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Subject: {ASSM} Little Flashmarket (Day 2 of 16)~various Ruthie's Club authors
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Date: Thu, 23 Sep 2004 16:10:07 -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:


11. The Vicar's Unhelpful Scriptures
(287 words)
by Neil Anthony

"Andy prefers sodomy to intercourse," Valerie Brock said. "He 
wants to sodomise me every night."

"Indeed," remarked the Reverend Ronald Thomson, Anglican Vicar 
of St. Swithin's at Little Flashmarket. He wriggled 
uncomfortably in the chair in his study. Sodomy, indeed. 
Heavens above. What people did. Goodness.  

"I don't like it at all," Valerie said. "It's quite painful."

"Indeed," he agreed.

"Reverend, don't the scriptures condemn sodomy?"

"Indeed."

"Can I tell Andy the Bible forbids him to sodomise me?"

Reverend Thomson looked at her unhappily. On the one hand, it 
did. On the other, it instructed a wife to be of exceeding 
accommodation to her husband. Not for the first time, the 
Reverend Thomson was perplexed by scriptural ambiguity just 
when he needed clear direction.

"Valerie, I will pray for you," he said.

In the rectory, while his wife cut fresh-baked bread for their 
lunch, he spoke about his troubles and told her that Andy 
Brock sodomised his wife nightly. He was astonished that she 
roared with laughter.

"Andy Brock?" she asked. "Ronny, everybody in Little 
Flashmarket knows about Andy."

"Well, I didn't," he said stiffly.

"Well, you wouldn't," Anne Thomson said, laughing all over 
again.

"I wish people wouldn't tell me their personal problems," he 
said, sighing unhappily. "I'm never sure what to say to them."

"You want me to talk to Val?" Anne asked.

"Oh, would you? I'm sure she would appreciate it."

The Reverend Thomson contemplated his bread and cheese 
happily. Fresh bread, good, strong, local cheese.

"Sunday's sermon, I think, should be about the famine in 
eastern Africa," he said. "Our collection three years ago 
beat St Andrew's by a good margin. What do you think?"

"Yes, dear," Anne said. "Famines are safe ground."

* * *

12. Au Pair
(299 words)
by Selena Jardine

The second Mrs. Trelawney had no worries about money. Well, 
not since she had married Richard Trelawney, at any rate. 
Corinne had all the lovely clothes she wanted, and all her 
jewellery was just as big as you please. Forget about the no-
diamonds-in-daylight rule, sweetie, she'd wear what she liked. 
She had her hair and nails done twice a week, and she drove to 
the salon in a large, sleek Mercedes. And she had Sunday and 
Wednesday evenings off, to do with as she liked, just as she 
had when she was a nanny for the first Mrs. Trelawney. She 
usually spent her time having a sweet sherry down at the 
Flashmarket Arms with her good friend, Mrs. 
Penwhistle. 

What she did not spend her time doing was taking care of 
Richie's disgusting little monster children. Runny noses, 
tummyaches, whining. No, thank you. There hadn't been enough 
money in the world to make her enjoy it when she was a nanny, 
and there sure wasn't now that she was their stepmother. She 
talked to Richard about culture and language and the benefits 
of exposing his children to diversity, and she hired herself a 
French au pair, double-quick.

And the children loved Camille. Clung to her, wiped their 
little noses on her, and even started learning that rotten 
slippery language. Corinne wiped her brow in mock relief and 
went to the pub.

She didn't have her first qualm until she came home Wednesday 
evening and opened the door to the darkened library. Camille, 
in a tiny French maid outfit that revealed her perfect ass, 
was bent over Richie's knee, and his hand was raised for 
another blow.

Corinne closed the door again, quietly, and gazed fondly at 
her diamond ring. Everyone, she thought, even Richie, deserved 
some exposure to diversity.

* * *

13. Brigitte's Prayers
(300 words)
by Alexis Siefert

Little Flashmarket doesn't really understand fitness. In 
Little Flashmarket, "balanced eating" refers to switching 
between pork and beef in your pie, and "exercise" is most 
often confined to those activities done in private with a 
partner -- or, in certain segments of the village -- two.  


However, Brigitte Spiewak knew that the years were starting to 
creep up on her, and as the years crept up, various parts of 
her anatomy were starting to creep down. And in her line of 
work -- Commercial and Residential Properties of Little 
Flashmarket -- appearance counts. Little Flashmarket was a 
small town, and the real estate business wasn't booming. And 
there was always someone new around. Someone for whom the 
years hadn't yet begun to creep. Someone else to catch the eye 
of the village men.

So Brigitte ran. Each dreadful, painful stride reverberating 
in her head until she could chant with the steps in the same 
determined way she recited the rosary when she was alone in 
bed.  

The nuns taught her the rosary when she was little more than a 
slip of a gel, entrusted into their care by a father swimming 
over his head in an amber-filled bottle. They taught the 
counting prayers, and she recited them at night with a pebble 
under her right knee for each repetition. She recited the 
words and moved a stone each time until a pile of pebbles sat 
beside her, and her knees were raw. As she grew and learned, 
she was given the beads, graduated away from the pebbles. Each 
bead hard and smooth under her fingertips.  

Her string of beads gone, lost in the hard-forgotten jumble of 
childhood memories.  But she still stroked. And she prayed. At 
night. Alone in bed she stroked her bead, hard and smooth 
beneath her fingers, until she reached amen.

* * *


14. Estellar Service
(299 words)
by Julian Swan

"Charming village, Rutting, but they get no points for 
service. I distinctly said breakfast at nine!"

"I shall look into the matter, sir."

In the kitchen of the inn, Rutting found a sullen girl with 
jutting 
breasts burning some eggs.

"Is that Lord Cumshot's breakfast?"

"Who're you?"

"Rutting, Lord Cumshot's gentleman's gentleman."

"'Zat mean you're a fairy?'

"I assure you, one can be both a gentleman's gentleman and a 
ladies' man. About breakfast?"

"Mum's down the cellar with Tom. I'm not really the cook."

"Obviously. May I?"

Without waiting, he scraped the charred mess into the bin and 
began again, effortlessly -- toast, bacon, eggs. She watched. 
He was a big man. Big all over. She licked her lips.

"Is there sausage?" he asked.

"You tell me."

Rutting turned. The strumpet had pulled her jeans down and 
bent over a counter. She sneered over her rump. "Or are you a 
fairy?"

Rutting sighed. "Very well. I see I must teach you the meaning 
of service."

He fished out a cock the size of a pint glass and jammed it 
without preliminaries into her drooling sex. She gasped. He 
was bigger than Tom!

"Service," he said, pounding away, "means putting all personal 
concerns aside."

She moaned. He was hurting her. 

"More," she begged.

"It means doing your duty as perfectly as possible..." 

He thrust faster. She whimpered, orgasm already welling inside 
her. She'd never cum so quickly. Not even with Mum's vibrator.

". . .so that those you serve experience nothing but 
pleasure."

Estelle came, shrieking, knees buckling, hands clawing air. 

Rutting zipped up. He had not cum. He slid the eggs onto a 
plate. They were perfect.

"About time, Rutting," said Lord Cumshot, digging in. "Trouble 
in the kitchen?"

"No trouble at all, my lord. I also saw to the baggage."

* * *

15. Coming Home
(295 words)
by Jordan Shelbourne

Laura Brentwood was pleasantly tired. There had been the last 
of the unpacking done, and the rearrangement of furniture -- 
she had shooed Bob out for that; he had no patience for that 
sort of thing -- and a bit of a hello from the neighbours.

Now she had teacups tidied away and a casserole was warming in 
the oven.

And here was Bob, pale as milk and trembling. "Laura, we've 
got to move." He fell onto a kitchen chair.

"Good heavens, why?"

"This village -- they're a bunch of sexual maniacs."

"Oh, dear, I'm sure it can't be as bad as all that." Laura set 
the casserole dish on a trivet.

"I went into a video store and it was all of it pornographic."

"So you'll avoid that shop in the future."

"And then this old woman offered me oral sex."

"Well, that does sound frightening. Have some dinner."

"You cooked?"

"Some welcoming gifts from the neighbours."

"You've met them?"

"One of them. It doesn't take two to carry a casserole."

"Laura, we've got to move."

"Bob, I have just finished unpacking. I am not moving again 
because you had two unpleasant encounters in one day. Everyone 
I have met has been very nice."

"But -- "

"We're not moving." To emphasize, she stamped her foot -- a 
mistake, she realized, because a large gob of the neighbour's 
come ran down her leg and fell spap! onto the floor. She 
quickly covered it with her stockinged foot. It was warm on 
her sole.

"You clean up and after dinner for dessert I'll give you a bit 
of what the old woman offered."

Bob brightened. "If we close the blinds."

"If you want. Hurry up and eat if you want that dessert. I 
plan to enjoy living in this village."

* * *

16. Sheila's Personal Foul
(295 words)
by Neil Anthony

Sheila Baxter, 6ft barefoot, was definitely going to solve 
Little Flashmarket's problems at Goal Defence in the coming 
netball season. Newly arrived from Birmingham to fill the 
surgery assistant's vacancy at the veterinary practice, and 
just one training session with the Flashers, and the girls 
knew they had their hands on a star player.

Thelma Underwood, who'd been captain longer than anyone could 
remember, dropped a hand on Brigitte Spiewak's shoulder. "That 
settles it," she said with typical bluntness. "You're short, 
you're old, and you're replaced."

Sheila was too busy admiring the surroundings to notice the 
tragedy of Brigitte's continuing fall from prominence. Nobody 
liked Brigitte. Real estate was sluggish and she had no 
friends.

"Wow," Sheila said to Thelma. "This place is fantastic."

And it was -- an indoor court, sprung boards, and changing 
room facilities that were simply excellent. No village in the 
county had netball courts like Little Flashmarket.

Sheila showered in one of the several stalls. The water was 
hot, the 
pressure was high, the soap was fresh, and there was even 
shampoo and conditioner. Who would have thought? A little 
place like this. Impressive. Terrific.

She heard a scraping noise, and she looked around. In the wall 
of the stall, a tile slid sideways, and a man's erect penis 
came pushing through it.

Sheila screamed the place down. The door was flung open, and 
Thelma Underwood appeared.

The captain took in the scene in a glance. "Oh, calm down," 
she told Sheila. "It's just the club sponsor."

Sheila huddled horrified against the wall, clasping her arms 
around her long body, and looked at Thelma uncomprehendingly.

"How else do you think we get these facilities?" Thelma asked 
irritably. "Look, are you a team player or not? We can always 
get Brigitte back."

* * *

17. Father Grogan
(300 words)
by Selena Jardine

The Catholic church in Little Flashmarket was tiny, and built 
so that the elderly would be certain to be able to hear the 
sermon. That is to say, the acoustics were excellent. That 
fact served the congregation well on Sunday mornings, and not 
quite so well on Friday afternoons, when Father Grogan sat in 
his booth to hear confession. 

Tony, Kevin, and Peter crouched in the centre pew, where the 
sound was best, bent over their stenographer's notebook, and 
waited. It was Mrs. Trelawney in there now. Scraps of 
whispered sound came their way.

". . .spanking her, I saw him, Father. . .impure thoughts. . .
forgive. . ."

Then Father Grogan's deeper tones, bored, barely awake.

"Say ten Hail Marys and sing the Gilligan's Island theme song 
all the way through twice. That ought to do it. Be good now, 
Corinne."
 
Steps clacking away. The gurgle of Father Grogan's hip-flask.

Now Estelle Willing slouched down the aisle. The old 
confessional cracked as she knelt.

"Father, forgive me. . .Tom Redman. . .hands on my breasts. . 
.I sucked slowly, then faster. . ." They could hear Father 
Grogan shift in his seat.

"Well, Estelle, ego te absolvo, and ix-nay on the in-say, all 
right? No penance. Girl like you ought to spend less time on 
her knees, not more."

Then Mrs. Penwhistle, radiantly beautiful in her widow's 
weeds, crept into the confessional. The boys could barely hear 
her at all. 

". . .fucked Tim Pengelley. . .hit-man. . .personal service. . 
.forgive me, Father. . ."

Father Grogan whistled low. 

"You've been a bad girl, Lacey," he said. "I can see only one 
way out of this, or it's the hellfire for you. You just come 
round to my side and wrap those lips round this while I 
intercede. That's it, my girl."

The boys listened, wrote, and learned their lesson well.


The Lord loves a hard bargain.

* * *

18. Travelling Salesman
(300 words)
by Selena Jardine

Harry Weingarten was worn out. He'd spent an entire day going 
door-to-door in this godforsaken backwater town, trying to 
sell life insurance. Waste of shoe leather. He'd never been in 
a place with so little apparent regard for their loved ones. 
And now it was pissing down outside, thunder, lightning, the 
whole lot.

And here he was in the Flashmarket Arms, trying to have a beer 
in the dry, and they were telling travelling salesman jokes. 
Thought they were so fucking funny. 

". . .so the farmer says, 'Whatever you do, don't put your 
dick in those three holes.' But of course the silly bugger 
can't help himself. The first hole feels really nice, right? 
The second hole feels even better. The third hole feels bloody 
marvellous, but he can't get his dick out to save his life. 
And in the morning, the farmer says, 'The first hole was my 
wife, the second was my daughter, and the third was my milking 
machine, and it doesn't let go until it gets fifty gallons." 

Roars of laughter. Bastards, thought Harry.

"Pay them no mind," said the man sitting beside him. He had a 
kind, encouraging smile. He held out his hand. "Edgar Tanner. Do 
you need a place to spend the night? This dreadful weather."

"Harry Weingarten, life insurance," said Harry, returning the 
smile. "I'd be grateful -- the inn is full -- but I'd hate to 
impose."

"No imposition at all," Mr. Tanner assured him for the tenth 

time, as he showed him the room. "I remodelled the old barn 
into a guest suite. Just one thing," he said, with a laugh in 
his voice. "Don't put your dick into those three holes, 
whatever you do."

Two excruciating weeks later, Harry began to suspect that Mr. 
Tanner's words might not have been entirely in jest.

* * *

19. Laura's Convictions
(298 words)
by Selena Jardine

The tree was a mighty English oak, five centuries old. It 
spread its branches overhead, protective and strong. Acorns 

crunched underfoot, and the soft leaf mould under that. The 
forest was extremely quiet. 

Laura Trassel shifted a little. The chains made a terrible 
racket every time she moved. Mr. Tanner had been wonderful 
with advice. He had said that rope simply wouldn't do, they 
could just cut it, and she could see that. He'd loaned her 
the chains, and she was going to stay chained to this 
wonderful tree until they changed their minds about cutting 
it down. But she did wish they were a little more comfortable.

She could see someone approaching through the forest. She 
peered through her spectacles, trying to make him out. He had 
on the bright green blazer that displayed the hated logo of 
Trelawney Forestry and Logging (Proud Sponsor of the Little 
Flashmarket Flashers!), but she couldn't see his face. It had 
nothing to do with the fact that her spectacles had slipped 
down her nose. The man was wearing a black woollen mask.

Casually, without a menace or a word of warning, he ripped 
Laura's shirt open to the waist. Next, her sensible khaki 
shorts were around her knees. The man unzipped his trousers, 
leaned forward, and thrust himself into her. He was whistling 
slightly, a tune she could not place immediately. The chains 
dug into her arms and legs.

At last, he stood up, straightened his blazer, and walked off, 
still whistling. The forest was quiet again. Laura sniffled in 
the silence. But finally, bravely, she placed the tune he'd 
been whistling, and she raised her voice in song.

"We will not be moved," she quavered into the darkening 
forest. "We will not be moved."

Something shifted in the shadows.

* * *

20. Isabella Rose
(294 words)
by Alexis Siefert

They christened her Isabella Rose. It was an old fashioned 
name, but there was tradition to think about, and the baby's 
future. It was a good, strong family name. Rose for his 
grandmother and Isabella for hers.  Everyone said that she was 
an angelic baby. Antique lace trimmed the christening gown, 
lace from his family along the hem and collar and lace from 
the mother's on the cuffs. Isabella Rose didn't cry during the 
service, like other babies do. She didn't make a sound. 

After the christening there was a reception on the church 
lawn. In Little Flashmarket, church members believe that 
celebrating the major milestones of life together - births, 
christenings, first communions, engagements, weddings, 
deaths - has kept the village together since their grandfathers' 
grandfathers built the shed-sized stone building to house the 
first congregation. Christening receptions are some of the 
better ones. Everyone gets a chance to coo over the infant, 
and the parents bask in the compliments. 

In true Little Flashmarket tradition, Isabella Rose was passed 
from hand to hand, from aunt to uncle to neighbour to friend. 
Not once did Isabella Rose fuss or cry or let out so much as 
whimper. She smiled and she slept as the wrinkled hands of the 
grandmothers stroked her closed eyes and smooth forehead.

Isabella Rose didn't fuss when the village grandmothers 
started their whispers, either. The whispers are, of course, 
the other reason -- the real reason -- for the celebrations. 
The whispers that remarked on how Isabella Rose's mouth is 
identical to her mother's, but her chin is, without a doubt, 
her father's.

Mother, of course, had already noticed Isabella Rose's chin. 
She didn't bring it up with Isabella's father.  Neither her 
husband, nor Pepper Winston -- Isabella's father's newest wife 
-- would appreciate the comparison.

* * *

(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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