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From: drspin@austarnet.com.au (DrSpin)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 6 Oct 2004 04:47:02 +0000 (UTC)
Subject: {ASSM} Little Flashmarket (Day 14 of 16) - various Ruthie's Club authors
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Date: Wed,  6 Oct 2004 08:10:02 -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:

131. Valerie's Mistake
(295 words)
by Desdmona Dodd

Valerie Brock stood sulking at the base of the Flashmarket 
Tower. She hadn't meant for this outcome. That hag, Raggy Meg 
must have fucked up. The potion was supposed to cause 
impotence, not death. To complicate things, Tom, the great 
oaf, had drunk the potion instead of her husband. It should be 
Andy crossing the River Styx, not Tom.

Val dabbed at her lipstick and reminded herself to cross 
sausage off the grocery list. Lacey Penwhistle had instructed 
the Sodality of Saint Margaret that Edgar Tanner's pork might 
be tainted for a while. Valerie winced. Poor Tom. 

She didn't notice she had company, until he spoke.

"Good evening to ya, Ms. Brock," said Jimmy Dawson.

Valerie mumbled a response and stared at the young man. With 
the haze covering the moon, Jimmy reminded her of Tom -- the 
Tom of twelve years ago, when they'd screwed like bunnies. 

"Ever venture to the top of the tower, Jimmy?"

"Once or twice."

"Ever fuck up there?"

"Once or twice."

Valerie turned on her heel and began the climb up the 
ramshackled stairwell. The echo of shoe scraping stone assured 
her that Jimmy followed.

The tower had progressed further toward destruction. The love 
nest was intact, but like a severed limb, the right arm of the 
cross had chipped away. Valerie shivered and looked to the 
heavens.

"Ever fall in love under a starry sky, Jimmy?"

"No, ma'am."

"Would you like to?"

"Not really, ma'am." 

The haze drifted on past the moon. Jimmy's features became 
more unique in the clearing light. Valerie searched for his 
similarity to Tom.

"But for thirty quid, ma'am, I'll fuck you under the stars." 

Valerie had been mistaken. Jimmy wasn't like Tom at all. But 
thirty quid barely dented her purse, she could pretend.

* * *

132. The Vicar in a Jam
(299 words)
by Selena Jardine

The Reverend Ronald Thomson was terribly distressed. He'd been 
following the news in the Flashmarket Whisper about that poor 
man Redman and his unfortunate murderer, Brentwood. How could 
his parishioners do such dreadful things, right under his 
nose, and he know nothing about it? 

Anne looked up from her book. 

"Take a walk, dear," she said. "That will help."

She was right, as usual. He walked down the street, praying 
inwardly, and it did help. His golden retrievers pulled him 
ahead. His neighbors waved to him in friendly fashion, and he 
waved back absently. 

He noticed as he walked that the door to the Coopers' grocery 
was ajar. He went over, meaning to close it, when something 
peculiar caught his eye. What on earth was that? 

In a flash, he was inside the store, and had in his trembling 
hands the last extant label of Eversley Sri Lankan Third 
Regiment Boysenberry Jam (1908). Still on the jar! In mint 
condition! He simply could not believe his luck.

"Penny," he said, his eyes on the jar, "how... much would you 
want for this?"

"One pound, Father," she said.

"A pound?" he asked, almost stammering. "For this? But. . . 
but. . . it's a treasure!"

"Just a pound," she said. "Father." 

He fumbled in his pocket, placed the coin on the counter, and 
left, his retrievers tagging at his heels.

"Oh, thank you!" he called happily.

Later, he sat at his collection, carefully easing the label 
off the jar and thinking vaguely about Penny. There was 
something odd about the way she'd been lying on the table 
(spread-eagled, naked, his mind hissed, but that was 
nonsense), and her voice had been dull and listless. Never 
mind. He'd say an intention for her at Mass tomorrow.

In the meantime, there was boysenberry jam on toast.

* * *

133. Dr. Reede Takes Lucretia's Temperature
(300 words)
by Carmine de la Croix

Lucretia tapped her foot on the floor of Dr. Gerry Reede's 
slightly antiseptic examination room. Having messed with too 
much magic, Lucretia had felt her body withering, so much so 
that often she was too weary to tackle a shift at the 
Flashmarket Arms. That sort of nonsense was not popular with 
the proprietor, so she had come to coax an excuse note out 
of the medicine man. 

"So, are you going to write me a note for work or not?"

"You haven't even sniffles, miss. I cannot dole out notes like 
a school nurse now, can I?"

"I have a fever!" Lucretia pouted. "And you haven't even taken 
my temperature."

"Oh, you're the doctor now, are you?" Reede frowned. "Royal 
service it is, then."

Reede stood up and brought out an unusually long and thick 
thermometer. With one hand he grasped Lucretia's neck, pinning 
her head onto an examination table. Standing back, he admired 
the girl's exposed rump, giving each luscious cheek a tap or 
two. She's so bad, he thought. Didn't bother wearing knickers 
under that electric-blue skirt. 

Using his free hand to dip the thermometer in some alcohol, 
the good doctor then eased it into her council glitter. 
Lucretia's eyes widened as the cold glass began to warm. 

"Top shape, miss."

Lucretia shook her bum from side to side. "Perhaps something 
else, then."

Reede smacked his lips. "Sorry, luv. Limp wanker."

"How about a wager?"

Instantly Reede was intrigued. "I'm listening."

"You pop first and I get the note. I pop first and we play the 
ponies, my treat."

Moments later, Lucretia, mouth open wide, let out a volley of 
words so lewd that poor Doc Reede's receptionist was numb for 
days.

"Roll them dice down Cadbury alley," Lucretia squealed. "Make 
this lassie piss on her chips!"

* * *

134. Laura Goes for Broke
(300 words)
by Father Ignatius

Aniseed destroys any other scent the hounds are supposed to be 
following. If aniseed is the scent itself, though, it doesn't 
matter, so aniseed is what they put in the drag-bag.

Richard Trelawney, in his youth, had spent a couple of years 
in working up his polo skills in Argentina, where he'd picked 
up a gaucho trick or two.

Laura Trassel had been waiting weeks for someone to get casual 
about locking her cage door after feeding her and hosing her 
down. When it happened, she didn't stop to consider it might 
have been done on purpose. She shot out, barging past the 
startled gamekeeper, and ran screaming across the yard behind 
Huntshead Manor towards the gate. If she'd saved her breath 
for running, she might have heard the whup-whup-whup noise of 
the bolo flying through the air after her. The heavy balls 
spun round her legs, drawing the cords tight, and she thudded 
heavily to the ground.

"Now that's a runner," drawled Richard lazily as the spaniels 
lolloped over to retrieve her. "I told you thirty minutes was 
too much. It has to be sporting, dammit."

"Yes, sir, but -- come the hunt -- she be having her arms tied 
behind her, and she be dragging the bag."

"But she'll also know, another time, to save her breath for 
running. A photo finish is what the punters want. Twenty-seven 
minutes, and not a moment more."

"Your objective is to get close enough to the pub so's the men 
can save you from the hounds," Richard told Laura. "If you do 
that, by Tradition, you get your clothes back, and twenty 
sovereigns to start a new life. Once they're done fucking you, 
of course."

"And if I don't?"

"The hounds will tears you to pieces, of course. Are you 
ready? Steady! Go!"

* * *

135. Anne's Cryptic Clue
(298 words)
by Ozmanga

Anne Thomson squirmed on soft padded arm of the brown leather 
chesterfield, which smelled of pipe tobacco, gun oil and 
scotch, overlaid with the floral bouquet of the lubricant the 
old soldier had applied so liberally. "How do you do that, 
Colonel?" she asked.

"Very easily, my dear, with you!" puffed Lieutenant-Colonel 
Crispin Hotspur-Smythe (Retired). Having successfully occupied 
the trenches in the valley south of Triangle Wood and 
skilfully negotiated an unconditional, knee-trembling, 
surrender in those parts, he was now advancing cautiously up 
the Khyber Pass. He had posted a handful of pickets on the 
higher ground to safeguard the progress of the column. "The 
memsahib wasn't too keen, but three or four pink gins and she 
was game for anything."

"I was talking about the crossword."

He'd just finished it before the padre's charming wife had 
called on her monthly visit. The neatly folded newspaper was 
on the seat a few inches from her bespectacled, but pretty, 
nose.

"Ah! Crossword! Takes me about half an hour these days. Need 
my glasses. Are you comfortable, my dear? No buttons digging 
in to your, er, um. . ."

"Quite, Colonel. What I meant was how do you get, 'Art House' 
from, 'Thoreau's novel adapted for cinema. Three, comma, 
six'?"

"'Adapted' is code suggesting an anagram, so you just pick the 
letters and juggle them about. Simple, what?"

The tempo quickened. The column was fully extended. 

"Time for the artillery, my dear," he puffed.

The screw guns fired a few rounds of fire for effect. The 
column withdrew.

As Anne left Kota Tingi Cottage she smiled at the old boy and 
said: "One, four and four, the complaint of a roughly handled 
courtesan."

He thought for a while, then grinned hugely. "You're a clever 
girl, Anne!" he called. But she was out of earshot.

* * *

136. Crombie's Cruelty
(300 words)
by Selena Jardine

DI Crombie was unbecomingly glad to be back in Little 
Flashmarket. It was a cold world out there. When he entered 
the interrogation room, however, he was first startled and 
then disappointed to see that Laura Brentwood, his witness, 
was dressed in white, her eyes demurely cast down. He'd been 
hoping for a woman in hysterics, someone he could comfort in 
his own inimitable fashion. But she looked like a cool 
customer. 

He wondered without much hope whether he might be in the wrong 
room, and then decided to make the best of it.

"Mrs. Brentwood?" he asked. "As you know, your husband is our 
prime suspect in the murder of Mike Matabele. Owing to the 
gravity of this charge, we. . ."

"I'll never say anything bad about Bob," Laura interrupted. 
She had a lace-edged handkerchief in her hand and perfectly 
dry eyes. "Never. You can't force me to tell you all the 
dreadful things I know, so don't try."

Crombie's mouth opened, and then closed. 

"You could never make a faithful wife say, for instance," said 
Laura, getting up and walking over to Crombie, her eyes on the 
floor, "that her husband had lost interest in his. . . marital 
duties. No, no. That would be a betrayal."

"Of course," said Crombie. 

"You couldn't force out of her, no matter what your brutal, 
cruel interrogation techniques, that he hated the people of 
Little Flashmarket. That he had paranoid delusions about them. 
That he swore revenge against poor, innocent Mike."

"I'm sure I couldn't," said Crombie.

"Not even if you raped her on the table," said Laura, and her 
eyes met his for the first time. They were dancing in glee.

DI Crombie licked his dry lips. It was a cold world out there. 
He thought Bob Brentwood might be feeling the chill.

* * *

137. Becky's Twenty Minutes
(290 words)
by Bradley Stoke

Starless and Bible Black? 

No.

Joe slid the King Crimson album back into the sleeve and 
smiled at Becky, who was sitting cross-legged on the futon, 
idly painting lipstick around her nipples. Like Joe, she was 
totally naked, and the pale areola of her nipples became 
redder and stiffer with each circuit. 

The room was strangely silent in the pause. Bleating lambs 
could be heard outside Joe's cottage.

The Lamb Lies Down on the Broadway?

Becky arose from the bed and knelt beside Joe. She pressed her 
lips on the tattoo of the naked woman etched when Joe was in 
the Navy and trailed her fingers over the scar on his cheek.

"Hurry up!" she pleaded.

"We've got to have the right music, you know..."

"Fuck it, Joe! I don't know why you have to play vinyl 
anyway." 

"Better fidelity," he asserted.

"What does it fucking matter?" she asked.

She opened her mouth out and licked the breasts and hips on 
the fading tattoo, now older than she was.

"Vinyl only lasts twenty minutes. Why don't you play some CDs? 
You get seventy or eighty minutes of that. Time enough for a 
real session!"

Joe winced. Twenty minutes these days was pretty much his 
limit. Especially with someone so energetic.

Becky settled back on the bed. 

Shit! Why couldn't he put on some decent music? Some garage, 
say. Seventy minutes of the So Solid Crew would suit her fine. 
Not twenty minutes of Led Zeppelin or Dire Straits!

She placed the discarded King Crimson album cover on her lap, 
sitting cross-legged against the wall, as Joe sorted out his 
aging record collection. She tugged free some Rizlas and shook 
loose some grass from a plastic sachet.

Men were fucking useless! 

* * *

138. Richard Exercises His Rights
(300 words)
by Father Ignatius

Chest heaving, Laura Trassel stumbled, naked and mud-
spattered, into view of the crowd of idlers around the door of 
the Flashmarket Arms. They cheered, and raised their tankards 
of ale in salute to a good sport.

"Coom oop, lass," boomed Edgar Tanner. "You can do it!"

"She'll have to look sharpish, though," said Billy Brattle, 
butcher, worried. He wanted to get laid.

"No more bets," said Peter Willing, publican and occasional 
bookmaker, hastily. It was going to be a devilish close-run 
thing.

Laura -- wrists bound behind her back with the rope from the 
aniseed-charged drag-bag -- toiled, wheezing, up the road. Her 
eyes were fixed on the pub door as on salvation (and why not?) 
The pink of the huntsmen's coats showed through the trees. The 
hunting horns sounded yet again with a new, triumphant note. 
The baying of the hounds grew suddenly louder as the leader of 
the pack came round the bend and sighted his quarry.

"Jesus, she's not going to make it," murmured Peter, worried. 
Was he going to lose his shirt?

"Shit!" muttered Billy, anguished.

A sturdy, well set up figure appeared, stone in hand, from 
behind a tree. Colm McMahon, the poacher's son, took careful 
aim, and sconed the lead hound. It yelped, and went down. 
Laura burst, gasping, though the pub door, which was kicked 
shut behind her just in time for the next hound to splat into 
it.

In a trice, Trevor Watson grabbed Laura, hooked her bound arms 
over the far side of the table, grabbed her thighs, and slid 
her towards him.

Bastard, thought Laura. He might have let me get my breath 
back.

The door burst open. "Excuse me," said Richard Trelawney, 
tapping the plunging Trevor on the shoulder, "droit de 
seigneur, and all that sort of thing, don't you know?"

* * *

139. Lucretia's Fond Farewell
(300 words)
by Carmine de la Croix

Marie-Louise Pendleton stepped into the combination storage-
changing-break room behind the Flashmarket Arms and sat on a 
small bunk. She was rubbing the arch of her left foot, which 
she favoured during long sessions at the pub, when she heard 
some strange noises coming from the other side of some 
lockers. 

Obscured by shadows, Marie-Louise eased open a door that led 
to a bathroom. In that room, sitting in an old cast-iron tub, 
was Lucretia. Covered with lather, the young waitress had her 
head tilted back, arms hanging out elbows down, and thighs 
spread, ankles resting on the edges of the tub. Around her 
neck she wore a constable's badge, a peculiar choice for a 
medallion. 

"Washing up?" Marie-Louise asked, as she stepped into the 
room.

"Doing my best. Long night and I have the wounds to show for 
it."

"That you do, lassie." 

Very few could keep up with Lucretia's tableside service. 
Years ago, Marie-Louise had the gift, but now her body ached 
and the most she could muster was a wink here and a tug there. 
But Lucretia, she could have very orifice stuffed and still 
ache for more. 

As she turned to leave, Marie-Louise saw a head pop out of the 
tub. Bobbing between Lucretia's thighs, the head was covered 
with spume, so she could not recognize the face, although she 
could discern the colour of the person's hair. Not skipping a 
beat, Lucretia wrapped her thighs around the individual's 
shoulders and pushed down.

"Leave you to it, then." Marie-Louise opened the door. "Night, 
luv."

"Marie-Louise," Lucretia whispered. "Why not join me? Water's 
nice and hot."

The veteran waitress turned around, grinned, and began to 
disrobe. "You have a way with the devil, little Lucy."

Bubbles filled dawn as Lucretia bid farewell to another night 
in Little Flashmarket. 

* * *

140. Judge Dodds Warms The Bench
(288 words)
by Jordan Shelbourne

Every morning, His Honour Justice Leslie Dodds had made the 
decision not to retire, after a friendly conversation with His 
Honour Justice Bertie Fitzsimmons. The resignation letter was 
ready, but he was damned if he was going to retire before 
Bertie did.

Bertie had graduated ahead of him in class, had been appointed 
to Crown Court first, had married a prettier girl. (Oh, there 
had been some satisfaction when Dodds had taken Maggie 
Fitzsimmons to bed -- and to automobile back seat, restaurant 
cloakroom, hedge maze cul-de-sac, and office storeroom -- but 
that was years ago. Besides, the Dodds' youngest boy had the 
Fitzsimmons brown eyes, so Dodds was never sure if Bertie had 
gotten his own back.). Bertie even had a bigger John Thomas.

Now, however, Bertie really had retired, and Dodds was prone 
to nodding off during summations. (It didn't matter -- the 
British police would not bring a case to trial unless they 
were satisfied of the defendant's guilt, and that was good 
enough for Dodds.  Sometimes he let the defendant go -- if the 
prosecuting barrister had offended him, or if Bertie had made 
a particularly obscure point of law, which meant he would then 
have to find something equally obscure.)

So Dodds stroked the resignation letter. Retire, although they 
were still neck and neck. . .

And there, on the docket, was a case from Little Flashmarket.

The last Little Flashmarket case in Crown Court was 1968, and 
old Spencer had dined out on tales of that trial for years. 
Even Bertie had never tried a case from Little Flashmarket, no 
matter the size of his cock.

Dodds took his pills and stored the resignation letter in his 
desk again. This case would let him go out on top.

* * *

(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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