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Subject: {ASSM} Little Flashmarket (Day 9 of 16) - various Ruthie's Club authors
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Date: Thu, 30 Sep 2004 06:10:03 -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:

81. Bob Faces The Facts
(299 words)
by Jordan Shelbourne

Bob Brentwood had to face the facts: he was becoming as sex-
obsessed as the rest of this mad village. He had so far 
managed to preserve his marriage vows by fleeing, the only 
strategy he had ever learned. He had not been pursued by women 
before his marriage, not the way that men had pursued Laura, 
and unlike her, he had never learned to say no gracefully.

At least he needn't worry about Laura. She had the experience 
and the wit to turn someone down, to take it in stride. All 
Bob could do was gape and then run, like some frightened 
rabbit. He was desperately afraid that he would give in to the 
prevailing mood of concupiscence, that he would end up between 
the legs of someone like that randy teenager or that horrid 
old woman. Laura didn't even notice the atmosphere, though she 
had been 
extraordinarily randy and perverse lately. Perhaps that was a 
good thing; he could count on her to keep his urges down.

Though his urges had been evident near Alice. He had, in fact, 
been instantly hard. He had wanted to see her naked. He had 
wanted to fuck her.

He looked up and found he was near Sneak Reviews. It couldn't 
hurt to know if Alice had been caught in one of those terrible 
candids. Let her know about it. He wouldn't watch it. Just 
rent it as evidence. His pulse quickened. 

Becky remembered him. "Hello, Mr. Brentwood. You look good!" 
Bob felt his face flaming. "I must say, your wife is very 
pretty. And popular."

She waved. There on a display rack labelled Laura Brentwood 
and. . . were dozens of videos. He saw the words Volume 11 and 
he did the only thing he could do.

Bob fled.

Heading for Weston-super-Mare.

* * *

82. Five Star Crombie
(299 words)
by Desdmona Dodd

There was only one pub in the quaint village of Little 
Flashmarket: The Flashmarket Arms. Detective Inspector Hugh 
Crombie scouted out this sort of information whenever London 
sent him to a new location. Lately, with so many trips, 
Crombie could author a travel guide for pubs, if he were a 
writer: Canard's Clive and Coffin -- three star beer, Oxtail's 
Stagecoach Inn -- one star swill. But Crombie wasn't a writer. 
He was a lush.

Crombie's methodology was solid: pubs were hotbeds for sin and 
crime, the backbone of his job. Unfortunately, his propensity 
for ale -- bad or good -- was his shortcoming. The paunchy 
detective battled it by believing he did his best work 
liquored up.

Cursing his gout, he hobbled his way into the Flashmarket pub 
and claimed a spot at the bar. The smell of a lunchtime 
cabbage special lingered in the air. His ankle throbbed as he 
propped it on the brass foot rail, but DI Hugh Crombie never 
met a barstool he couldn't make cosy. He nestled in, waiting 
and watching.

The barmaid--brown hair, late thirties, plump -- had a way with 
a mug. Dark amber liquid jostled in perfect unison with 
fleshy, unencumbered breasts -- Swish. Swosh. Swish. Swosh -- 
as she strolled toward the counter.

She set the pint in front of a customer and leaned in close. 
With one hand, the gent lifted the mug and took a gulp. With 
his other hand, he grabbed a handful of tit.

"Lenny Bond! Shame on you," scolded the barmaid. "You know I 
hate it when you show favouritism." The wench promptly exposed 
her other tit and shoved it toward Lenny Bond's face. Mr. Bond 
calmly licked the head from his beer and then licked the 
proffered tit.

DI Crombie scribbled a mental note: Flashmarket Arms -- five 
star service.

* * *

83. Isabella Talks
(299 Words)
by Alexis Siefert

Flashmarket was smaller when Isabella and Eve came. A few 
cottages, a church, the Flashmarket Arms, the Manor.   

Isabella was pregnant, and people -- even in Little 
Flashmarket -- talked.  

There's no father.

You know what's going on, don't you?

It's not right.

Isabella gave birth to twins. Rebecca was strong. Cecile 
wasn't. They buried her in the yard, under the sweet peas. 
Months passed. People talked. 

They won't come to church, you know.

Just the two of them, raising that little girl.

It's not right

Isabella and Eve kept to themselves. Rebecca was well dressed 
and polite. Their gardens were neat. Villagers knew during a 
bad winter one good garden could make the difference. Isabella 
grew her plants, Eve brewed teas, both they sold them at the 
Market. People talked.

She says they'll help with those pains.

My George took a tea and It finally happened again.

It's not right.

Rebecca grew up, moved away. Isabella and Eve stayed in their 
cottage, tending their gardens, their herbs. 

Then Eve fell to influenza. Isabella sent for her daughter.  

The village had grown. Shops, a blacksmith, farms. Villagers 
were prospering and attitudes had changed. Rebecca came home, 
with twin daughters and cared for her mother. The girls, Anne 
and Abby, blossomed, grew, married. 

Isabella knew it was time. She placed her hand on Anne's 
belly, where life was starting, and she talked. 

Do it right, Rebecca, or it won't take. Not in a box, not in 
the churchyard. My garden. My dirt.  

But Rebecca had lived in the city and no longer held with the 
old beliefs. Isabella Fey was buried in a proper box with a 
carved headstone and church words in church ground.   

Otherwise, people would talk.

After the service Rebecca knelt.  

Just stay there, Mother, or people will talk.

* * *
  
84. Crombie Pokes Around
(297 words)
by Neil Anthony

"Easy to see you're a man of action," said Brigitte Spiewak, 
snuggling up to Detective Inspector Hugh Crombie. "You quite 
swept me away with your masculine vigour."

DI Crombie, a suspicious man by nature and occupation, 
wondered about that. The woman had pounced on him like a cat 
on a rat. Not that he was complaining. The investigation was 
going very slowly, and diversions were welcome.

He tried to focus on his task. A bit of mellow pillow talk, 
perhaps. "This man Redman," he said, stroking Brigitte's thigh 
coaxingly. "You knew him well?"

"He never touched me," she said, unable to keep a smudge of 
regret from her voice.

"But other women?" he asked, picking up on the inference.

"Not Tom," she said. "He was a big friendly bear who wouldn't 
hurt a fly."

A saintly fellow indeed, DI Crombie reflected wryly. Everyone 
in Little Flashmarket said so. The investigation was dead-
ended in every direction. There wasn't even a body. Constable 
Pickthorne suspected wild boars had carried it away. The widow 
Penwhistle was still too distraught about the matter to 
interview.

DI Crombie was a patient and plodding investigator, however. 
He'd just keep poking around. In the meantime, life at the 
Flashmarket Arms -- where they poured a strong local ale -- 
was pleasant, and there were excellent pork chops on the menu 
most nights. Another good local supplier, no doubt.

"If I were you. . ." Brigitte ventured.

"Yes?"

"I'd track down that Bob Brentwood. Not a nice man. Never 
fitted in here. He left town in a big hurry straight after Tom 
disappeared. Talk to his wife. She's lovely."

 DI Crombie's interest picked up. So did his cock, as Brigitte 
slid her cheek down his stomach, searching for it.

Yeah. He'd just keep poking around. Something would come up.

* * *
  
85. Lucretia's on the Menu
(300 words)
by Carmine de la Croix

Two hours into the catering job at Huntshead Manor and 
Lucretia was dead on her feet. As revellers feasted on hors 
d'oeuvres and spirits, the waitress leaned on a friend.

"You holding up, Lucy?" the middle-aged woman asked.

"All but my arse; it's purple from all the attention."

"And here I was thinking of taking a bite for myself."

 From the kitchen came a loud commotion. As Lucretia made to 
investigate, a naked woman burst out some double doors and ran 
down the main hallway. Very few guests took notice.

Lucretia stepped into the kitchen and found Prudence Huntshead 
holding a cleaver at the crotch of one Pablo Cruz. The 
Spaniard was a self-ordained caterer and chef.

"You buggered it up!" the crone hissed. "Now what?"

Cruz pointed at Lucretia. "What about her?"

"Oh my, yes."

With a shitter's grin Cruz sauntered over to Lucretia and put 
his arm around her. "A week's wages for a night's work."

"What kind of work?" Lucretia's nipples flared.

"Main course at tonight's banquet."

"You're on."

Two assistant chefs stepped forward and helped Lucretia 
disrobe while Cruz prepared a massive platter filled with 
vegetables and garnish. Eager fingers washed the woman's taut 
body, and considerate hands helped her kneel on the silver 
plate. Dismissing the aides, Cruz took it upon himself to oil 
every inch of Lucretia. An apple was placed into her mouth 
then her arms and legs were bound tight.

Into the grand ballroom a procession of ten stewards carried 
the evening feast. Many male guests began to form a rather 
restrained line while the women drifted to the edges of the 
room to watch.

Lady Prudence stepped into the middle of the ballroom and 
smiled. "I give you tonight's hen!"

And so began a night of relentless stuffing and spilled gravy. 

* * *

86. Constable Pickthorne Closes the Ranks
(300 words)
by Father Ignatius

"We need to talk," said Lacey Penwhistle to the vicar's wife 
as they met in the door of the greengrocer. "Constable 
Pickthorne's worried."

"We do, indeed," replied Anne Thomson. "And well he might be. 
Perhaps we should discuss it in the bookshop?"

"Good idea." Lacey, herself, ran the Catholics, Anne ran the 
Anglicans, and Alice from Twice Told Tales, Books Bought & 
Sold, Talismans & Spells ran the pagans. Between the three of 
them, they had the whole village bracketed. They decided on a 
pre-emptive ecumenical briefing for all the village women.

"I don't get it," said newcomer Laura Brentwood when Anne 
telephoned her to advise time and place. "This all happened 
because we went outside the village for a Corn Maiden, right?"

"I guess," conceded Anne. "But what choice was there?"

"Well, can't we change the rules, or something? I'm sure 
Marie-Louise would be willing. . . or Pepper?"

"No. No, can't have that. Got to be a maiden. It's tradition."

"Well, what about next year?"

"Next year, we'll have next year's crop to harvest," said Anne 
briskly. "For the nonce, however, don't you think we'd better 
focus on this year?"

The ecumenical meeting was held, for reasons of space, in the 
Anglican church hall. To keep things peaceful, it was agreed 
there would be no prayers.

"I'm sure that our hearts go out to Tom Redman's family," said 
Lacey steadily, "so cruelly bereaved, by a bizarre 
coincidence, while we were all at our last ecumenical 
meeting."

"Ah, yes," said Anne. "Where was that exactly?"

"Why, here of course!"

"Oh, yes. Of course. Silly me. I'll forget my own head next. 
And what were we doing? Was it a quilting bee?"

"We were praying for peace in Iraq, silly. Don't you recall?"

"Ah, yes. It all comes back to me now."

* * *

87. Mike's Generous Gesture
(290 words)
by Neil Anthony

Lacey Penwhistle, Susan Willing and Thelma Underwood, makers 
and shakers of the Sodality of St. Margaret, had their heads 
close together at a lunch table at the Flashmarket Arms, 
nodding in concentration, speaking low. A closed shop.

Mike Matabele walked straight up to them, bumping the table 
and spilling their drinks. "Next year's Corn Maiden Festival," 
he said, speaking far too loudly. "I'm volunteering my good 
self."

The three women looked up at him, looked at each other, then 
bent their heads together again.

"I'm right into that stuff," Mike said, pressing his case. 
"Fire dancing, full moons, blood sacrifice, virgins. As a 
matter of fact. . . you'll be fascinated, I know. . . I've 
been trying to start a men's bonding group."

The three women continued to ignore him.

"Look, I can perform," Mike said. "Don't you worry about 
that."

No response.

"I don't mind telling you, I shape up pretty impressively when 
it comes to physical attributes."

Silence.  

"And I'm a stayer. I can keep going like you wouldn't 
believe."

Nothing.

"If you've heard stories about me, they're all lies."

Nil.

"I like girls. Really. All sorts, all shapes and sizes."

Zilch.

"Give me a break here. You won't regret it."

Nought.

"Look, I could do with the action."

Zip.

"You can do anything to me. Anything. I won't mind."

Zero.

"Right, then. It's set, right?"

Mike wandered away, back to his seat in the corner, as far 
away from the Watson brothers as he could get.

"Now there's a worry," Susan Willing muttered. "Somebody 
should do something before that copper finds him."

They thought about this for a while.

"Sheila Baxter," Thelma said. "She's big, she's reliable, and 
she likes pathetic creatures."

The three women nodded their heads. Good plan.  

* * *

88. Orders for RSM Redman
(299 words)
by Jordan Shelbourne

They still follow the old ways in the Wessex Grenadiers.

"Davis, for sullying the honour of the regiment, the 
punishment is 18 strokes of the birch, and four days in the 
hole."

There had been no official court-martial; this was an internal 
matter. The Regimental Sergeant Major was responsible for 
discipline in his regiment, and RSM Robert Redman took his 
duties seriously.

Redman gripped young Davis' head between his legs, high in his 
crotch, pulled out the man's shirt tails and took a grip on 
the young man's trousers. When Davis said, "Standing by to 
receive orders" -- the traditional invitation to a caning -- 
Redman felt the young man's 
voice vibrate along the length of his own prodigious erection.

Davis counted each stroke -- "One! Two! Three!" -- his voice 
breaking as his back bled. Redman was pleased -- Davis was 
taking his punishment properly. He might be Army material.

The only thing out of the ordinary was that RSM Redman had 
neglected to put on trousers before administering it. That was 
Redman's way.

Davis had gasped out, "Sixteen!" when Foxcroft entered the 
barracks. By the interruption, Redman knew it must be 
important, but he did not stop.

Redman gave the last two savage strokes and came, spewing jism 
all over Davis' face and hair. "In the hole with him." Davis 
was carried away. Even barely conscious, Davis knew better 
than to wipe away Redman's spoor.

Foxcroft handed Redman orders. "Indefinite compassionate 
leave, sir. For you. Your brother has died."

"Murdered?" asked Redman. It seemed obvious; Tom was ten years 
younger than he.

"Yes, sir."

The Redmans were a simple folk. Devious, cunning, brutal: yes, 
certainly, but basically straightforward. As the senior 
surviving member of his family, he was now responsible for 
revenge.

Like the Wessex Grenadiers, the Redmans followed the old ways.

* * *

89. Colm Comes Back for More
(300 words)
by Father Ignatius

Colm McMahon paused to allow the gamekeeper, Mr. Billings, a 
chance to catch up. He was purposely selecting the widest, 
smoothest paths, but still Mr. Billings's pursuit seemed well 
below his usual vigorous par.

Colm had set trap after trap after trap, each nearer than the 
last to the big manor house. He was almost under Mr. 
Billings's very nose before the gamekeeper had deigned to 
notice him and give chase.

"If but half o' them traps springs," thought Colm as he waited 
for Mr. Billings to come over the rise, "our Mam'll won't know 
what to do for pots, there'll be so much cooking to be done."

When Mr. Billings appeared and saw Colm, however, he stopped, 
and put his hands on his knees, and wheezed theatrically.

"Bellows to mend," he remarked to Colm, who stood, hands on 
hips, waiting for him. When his panting could be plausibly 
prolonged no longer, Mr. Billings remarked in some agitation, 
"Git along wit' yer, me boyo! If I ketches up to thee, tha 
knows what 'tis my duty to do."

"You already ketched me," said Colm, calmly.

"Tha knows I must take thee afore Miss Prudence?"

"I know it," said Colm.

"So, how old are you, anyway, these days, young Colm?"

"Fifteen," said Colm defiantly. Next birthday, he made a 
mental reservation. Ten months from now.

"I seeee. . . " said the gamekeeper musingly. "Well, you come 
along o' me, my lad. You're nicked."

"It's a fair cop," said Colm pacifically.

"My, you are a well set up young lad," remarked Miss Prudence 
appraisingly when Billings, blushing furiously, delivered his 
quarry into his employer's drawing room.

"A gentleman takes his weight on his elbows," remarked Miss 
Prudence helpfully, somewhat later.

"My, you are a well set up young lad," she repeated herself, 
somewhat later.

* * *

90. Impassable Sheila
(298 words)
by Neil Anthony

Mike Matabele did not think it was right that a woman should 
be taller than he was, but he couldn't afford to be fussy. 
When Sheila Baxter, 6ft barefoot but two inches loftier in her 
heels, towered over him and invited him to a home-cooked 
dinner, he wondered if he had got lucky at last, and would get 
laid.

Sheila, champion defensive netballer, was also a champion 
defender of harmless animals and therefore a strict Vegan. 
Nuts in a bowl, vegetable soup, a mushy vegetable stew that 
was just like the soup only thicker, diced fruit, and then 
coffee. No milk or cream.

"You'll stay the night," Sheila announced.

Mike's spirits soared from the depths of depression brought on 
by Sheila's cooking. But briefly. The old doubts came crowding 
back. Additionally, there would not be bacon, sausages, or 
even eggs for breakfast.

"Why me?" he asked. "Why you? Am I attractive? Are you 
infatuated, and how will I handle that? Will we have an 
acrimonious falling out after three weeks and never speak to 
each other again? Is there any future for us? We have to talk 
about this. Get it sorted."

Sheila, a veteran of Tom Redman's ram-raid cock, a harder and 
wiser woman for it, and unquestionably a Little Flashmarket 
team player, knew her duty. 

"Shut up," she said. "Get into that bedroom and take off your 
clothes. If your cock is not hard and ready for me, I'll punch 
your face in."

Mike fell instantly and hopelessly in love with her.

Dazed and smitten, he watched as she sat on his cock and 
tossed her long blonde hair.

But Mike reckoned two things had to change. She had to stop 
calling him Tom, and she had to get in some bacon and sausages 
for breakfast.
 
* * *

(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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