Hi,
The following is a draft of a Flash Fiction I wrote with a little help from ZorasterNYC. The genre is flash fiction: a complete story is to be told in 100 words or less. In my home town, this genre is an annual contest at one of the newspapers.
awen
"Soutern hospitality" by awen
Thunder cracks like whips as Joe sits down at a greasy spoon.
Whats special here?
Lamb fries. Theyre two bits for two.
Sure, with milk in a dirty glass.
Joe hears a man screaming out back as she lazily plops two smooth, oblong balls of rare meat in gravy before him.
Struggling to finish the plate of tough meat, he queasily calls for his check.
Feeling his pocket, he bashfully asks,
"Umm...Ma'am? I forgot my wallet."
She grins diabolically, Boy, we got ya covered. Just tell 'em out back yall gotta pay yer bill."
Stomach turning, he winks, Ok, sugar.
Southern hospitality (Flash fiction)
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awen (imported)
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Zoroaster (imported)
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Re: Southern hospitality (Flash fiction)
Heh...it was more of a challenge. Write a story around a potluck dinner of some sort...hey, let's take more entries...anybody else? 100 words or so?
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PitLoverVA (imported)
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Re: Southern hospitality (Flash fiction)
"An Encounter" by VaGuy30
Entering the stall, I dropped trou. Pssssssssssssssss What sweet relief!
Zipping up, I heard another psssst from next door.
Looking down, I saw a hole, an eye and urging fingers.
Through the hole I found a waiting whiskered mouth, wet and soft.
Moaning, I pumped, hips tensing, eyes closed, tongue and lips milking me.
Forty thrusts it took before my balls did rise.
With a gasp my cream spurted out, rope after rope.
Through orgasm the scrape of steel was silent until searing pain pierced my pleasure.
Sliding down, bloody fingers touched my stump. A door slammed What sweet relief!
Entering the stall, I dropped trou. Pssssssssssssssss What sweet relief!
Zipping up, I heard another psssst from next door.
Looking down, I saw a hole, an eye and urging fingers.
Through the hole I found a waiting whiskered mouth, wet and soft.
Moaning, I pumped, hips tensing, eyes closed, tongue and lips milking me.
Forty thrusts it took before my balls did rise.
With a gasp my cream spurted out, rope after rope.
Through orgasm the scrape of steel was silent until searing pain pierced my pleasure.
Sliding down, bloody fingers touched my stump. A door slammed What sweet relief!
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Slammr (imported)
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Re: Southern hospitality (Flash fiction)
Calf Fries
Harold Smith, a writer, was traveling with his two young sons through the Ozarks in Northern Arkansas researching a book he planned to write about the area and its people. His research included sampling the local food.
Several miles outside of Berryville, Arkansas, he saw a sign which said, "Reverend Whitcomb's home for Boys. One the road, opposite the the home was a restaurant. Since it was lunchtime, and there was the possibility that he could sample something new, he stopped at the restaurant.
"What's your specialty?" he asked.
"Calf fries," was the answer.
"How much are they?"
"Depends"
"On what?"
"Whether you want regular or special."
"How much are the regular?"
"$4.95."
"And, the special"
"$595."
"Five dollars and ninety-five cents?"
"No, five hundred and ninety-five dollars."
"Who would pay $595 for a meal?"
"Some do."
Harold ordered a platter of calf fries for the three of them. He knew that calf fries were calf balls, battered and deep fried, but didn't tell his sons until after they had finished. He had tricked them again. The last time it had been possum they had been tricked into eating. They had to admit, however, that they were good.
Harold couldn't get the special out of his mind. Deciding that he could charge it to his expense account, he ordered it. The proprietor brought out a plate with only two rather small, similarly cooked, fries.
"$595, and that's all I get-just two?"
"You can't get these anywhere else, no matter how much you pay."
Harold was certain he'd been tricked, but knowing that the owner probably had a shotgun behind the counter, said no more. Dividing one, he gave it to his sons, while he ate the other. It was good! Much more tender than the regular fries, it had a delicate flavor-delicious-but not worth $595. After he had paid, the proprietor, asked, "How old are them boys?"
"Eleven and twelve, why?"
"Oh, nothing-they just seemed to be at a...tender age."
...............
Sorry, much too long, but I had to struggle to make it this short.
Harold Smith, a writer, was traveling with his two young sons through the Ozarks in Northern Arkansas researching a book he planned to write about the area and its people. His research included sampling the local food.
Several miles outside of Berryville, Arkansas, he saw a sign which said, "Reverend Whitcomb's home for Boys. One the road, opposite the the home was a restaurant. Since it was lunchtime, and there was the possibility that he could sample something new, he stopped at the restaurant.
"What's your specialty?" he asked.
"Calf fries," was the answer.
"How much are they?"
"Depends"
"On what?"
"Whether you want regular or special."
"How much are the regular?"
"$4.95."
"And, the special"
"$595."
"Five dollars and ninety-five cents?"
"No, five hundred and ninety-five dollars."
"Who would pay $595 for a meal?"
"Some do."
Harold ordered a platter of calf fries for the three of them. He knew that calf fries were calf balls, battered and deep fried, but didn't tell his sons until after they had finished. He had tricked them again. The last time it had been possum they had been tricked into eating. They had to admit, however, that they were good.
Harold couldn't get the special out of his mind. Deciding that he could charge it to his expense account, he ordered it. The proprietor brought out a plate with only two rather small, similarly cooked, fries.
"$595, and that's all I get-just two?"
"You can't get these anywhere else, no matter how much you pay."
Harold was certain he'd been tricked, but knowing that the owner probably had a shotgun behind the counter, said no more. Dividing one, he gave it to his sons, while he ate the other. It was good! Much more tender than the regular fries, it had a delicate flavor-delicious-but not worth $595. After he had paid, the proprietor, asked, "How old are them boys?"
"Eleven and twelve, why?"
"Oh, nothing-they just seemed to be at a...tender age."
...............
Sorry, much too long, but I had to struggle to make it this short.
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Slammr (imported)
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Re: Southern hospitality (Flash fiction)
One which should come in under the 100 word limit:
..............................
His turn in the barrel
Passed out in a cab after a night of drinking, Tony awoke naked-in a locked room. Screaming and pounding did no good. No one came for him until the next day.
Naked men with cock rings and chains hanging between their pierced nipples, their faces covered by leather masks, led him to a partition, placing his cock through a hole-strapping his ass to it so that he couldn't move.
The fear he felt was soon displaced by other another sensation; someone was sucking his cock. Just as Tony came, the cocksucker released the guillotine attached to the partition on his side.
..............................
His turn in the barrel
Passed out in a cab after a night of drinking, Tony awoke naked-in a locked room. Screaming and pounding did no good. No one came for him until the next day.
Naked men with cock rings and chains hanging between their pierced nipples, their faces covered by leather masks, led him to a partition, placing his cock through a hole-strapping his ass to it so that he couldn't move.
The fear he felt was soon displaced by other another sensation; someone was sucking his cock. Just as Tony came, the cocksucker released the guillotine attached to the partition on his side.