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Subject: {ASSM} Little Flashmarket (Day 16 of 16 final) - various Ruthie's Club authors
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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:
151. Cinnamon's Dream Comes True
(295 words)
by Howard Barton
After several days of lovemaking, interrupted only by her
handsome vet Nigel Frampton making emergency-only visits to
sick animals and then rushing back to bed, Cinnamon Whitlake
crossed a major milestone where her new lover was concerned.
With the aid of the lubricant normally reserved for delivering
calves, Cinnamon managed to take eight of the ten inches of
Nigel's dick that was on offer into the tightly-clasping
depths of her delectable derrière, no mean feat when it was
her sister Pepper who was more elastic in that region by dint
of frequent usage.
A cry of climactic pleasure erupted from so deep in Nigel's
chest that Cinnamon thought he would do himself an injury as
he pumped the contents of his balls into her bowels. And she
wondered about injury in a different context when she
considered just how far he'd managed to insinuate himself.
But then, lying in Nigel's arms, his mouth tracing delicate
kisses over her closed eyes and down over her neck,
instinctively finding the places that caused her pussy to
bubble over, Cinnamon heard something that proved all the
effort had been worthwhile and that this wasn't a spurt in the
back passage affair.
"Cinnamon, darling?"
"Mmm?"
"Will you marry me? Give Little Flashmarket something to
celebrate when it's cold and dark this winter?"
"My darling, what can I say to a man who is even now plumbing
depths no other lover has reached? The answer is yes, of
course. Provided Pepper comes on the honeymoon with us. I mean
she is my sister and she deserves to experience this."
"Done."
And with the sublime vision of herself, newly-married, on her
wedding night, side-by-side with Pepper, bottoms up for Nigel
to move from buggering one to the other, Cinnamon fell asleep.
* * *
152. Diana's Front Page Exposure
(297 words)
by Neil Anthony
After four days, Judge Dodds could take it no longer. Snide
cracks about the way he closed his eyes when he concentrated,
about the terrible acoustics in the court room and his hearing
difficulties, but mostly it was about the way she looked so
boldly at him, taunted him with her provocative breasts,
showed him a fine length of leg in black stocking.
"Ms. Slade," he snapped, breaking into her cross-examination
of Lacey Penwhistle. "In my chamber. Now."
"Now then, girlie," he said to her when the door closed. "You
have no respect for the bench. I should spank you."
"Or I you, perhaps," she countered, one eyebrow raised.
The judge's breathing quickened. By God, that would be
something.
"Your client is guilty," he said.
Diana's eyebrow rose again. "But?"
Dodds looked meaningfully at her breasts. "Perhaps he could
get lucky," he said. "A mistrial, perhaps."
"I'm counting on it," Diana said, unbuttoning her white
blouse.
No bra. The blouse hung open, and her breasts stood out
superbly. Dodds felt his heart lurch crazily.
Diana gripped the front of the blouse in two hands and ripped
the cloth. She turned sharply and walked out of the room.
Dodds heard her high heels tripping down the corridor. "Oh,
no," she cried, and he knew he was in deep, deep trouble.
On the steps outside the court, the reporter and the
photographer from the Daily Mail saw the stunning barrister
running towards them, blouse torn, tits flying. They'd come
down from London the day before on an anonymous tip-off. They
knew instantly this was it.
Diana fell into the reporter's arms. "The judge," she
spluttered tearfully. "A beast."
He held her comfortingly, cupped a fine breast consolingly,
and winked at his photographer. Happy days. Page one coming up
bigtime.
* * *
153. In Alice's Tent
(299 words)
by Alexis Siefert
Market Day. Second Saturday of every month, rain or shine. The
day villagers gather to buy food to fill their bellies and to
find rumours to satisfy their ears.
Sturdy red canvas stretched taut over metal poles provided
shade on those rare sunny days and shelter during the more
common drizzly rainfalls. No signs or lettering on the tents -
- villagers know their own, and strangers rarely come on
Market Day.
Alice sat behind a silk-covered table. She didn't intend to
sell much --villagers wanting books came to the store. Books
allowed the villagers to stop and find what they really
wanted.
They were connected, the villagers together, past and present,
all of them. Nothing in Little Flashmarket was ever really
gone. Things died, but nothing ever went away, and Alice could
see them, gossamer images, waiting for a turn to speak to
someone who could listen.
Marcus Breedlove held the baby Isabella on his shoulders as he
and Anne passed. Anne paused, but Alice waited for Marcus to
move on before she spoke.
"You've been dreaming, Anne. You know it's happening."
Anne shook her head to deny it, but they were there, in her
eyes. Shadows of dreams that didn't go away when the sun came
up. Dreams of unsettled, restless movement. Dark and musty
corners. Dank, damp, earthy dreams.
"It's Isabella, isn't it?"
"It is."
"But she's just a baby."
Alice fingered the pendant around her throat. "No, she's not,
Anne. You know who she is. Your mother should have buried her
the way she wanted. Isabella's been waiting, Anne. She's been
waiting to come back. There's a fire in that child's soul,
Anne."
She paused, thinking of Bob Brentwood. "This village wasn't
good to your grandmother, Anne, and I think she's going to do
something about it."
* * *
154. Crombie Comes Home
(285 words)
by Neil Anthony
DI Crombie parked comfortably between Brigitte Spiewak's
stocky but strong thighs. "It's good to be back in Little
Flashmarket," he said.
"I know you're just using me," Brigitte said, wiggling to get
the detective's stocky but strong cock lodged snugly inside
her. "But you're entirely welcome."
Using her? Crombie pondered that as he thrust smoothly. Well,
sure, Brigitte had been the first person in the town he'd
thoroughly interrogated, and she'd pointed him in the
direction of the now-notorious killer, Bob Brentwood. Crombie
was back in Little Flashmarket to give evidence at his trial.
"I really like it here," he said. "This is my kind of place."
"Thanks, big boy," she said, just like a woman, taking it
personally.
One thing led to another, then another, and -- after a little
rest -- yet another, and Crombie found he didn't want to
return to London. "Listen, I have some reasonable
superannuation," he said.
"I need a tough rent collector," she said. "Someone who can
evict stubborn tenants."
Crombie thought that sounded like a nice, easy job. "Maybe we
could be business partners?" he suggested.
"Fuck off, copper," Brigitte said. "You'll just be the grunt."
"Pork chops four nights a week," he said, putting his cards on
the table.
"Deal," she said. "Also pork sausages. Which reminds me, you
can't fuck other women."
"Deal," Crombie said, knowing it wasn't. In Little
Flashmarket? A man couldn't even begin to stop himself.
Christ, that long streak of fox, Sheila Baxter.
"Uh," he said tentatively. "Do I have to say I love you?"
"Yes," she said, never not a real estate agent. "But you don't
have to mean it."
"I love you, Brigitte."
Sometimes in Little Flashmarket there are happy endings.
* * *
155. Bob's Holiday
(299 words)
by Neil Anthony
You couldn't be a happier man than Bob Brentwood. He was out
of jail and back at home in the arms of his beautiful wife,
Laura. He loved Laura. Some nights it was Anne Thomson. Too.
He loved Anne. Too.
That bad trial, where everyone said bad things about him, had
been abandoned. The terrifying Diana Slade had returned to
London in triumph, and Judge Dodds was to be forcibly retired
from the bench. Suddenly, everyone in Little Flashmarket was
nice. Bob was happy. He smiled a lot.
He was on a mushroom diet to calm his nerves. Raggy Meg
brought fresh mushrooms to the house every day. Worked just
fine. He had Laura, he had Anne, everyone was nice.
Bryce Dickens, his solicitor, said he wouldn't need another
barrister for the retrial if he pleaded guilty. The retiring
judge would be pleased. Everyone in Little Flashmarket would
be pleased. Bob would get maybe six months. It would be like a
holiday. Rest, reading. They had libraries and everything in
prisons, and the food really wasn't so bad.
Just plead guilty and save yourself the worry, Laura said,
stroking his hair while he pumped away between her legs.
You'll be fine, Anne said. Three in a bed. So cosy, so warm,
so loving. He was such a lucky man. So happy.
I'll wait for you, Laura said. I'll wait, too, said Anne.
Don't worry, they both said.
On the morning he returned to court, Bob had mushrooms on
toast for breakfast and smiled.
The hearing took forty minutes. Judge Dodds talked about Mike
Matabele's body being dismembered. Said it was the most
vicious murder he'd ever encountered. Shame the death penalty
had been abandoned, he said.
Bob smiled, letting it wash over him. He was going on a
holiday.
* * *
156. Bennett's Spark
(296 words)
by Alexis Siefert
Only a spark. That's all I wanted. . .
Bennett muttered to himself as he worked. He was quiet and it
was dark in the shadows and he knew that no one would see him
kneeling behind the Flashmarket Arms. He could hear villagers
inside, drinking and laughing and gossiping. He'd finished at
the courthouse last night since Alice had told him that one
needed to be done first. Things would start at the courthouse,
soon, but they'd end at the Arms. Things always ended up at
the Arms. Good and bad things. Happy and sad things. All
things in the village ended at the Arms.
At first it had been enough. The spark he'd needed to finish.
But soon he'd needed more. Alice had given him that -- red wax
over her breasts, her pussy clenching around his cock, those
things were enough to push the flames to a peak. It had been
enough for a while. Until last night. Last night it wasn't
enough. Not for either of them.
I know what you need, Bennett. I know how to light the spark
for you.
Her words echoed in his head as he poured the pungent, heavy
liquid along the soft dry kindling he'd padded against the
pub's foundation.
It was ready. He'd go back to the courthouse, wait outside for
Alice to come out and tell him it was time. And then, when it
was done, he'd go home with her. They'd go together, and it
would be enough. He didn't want to need it any more. The fire
was starting to scare him, and he was starting to believe that
he wasn't in charge of it anymore.
But he was important -- she told him that he was important. It
would be over soon enough. Alice promised.
* * *
157. Laura's New Life
(296 words)
by Jordan Shelbourne
Anne Thomson came to visit Laura after the sentencing, after
Bob was sent away. There was no answer when she knocked, so
she let herself in.
Laura was lying naked on the sofa, shiny splatters and
trickles of semen painted on her body. Beside her was a
nearly-empty water glass of sherry.
"Oh," said Laura dully. "It's you. If you're here for a quick
snog, I'm not in the mood. I tried, but it wasn't as fun as it
should have been."
"You need a bath."
"I told the men to leave but they had to finish their little
fun." She drained the water glass.
Anne ran a bath for Laura. Practical sympathy, that was Anne's
line.
"I've shredded my marriage vows," Laura said as Anne undressed
her. "I've made a fool of Bob. I've crushed his spirit. I've
sent him to jail."
Laura sank into the hot water. "I've destroyed his life. And
mine. Oh, God!" she cried. "I am so awful! Do you believe in
evil, Anne?"
"I'm a vicar's wife, Laura."
Laura snorted. "Do they still have convents?"
Anne sponged Laura off and, to Laura's surprise, tried nothing
more.
After the rough towelling, they sat at the kitchen table with
a hot cuppa.
"Well?" asked Anne.
"Fuck," said Laura softly.
"You tried that."
"I don't want it any more. I've stopped wanting sex for the
sake of sex."
"I have never done it just for sex, Laura. I love my husband."
"I thought I did. I did. I do." Laura wept. "When did the fun
wickedness turn evil? When did it go wrong? Can I ever make up
for it?"
Anne looked at her carefully and then took her hand. "Laura,"
Anne said, "have you ever considered dedicating your life to
good works?"
* * *
158. It Takes the Village
(300 words)
by Alexis Siefert
Judge Dodd's swan song was going to be significant. If he was
going out, by God, he was going out big. Life imprisonment for
poor Bob Brentwood. His Honour Leslie Dodd wished that the law
would have allowed him to put on the black cap and made the
biggest statement of them all. Hang by the neck until you are
dead. . .
But it was worse than Alice thought it would be. Rumours had
said ten years, and that would have been bad enough. She knew
that it was time. Bob was being led out, hands and ankles
manacled, and she raised her eyes to meet him as he shuffled
past her. She smiled at him, trying to lend comfort. It will
be over soon, Bob. Just wait. As though he had any other
option.
The courthouse was slow to empty. The entire village had
turned out for the sentencing, and the after-trial gossip was
holding them together. It would spill over soon enough though,
and the pub would do a tidy business tonight.
There was a small crowd gathered outside the courthouse.
Eyes flashing, white hair wild, tattered overcoat flapping
behind him, Little Flashmarket's prophet, Felonious Monk, came
around the corner. He was nude beneath the inadequate coat and
his cock jutted from his emaciated body. "Burn," he said to
the gathered crowd, his eyes unnaturally bright. "You will all
burn."
Alice let her eyes roam over the faces she knew so well. Anne
stood on the edge of the group, Isabella resting on her cocked
hip. The child's eyes, well-deep and ancient, locked with
hers. The old woman Isabella once was spoke in her mind. "He's
right, dear. You're doing the right thing."
Alice lit a thin cigarette, and watched the match flicker in
her fingers. She was ready.
* * *
159. The Reverend's Burning Issues
(299 words)
by Neil Anthony
The three Watson brothers worked like demons with fire hoses
on the sadly antiquated Little Flashmarket fire truck, but the
watching crowds could see the Flashmarket Arms was burning
like a hellish bonfire. The pub was a goner.
"Whacko," said Kevin Watson, taking a moment's breather and
patting Sheila Baxter on the backside. "Nothing like a good
fire to get a man horny."
Sheila was a team player who knew her duty. "My place," she
said. "When the fire is over."
"Fuck the fire," he said. "Let's go."
"Bless your good efforts with the hose," the Reverend Thomson
said to Kevin as he passed by, Sheila in tow.
"Gee, thanks, vicar," Kevin said. "Whacko."
Brigitte Spiewak sidled up to the disconsolate Peter Willing.
"What this town needs is a nice new theme pub," she said.
"Rollicking Irish, perhaps. Maybe German bier steins and all
that shit."
Tears ran down Peter's cheeks.
"Insurance will cover it," Brigitte said comfortingly. "I have
a buyer for the site if you're not up to it."
Becky Billingsgate from Sneak Reviews worked the crowd,
handing out a leaflet. New this week, the flyer said. Laura
Brentwood's Consolation Prize. All Girl Spectacular.
There was also a murky picture of a man in the shadows behind
the Flashmarket Arms. Fire Exclusive. Searing Exposures.
"Perhaps that unfortunate Brentwood fellow was right, "
Reverend Thomson said to his wife, Anne, in a troubled voice.
"Perhaps Satan has indeed passed through Little Flashmarket."
Anne patted him on the hand. "I shouldn't worry about it," she
advised. "But I think we should start up a Fire Appeal Fund
before the Catholics think of it."
"Good idea," the vicar said enthusiastically. "Good heavens,
what would I do without you?"
Anne sighed. There were always good works to do in Little
Flashmarket.
* * *
160. Bob's Your Uncle
(299 words)
by Selena Jardine
Dear Laura, Bob wrote. He stopped for a moment, and his eyes
filled with easy tears. Laura, with her lovely blonde hair.
Laura, soft and pliant underneath him. His darling Laura.
Somewhere, a door clanged, and his concentration broke. He
looked stupidly at the pad, then balled up the sheet of paper
and threw it to the floor.
Dear Diana, he wrote. Easier to write to her. He was
determined to find out what exactly had happened in that
courtroom. She had won a landmark decision, and yet here he
was in prison for life. Surely that wasn't right. Bob licked
the tip of his pencil stub and set it to paper, frowning,
thinking of Diana.
But she was so beautiful. His mind dwelt on her firm breasts
and flashing eyes. The huntress, standing above the baying
pack. Who was he to reproach her for anything? He tossed
another crumpled ball to the floor.
"Oi," said his cellmate. "Do you mind? This is a cell, not a
piggery."
Bob hastily gathered up the offending pieces of paper. As the
new fish, he'd been put in with Large Marge Watson, a hulking,
thoughtful, redheaded man who believed that cleanliness was
next to Godliness. The report of Bob's crime -- murder by
castration -- had kept most unwelcome attention at bay, but
Large Marge read too much Gertrude Stein for Bob to feel
comfortable after lights-out.
He paused. At least he was safe here from Little Flashmarket.
He would break his last tie.
Dear Anne, he wrote, and everything went utterly black.
"Lights-out!" shouted the warden. "Everyone in the bunks!"
Dear Anne, dear Laura, dear Diana, thought Bob, lying face
down in his bunk.
He sensed looming weight above him. Warm breath tickled his
ear.
"Whacko," whispered Large Marge.
Bob began to weep.
* * *
EPILOGUE:
And so, as the sun sets on the charred ruins of the
Flashmarket Arms, we bid farewell to Little Flashmarket. Life
will go on, minus some of the village inhabitants. The
Reverend Ronald Thomson will walk his dogs, Matins and
Evensong, in the afternoons, and deliver two sermons at St.
Swithin's each Sunday. Over at St. Elizabeth of Hungary,
Father Grogan will absolve the unforgivable. The ladies of the
church guilds will find somewhere else to meet and gossip, now
that the lounge bar is toast. Babies will be born, pigs will
be slaughtered, houses bought and sold, tiny cameras will whir
and turn in the dark, and Trelawney Forestry and Logging will
continue to sponsor the Flashers.
Justice may need to be done but probably won't. That's life.
Next.
ENDS
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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