Flash Fiction, Short Shorts and Vignette Hangout

This is a thread for any of us who feel the need to play about with pieces of writing under the 750 word limit.

Literotica rules apply.

So if you feel the urge, come on in and post.


Edited to add: We have Laurel's sanction. There are no plans to open a category for under 750 word stories on Literotica.

Hope House
601 words


The real estate agent looked down at her paperwork through glasses bought in the ‘80s, then spoke, “Well, there’s The Golden Ridge... but that property is not within your price range...” her voice dwindled away.

The young couple looked at each other. A slight shake of the head by the male, and the female remained silent.

“There’s number 24 Smithers Road, down by Windy Creek...”

This time she couldn’t help herself, “oh?” her eyebrows lifted.

“Yes it’s an old place. Been empty for some years now. The previous owners believed it was haunted. Another agent here bought it as a spec. property. I don’t suppose you’d...”

“Oh yes!” The girl, unable to contain her excitement, jumped up. “Yes, we’d like to see that house, wouldn’t we Jeremy?”

Jeremy sat back in the wooden chair, his air of apparent nonchalance ignored by his new wife as she continued in her excitement,

“I’m not worried if it’s haunted. Probably nice ghosts live there. We’ll give them their space. Oh Jeremy, finally there’s a house we can look at. Who ever would have thought houses for sale would be such a rareity in a town like Maryvale? Mind you, it’s such a beautiful town that it’s hardly surprising, really.”

Lisa continued chatting. Jeremy sighed, then nodded at the land agent.

Silence fell as the land agent pulled up outside the house.

“Oh,” was all they heard Lisa utter. Climbing out of the car, she stood on the roadside staring at the house. Taking Lisa by the hand, Jeremy followed the land agent up the front porch steps into the house. The inside had not been neglected, the floors were polished and the windows reflected the glory of the wooden panelling within.

Lisa left Jeremy inside the study contemplating how he would furnish such a large area, she then walked through the rooms, one after another, contemplating not what she would store in them, but what had been previously stored. The room she most liked was the main bedroom. French doors led out onto the garden.

A stool had been left in the centre of the room. Lisa sat upon it. The sun streamed through the window, rays of dust mites floating. Reaching out she tried to catch one when a movement from the corner of the room caught her eye. Turning she watched as a woman silently swayed in a rocking chair. Lisa gasped. The woman looked across at her, then smiled.

Without warning, the woman swung one leg over the arm of the chair and Lisa stared, unable to glance away as a beautiful pale long fingered hand reached down, lifted the long overskirt and petticoat then moved slowly up her thigh. She watched as the woman found her most intimate position then began to pleasure herself. Lisa could not tear her eyes from the vision.

The woman’s head fell back to rest against the wall and her breath came in tiny gasps as she climaxed. Moments later, she straightened her clothing, then stood and went out of the room leaving Lisa alone.

Jeremy found his wife, sitting, bemused. She looked up at him, then winked.

“Right then,” Jeremy turned to the land agent, “we’ll take it.”

“You’ll what? You’ve hardly looked at the place, are you sure you wouldn’t like more time to think about it?”

“Nope. We’ll take it.”

As Lisa left the house, she turned, glancing across at the east window. She smiled as the woman waved, then held Jeremy’s hand tightly. “You’ll never believe what I just saw.”

He didn’t then, but he was to in time.

Repeat; repeat

FIFTY WORD FANTASIES

Fifty Word Facesit
I struggle vainly, bound by her bra and pantyhose. She straddles
my legs, slides up my body. White panties flash, her grey skirt
covers me in scented darkness. Warm damp cotton brushes my nose,
covers mouth. Her legs wrap my head, pulling my face deep. "Pay
rise now!" she insists.

*************************************************

Fifty Word Femdom
Her black-booted foot pressed my chest. Cautiously I looked up her
leather-corseted body to the stern face. I winced as the lash trailed
across my shuddering skin. "Beg forgiveness, slave!" she ordered.
Helpless, I cringed as she frowned at my bound body. Then she winked.
The pantomine rehearsal was going well.

*************************************************

Fifty Word HOM
I slept in our tent cocooned in my sleeping bag. My wife's body
slammed across my shoulders, pinning me helpless. Her
black-gloved hand wrapped my mouth silent. Silk-clad fingers
clamped my nostrils tight. "Look at that bitch again," she hissed
"and you stop breathing forever." Breath-starved, I lose
consciousness again.

*************************************************

Fifty Word Scarfing
Her interesting neighbour was noisily drunk every Saturday. She
acted. She opened her door, pulled in, pushed him in her deep
settee. He reached out. She scarfed his wrists. He protested. She
scarfed his mouth, tied legs. She stripped him slowly and scarfed
tightly. Now he is interested in her.

*************************************************

Fifty Word Unbirth
She grimaced with effort as his shoulders followed legs and hips
inside her. She paused, looking at his head protruding from her
sex. Eyes pleaded above covered mouth. She braced for the final
pull. "Next time, pay my alimony on time or you will stay
inside." Some ex-wives are vindictive.

*************************************************
Copyright Oggbashan November 2002
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author
of this work.

This is a work of fiction. The events described here are
imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not
intended to represent specific places or living persons.

Fifty5 Version 001 20 November 2002
*************************************************

I've posted them before but they don't take up much space.

Og

Carol and Sam (247 words)

Carol and Sam often drove to the beach in separate vehicles. Carol always enjoyed driving her gear shift car and Sam, well Sam just liked driving. The day that had begun with a storm threatening had turned into a hot midsummer afternoon where both Carol and Sam had said in unison, "Let's go to the beach."

Parking side by side they walked from the carpark, laden with beach gear. They crossed the little footbridge and made their way along the freshly mown grass to a quiet spot along the beach. With the day improving the beach had many visitors, children, families, young lovers and a group of older folks. Everyone was out enjoying the sunshine.

Having laid out the picnic blanket and rolled a towel for her head, Carol slipped her wraparound off and lay on her back allowing the sun to get to work on the front of her body.

She had chosen the orange bikini, Sam noticed as sunscreen landed on Carol's tummy. The rest of her body was okay, but her stomach hadn't seen much sun so far this summer.

Laying down beside her, Sam closed tired eyes and within minutes drifted into a kind of half doze where only the sound of the waves lapping against the beach intruded.

Cool air brought back reality... that, and Carol's hand. When she'd finished, Sam returned the favour, only with the exquisite slowness Carol loved.

Laying together, limbs entwined, both women rested in the afternoon sunlight.

Checking out Chekhov.

In those days it became a regular occurence for Mr Carol to come knocking at the wooden panelled door that led to my one bed room. His visits often co-incided with his nearing the end of one of his interminable stories which he liked to post to his own website.

I think I must have edited 25 or so of his manuscripts, written long hand in small crabbed writing. I asked him why he didn't just send them. He had my addy.

I suspect it was because he liked an audience as he went through his own logic and fanciful background notes on each and every single character, bit part or star.

I wouldn't have said we were friends as such, not much more than nodding acquaintance in the street or standing, waiting to be served at the bar in the 'local hostelry' as he termed it, quaintly in his own mind.

Mr Carol had a sometime lady friend to whom he introduced me but once, and, on seeing her rather too obvious signals and overt body language aimed at me, took great pains to keep her withdrawn when he knew I was in my room.

Last week there was a sudden knock at my door, it being late in the evening and I not expecting company, feared Mr Carol had been struck suddenly by his muse and had yet another of his short stories with which to pass my time. (My time not being my own in those darker days)

To my surprise, as I opened the door expecting the lean figure of my erstwhile editee, as I thought of him, there stood Mr Carol's lady friend.

As she leant against the faded paint of the door-frame, somewhat disheveled in both dress and manner I enquired of the meaning of her rude disturbance of my solitude.

Taking little notice of my brusque manners, the woman, who I now saw as the poor, elderly thing that she was in stark contrast to the vibrant 30ish girl to whom I had previously been introduced, gathered breath enough to deliver her urgent plea.

I was to come immediately to Mr Carol's rooms with some haste. My confusion was momentary, realising that the person she named as Henry was indeed Mr Carol. I accompanied her, wearing neither jacket nor tie and in shirt-sleeves such was her expressed need for speed.

On the short walk across the landing and upwards of one flight of stairs, covered with an ubiquitous threadbare, redbare carpet I couldn't help but admire the purpose of her stride which gave a pleasant, if somewhat seemingly contrived sashay to her hips and gluteous (delightfully gluteous) maximus. I am told, by those who deem themselves experts, that a woman walking away from a man will unconsciously alter her gait, knowing she is being watched and hopefully admired, and will cause her hips to sway almost in parody of her natural method of locomotion.

I was quite pleased to discover a certain 'truth' to the speculation.

On entering the room, I was aghast to find the very image of Mr Carol's lady friend sitting in a wooden rocking chair, by a gas fire turned on to full, making the room dry and heat raddled to my estimation. Then I realised, belatedly, that the agitated, elderly woman whom I had followed, who was now beconning me forward, was non other than the mother of Mr Carol's lady friend.

"You know Gina, my daughter?" enquired the Mother.

Forcing myself to speak I acknowledged our short acquaintance and was about to babble apologies for my mistake when I realised that I had barely spoken at all to Gina's mother when she had come breathlessly to my door, and in no way had made reference to our supposed previous meeting. I had merely assumed too much in the dim light of the hallway this night.

The emergency that had brought me to Mr Carol's rooms was nothing so much as a bloody wound, brought about by careless handling of a tin of baked beans. Mr Carol sat in his bathroom, arm wound tightly about with a deeply red tea towel and a face palid and drawn, not, I ascertained, from loss of blood but more at the mere sight of it.

Although seemingly superficial, the wound was quite deep and would require stitching if it were to not leave a scar and the inherent cold weather numbness associated with such. I advised Mr Carol to go immediately to hospital where it could be dealt with more properly.

As we four left the building (I merely to see them off) I was severally and seperately made promise of thanks and 'payment' for my services, such as they were.

Mr Carol, has become quite prodigious in his writing these days, and having taken great note of certain whispering, nods and giggles has taken to e-mailing his stories for my perusal.

Checking out Gauche

Droogskis: Hasn't anyone here read Chekhov? That's a damn fine take above. The baked bean tin wound is worth the price of a few minutes read.

Perdita

Being the ignoramous that I am, I haven't read Chekhov (sorry about that). However, I am glad that Gauche writes well enough even for people like me to enjoy his excellent skills. Thanks Gauche.

Ginny
735 words


Ginny knelt down beside her bed, held her small hands together in preparation for prayer and closed her eyes tight.

“‘t weren’t fair! Today were meant to be good and ‘stead ‘ts bin bad. Me mam telled me ‘t go ‘t market ‘n git some apples fer ‘er pie. She gave me an ‘a’penny ‘n I held onto it real tight, till it were bruisin’ me ‘and like.

“I ‘ad me nice Sundey dress on, the one wif the blue trim me mam got from the Lady ‘n I was right pretty lookin’ too. Least, I was ‘til IT happen’d.

“I didn’t see ‘im, I swear I didn’t. I rounded the corner ‘n there ‘e were, right in the way! I walked into ‘im, ‘n then ‘e grabbed me arm ‘n dragged me into a dark, ‘orrible, smelly shop.

“‘e didn’t like me, I could tell. ‘e kept pullin’ me arm like, I kin see the bruisin’ ‘n I jes knows me mam’ll lick me fer it.

“‘nyways, ‘e pulled me into this shop like, ‘n I were kicking and tryin’ to bite ‘is ‘orrible ‘airy arm ‘n then ‘e smacked me ov’rt back of me ‘ead. I yelled then, but nobody came. Nobody looked where the yell came from.

“I knowed I was fer it then.

“The shop were dark, ‘n it smelled real bad. I tried to pull away from ‘is ‘and, but ‘e ‘eld me too ‘ard. Then ‘is knobbly knee jammed between me legs ‘n I bit ‘im ‘ard on the back of ‘is ‘and. ‘e yelled then ‘n I got ‘nother smack ov’rt back of me ‘ead. I were wishin’ me mam were close by then, but she weren’t. So I jes’ did the only fing I could, I got me foot, the one wif the shoe wif only one ‘ole in it, ‘n I kicked ‘im real ‘ard on ‘is leg.

“‘e let me go then, ‘n I raced fer the door ‘n ran through it faster than me brofer kin run at school. I runned ‘ome so fast me chest ‘urt bad, ‘n then I runned straight ter me room. ‘n ‘ere I am Sir, ‘oping ye’ll find a way ter ‘elp me tell me mam. I jes knows she’s gonna whop me ‘o’er me ‘ead like, ‘n I really feel beat up enough. What kin I do Sir? I don’t wanna go back downstairs, I don’t wanna go back ‘n see if’n I kin find some apples fer me mam.

“‘n...” she sniffed loudly. “’n I fink I lost the ‘a’penny too.”

Squeezing her eyes shut tight, Ginny wiped the back of her cleanest hand across them, sniffed loud enough to startle the fly recently caught in the black spider’s web that hung just above her bed, then shook herself as if to shake all of her problems away.

“Mam,” she said, standing at the doorway of the tiny lounge with her chin raised slightly, “Mam, I didn’t get the apples. I tried but I jes couldn’t do it.”

Waiting. Her mother never moved; never acknowledged that Ginny had spoken. Moving closer, she looked carefully at her mother. Kneeling down in front of her, Ginny watched the older woman. With a sob Ginny held her mother’s cold wrinkled hand, lay her wet cheek on her mother’s lap and wailed.

It wasn’t a week later when Ginny walked out the front door. The belongings she could manage to carry were tied in a bag that she slung over her back; Ginny grunted with the weight as it settled. She had on the same pair of shoes that she’d worn for the last year and a half, the same dress that she’d managed to cut down from one of her mother’s dresses two years earlier.

With her face as clean as she could get it without soap, Ginny held her chin high then walked into town. She stopped when she reached the street where ‘those’ women stood. She didn’t have long to wait. A familiar voice caused Ginny to wince, slowly she turned. Recognition dawned on the man’s red, sweating face and he grinned, a tiny drizzle of sputum ran from the corner of his mouth down his chin, then dripped onto his too large jacket.

Ginny had no options left. “Aw Mam,” she whispered. Then she followed him, her back almost straight, and began her first night’s work.