evening as their guests.

"It's a Seventies Night," Ian said. "You know, hot pants, 
flared trousers, kipper ties, all that stuff. . ."

Pepper had an idea she had something that might fit the bill, 
and she went to look through her wardrobe.

The little black dress was there, at the back, and Pepper 
slipped it off its hanger and stood in front of the closet 
mirror, holding it against her body. Quickly she slipped off 
her blouse and jeans and lifted the dress over her head, 
squirming it down her body. She smoothed the material down 
over her hips and turned sideways to check her tummy was flat. 

"Hmm," she said, as she mounded her hair up in her hands. "Not 
bad, not bad at all."

At seven, bathed, made up, wearing the dress, Pepper heard 
Ian's car pull into the drive. A moment later the front door 
opened and he called her name.

"Up here, darling," she called back and stood up, waiting for 
him.

"Did you find anything suitable?" Ian asked abstractedly.

"Oh, I think so," Pepper said and she checked her reflection 
one last time, shaking her body so that her huge, naked 
breasts jiggled provocatively, their smooth creamy skin and 
pale pink nipples perfectly displayed in the topless dress.

* * *

23. Cricket's Coming
(300 words)
by Alexis Siefert
 
Dearest Snake,

My parents are horrid. This trip to England they've sent me 
on? You and I both know that they did it to separate us, but I 
know that you know that there is no amount of miles they can 
put between us to make me stop loving you.  

This place is absolutely rotten. I started to suspect that 
they'd tricked me when the plane landed at Heathrow airport 
and got the train to Paddington (what a cute name, couldn't 
you just barf?!?). I asked the porter, and he'd never even 
heard of Little Flashmarket. Thank goodness that my aunt sent 
decent directions from Waterloo. The train was crowded and 
loud and full of old people and little brats, and Little 
Flashmarket doesn't even have its own train station! 

Uncle Marcus is old and creepy, and the drive from the train 
station was awful. Marcus kept going on and on about the 
scenery, but all I could see was grass and bushes and plants 
and rocks. I think I must have slept on the way (I certainly 
didn't sleep on the train). I know I stopped listening to him 
trying to convince me how much I was going to enjoy myself.

We arrived an hour ago. If the rain doesn't stop soon, I'm 
going to totally lose my tan. You won't recognize me when I 
get back! Marcus and Anne have put me in a room next to their 
nursery. They have a new baby, Isabella. She's okay, I 
suppose, for a brat. She doesn't make much noise, so maybe she 
won't be too bad to be around.  

You can write me here, in care of the Breedloves, Little 
Flashmarket, England. I'm going out to see if this rotten 
excuse for a town has a post office.

XOXOXO

Cricket.

* * *

24. Cricket Club
(299 words)
by Selena Jardine

Cricket Leigh Ashton was given her name by her parents, 
hapless Anglophile San Franciscans who would not have known a 
cricket bat if walloped in the head with one. She was clean, 
fresh, blonde, well-scrubbed, and athletic. She had a Mustang 
at home, and a pool, and a charm bracelet. She also had a 
filthy and skulking boyfriend named Snake who was a tattooist 
("Skin ARTIST, Mother," said Cricket). Which was reason 
enough, it seemed, for her to spend the summer overseas.

Cricket walked down the street of Little Flashmarket, her 
healthy hair and firm breasts bouncing. She was going to the 
post office, but her chief destination was to find out at last 
about the origin of her name. Cricket. Sleepy little English 
town like this, they'd be sure to know all about such a neat 
sport. 

But she ran into a snag.

"Sorry, miss," said the postmaster, Max Sutherland, looking at 
the innocent young thing before him. "Don't know nothing about 
no cricket club round here, miss." And he shut his mouth like 
a trap.

"Pardon me," said a man in the doorway. "Did I hear you 
inquiring about our national pastime?" He introduced himself, 
friendly and gregarious, as Mr. Tanner, and dropped her off at 
the clubhouse. What a nice man.

"Hello?" called Cricket, as she walked into the building. The 
noise echoed. "Anybody here?"

Suddenly, she found herself surrounded by eleven men. She 
hadn't heard a sound. 

"Whacko," one of them said. "A fan." He was smiling widely, 
even as she fell to her knees.

"You must be the Breedloves' new girl," said another. 
"Cricket." They laughed as they approached.

Cricket closed her eyes, and blessed all her lucky stars that 
she had not been named Baseball.

That was only eight men to a team.

* * *

25. Max Sutherland
(300 words)
by Alexis Siefert

Max Sutherland took pride in his job. The post office was more 
than imply a place to collect delivered letters and packages. 
It was an information centre. A gathering place. Like the 
church on Sunday, but a place for all days, all seasons, and 
all people. Max knew that he'd see almost everyone in the 
village at least once during the week. 

Most of the villagers didn't talk to him so much as talk 
around him. Max was something like the post boxes, or the 
counter tops, or the stamp machine. He was there, but you 
didn't notice him until you needed him.

That suited Max just dandy. No one realized how much 
information came through his building. From his office on 
Repton Road, Max stroked his ego as he monitored the lives of 
his villagers. That's how he thought of them, as his 
villagers. He took outgoing mail and noted return addresses on 
incoming correspondence. He took utility payments and 
insurance payments. He knew that Mrs. Penwhistle -- Widow 
Penwhistle -- took an extra policy on her now-deceased 
husband. He knew, through the post cards sent back to the US, 
that Mrs. Breedlove's niece was coming to stay with them for 
the summer. Apparently, the niece was quite the tail-wagger, 
as his grandfather would have said.  Yes, Max had his finger 
on the pulse of the village.

Max stood behind his counter, half-hidden from the villagers, 
and watched their comings and goings. He watched their comings 
on the video monitors behind the counter. The videos he made 
and sold to Sneak Reviews.  

He had his finger on the pulse, all right. He felt the pulse -
- the pulse of his village and of his cock, from behind his 
counter, between his fingers, and beneath his trousers. 

He loved to stroke his ego.

* * *

26. Tam Trassel: From Bad To Verse
(274 words)
by Neil Anthony

Tam Trassel was a thin, abstract sort of a man who worked long 
hours identifying microscopic insects at a research herbarium 
south of London. In his spare time he liked to write rambling 
heroic poetry about mythical people in an alternate universe:

O mighty Mankim, gorgon-throated, Guardian of the Blackteach,
Speak thou gently, warrior-maiden! Lest our eardrums breach!

In quest of his missing daughter, Tam arrived in Little 
Flashmarket in his three-wheeled, electric, award-winning, 
environmentally-admirable car with a shoebox of snapshots of 
Laura. He went first to the police station, but it was closed. 
In fact, bolted shut with a large padlock. He tried the post 
office.

"Nope," said Max Sutherland, not even looking at the extended 
photograph. "Young women are never missed in Little 
Flashmarket."

Tam wandered into the next door shop, Sneak Reviews, where 
Becky peered at the photograph. "I left my glasses at home 
today," she said cheerily. "Silly me."

He glanced at the in-house monitor, jumped in shock, and 
looked again. There was Laura. It was she, her shirt ripped 
open, breasts heaving, being raped by a man in a black 
balaclava. Oh God. Laura. Chained to a tree, raped.

"That's her," Tam said, pointing, jabbering in terror. "My 
God, it's her."

"Oh, right," Becky said, glancing at the screen. "Very popular 
this week. Our second most requested item."

Tam looked at her in dumbstruck horror.

"Have you met our Edgar Tanner?" Becky asked him sweetly.

Tam turned and saw a large man with a kind and gentle face 
looming over him.

O dread Mordicore, so melancholy, Keeper of the Deathswine,
Offering to troubled souls his bowl of poisoned wine.

* * *   
    
27. Storrow Family Connections
(300 words)
by Selena Jardine

Bill Storrow lay dying. He was in a vast white bed at the 
Little Flashmarket Urgent Care Klinik, a very old, thin man, a 
dreamer and a philosopher. Only the week before, he'd been out 
on his roof, clearing gutters. This dying seemed impossible to 
his wife, Claire, and to his 
sorrowing children, all five of whom adored him. His hands, 
nearly translucent with age, lay folded on his stomach, and he 
gazed out of the window at the village green.

Slowly, he turned his head to Claire.

"It's all right, love," he said, in tones that were raspy but 
still full of gentle fun. "We've had us a time, haven't we? 
There, now, don't cry. You'll be all right. Give us a kiss, 
then." 

Weeping, Claire leaned over and kissed her husband on the 
cheek. She struggled to offer him a brave, wan smile.

 From behind her, Lenny Bond, the male nurse, cleared his 
throat.

"Sorry, missus," he said, "but Mr. Storrow has some other 
visitors, and we can't crowd the room. You can come back 
tomorrow, and we'll be sure to call if anything happens in the 
meantime." 

Claire nodded, and she and the children filed out of the door 
on the right, dabbing at their eyes with their handkerchiefs. 
For a moment, the room was silent.

Then, through the door on the left, came Lenny Bond. 

"Your wife and children are here to see you, sir," he said, 
respectfully.

"Send them in, son," said Bill. 

Lenny slipped out, and in a moment, in walked Trisha Storrow 
and her four children. All of them were red-eyed, struggling 
to put a brave face on impending loss.

"Now, then, darlin'," said Bill. "Come here and give us a 
kiss."

As she did, he smiled. He'd always been a family man.

* * *

28. Immaculate Preconceptions
(294 words)
by Alexis Siefert

Sister Marie Immaculate left her order almost two decades ago, 
yet no one doubted her devotion or begrudged her the respected 
title of "Sister."  

Her school, Sister Marie Immaculate's School for Wayward 
Girls, sat stern and imposing behind curtained windows and 
strong stone walls. She rarely had more than one or two 
charges at a time, and the girls coming out of Immaculate were 
always exceptional examples of prudence and virtue. Sister 
Immaculate took in those girls whose parents fretted over late 
nights and grass-stained skirts. Girls who, at young ages, 
perfected the across-the-market-square gaze at the bulging 
front pockets of the village men. They all, to a one, came 
from Sister Immaculate's care ready to lead the life expected 
from proper Flashmarket families -- chaste and pure until a 
proper marriage could be arranged. 

Rheanon McKinney came to Sister Immaculate on her seventeenth 
birthday, and she had chosen to stay until Sister agreed she 
should leave. Now, three years after passing through the wood 
and iron doors of the school, Rheanon was, again, on her knees 
in front of her mentor and teacher. Her eyes were closed, but 
her ears were open to the warm, comforting voice of Sister 
Immaculate. "Men, in the face of temptation, are no better 
than dogs before a bloody bone. In this God-fearing country, 
is it inherent upon us, both stronger and wiser sex, to remove 
the temptation from them." 

Sister stroked the young woman's head as she fastened the iron 
bracelets around Rheanon's outstretched arms. Lifting her 
starched skirts and sitting on the wooden table to which 
Rheanon was bound, Sister Immaculate spread her thighs around 
the woman's head and moaned softly as the young woman's warm 
breath and devoted tongue played expertly over Sister 
Immaculate's waiting offering.

* * *

29. Repaying Andy
(300 words)
by Howard Barton

"I suppose you'll be wanting sex now?" Val Brock said to her 
husband as he parked in front of their house and turned off 
the car's engine.

"No, that's all right -- " Andy said, and Val glanced at him 
sharply.

"Good grief, I thought you'd be as randy as a dog after Pepper 
Winston's display. It may have been arousing for the men, but 
you try having a conversation about where to buy fresh 
asparagus with a woman whose nipples are sticking out a good 
half inch." Val paused and then she added with note of envy in 
her voice: "Bloody marvellous boobs, though. Wish mine were 
that big."

"Topless was all the rage in the seventies, as I remember," 
Andy said. "And she certainly looked stunning in that dress. 
Something of a coup for that husband of hers. Chaps will be 
lining up to give him business."

"And you, I suppose?"

"Of course."

"Well, I'm ready for bed," Val said as she opened the car 
door. "Do you want cocoa?"

"No, thanks. I'll follow you up."

"Suit yourself." Val got out of the car and let herself into 
the house.

Andy watched her go and then closed his eyes, remembering the 
moment when Ian escorted Pepper into the clubhouse billiard 
room, explaining as he did so that he'd agreed a 'fee' with 
Andy for arranging their invitation to the dinner dance.

Pepper was shocked, but she agreed submissively. Andy took her 
hand gently and made her lie face down over the nearest table, 
her dress pulled up to her waist, her hands holding her 
buttocks open so that Andy could enter her deliciously tight 
bottom.

Poor Val. It was hardly surprising he didn't want sex with 
her. He'd come so hard in Pepper's rectum his balls were 
drained dry.

* * *

30. Crying for Isabella
(300 words)
by Alexis Siefert

Isabella Rose never cried. Anne and Marcus had worried she 
might be mute, defective, but Isabella cooed, murmured, and 
whimpered. But she never cried.  

When Anne's beautiful breasts filled, Isabella ate. She was 
changed when the hand-made cloth diapers were wet. Marcus 
bathed her in warm water, and walked her through their quiet 
home softly patting her back. They took turns rocking Isabella 
in Grandmother Rose's hand-carved chair, and they put her to 
bed every night at nine. Anne and Marcus were in bed, hungry 
for each other, by ten. 

Isabella always slept through the night. Fed, bathed, warm, 
dry, Isabella slept from nine every night until six the next 
morning. When friends would ask, the bemused yet grateful 
parents attributed Isabella's uncharacteristically ideal 
behaviour to good genes, good parenting, a soothing home 
atmosphere. If they were feeling particularly enigmatic, 
they'd simply smile and confess to being the luckiest parents 
in Little Flashmarket. Who were they to look good fortune in 
the eye?

Isabella's demeanour afforded the Breedloves time rare for new 
parents. Time to rediscover each other. After nine months of 
exploring and delighting in the pregnant changes of Anne's 
body, Marcus now enjoyed her softer edges, full breasts, 
rounded hips. Saved from the sleepless nights suffered by most 
new mothers, Anne realized a lust for Marcus unfelt prior to 
Isabella's birth. 

Suckling her swollen breast, Marcus fondled the tender flesh 
between Anne's thighs and teased his fingers at her wet pussy 
until his pretty wife cried in frustration, grabbed his wrist, 
and pulled his fingers deep inside. He'd thrust into her, 
cupping his hand over her cunt, rubbing her clit beneath his 
palm until she came. And then he held her, bemused, as she 
cried softly all the tears unshed by the infant in the nursery 
next door. 

* * *

(to be continued)

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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