Ladies, Have You Ever Done A Public Sex Act?

Hello, hello, hello my brother and sister bloggers and writers.  The Old Soldier has a sexy flash fiction story for you in this Friday’s edition of The Gazette.  Yes, I have a man and a woman…Well, why give it away?  But I want you to notice that this isn’t some cheap porn story.  There is not one vulgar word in the story.  The characters are fully developed, as fully developed as you can have in a very short story.

There is dialogue.  The story is a perfect example of “show don’t tell.”..

The snow continues to fall in Pittsburgh.  But there is nothing I can do about the weather; so there’s no use in complaining.  Remember, the next edition of The Gazette will be published on Monday.  Have a good weekend.

Ladies, I hope you like this story, too.  Leave a comment to let me know.

This is the Old Soldier reporting from Pittsburgh.

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Lust

It was a Saturday several years ago in downtown Pittsburgh. Paul Bremmer and Colleen Hammond sat opposite each other in a booth in a corner in the back.

“No,” he said. “You’re wrong.”

“Five years and you want more time,” she said. “I’m sick of it.”

“What the hell does he have?”

“Me.”

“No, he doesn’t have you.”

“We’ll see about that.”

A sliver of September sunlight crept through the big window up front. Several workmen sat on stools at the bar up front. The TV above the bar was not on. On Saturdays these workmen worked only half a day, and now they sat at the bar eating a spicy chili con carne and drinking bottled Iron City beer.

“Lou,” one of the men said. “Put the Pitt game on.”

The bartender said, “It ain’t time yet.”

Paul stared across the table at Colleen. He said, “Have you set a date?”

“Whenever I’m ready. A civil ceremony and then in June a church wedding. He wants a big one.”

Paul looked down at the melting ice in their glasses. “Are you crazy?”

“Isn’t everyone?”

“You hardly know this guy.”

“He works and he wants me.”

“I work.” He looked up at her. “I want you.”

Paul Bremmer was thirty-five years old. He worked as a shift supervisor in a downtown fast food restaurant. The company medical plan covered eighty per cent of any medical bills he might ever have and he belonged to the pension plan. He got three weeks paid vacation a year. He had four thousand dollars in a passbook savings account, two thousand in a five-year CD and he had just opened an IRA. In two years he could pay cash for a newer used car without destroying his passbook savings account.

“Oh, Paul,” Colleen said. “We would be so good together.”

“Too much overhead.”

“I’ll be there.”

“You’re part of the overhead.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

He slid around to her side of the booth. She wore a short dress with no pantyhose and sleek white sandals were on her feet. Her legs were smooth, lightly tanned, strong and tapered long.

“What,” she said, “may I ask are you doing?”

“Is he what you want?”

“You’re what I want. Paul, what on earth are you doing?”

“Relax,” he said. “No one’s paying attention.”

They sat side by side. She picked up her glass and held it with both hands in front of her face, her elbows on the table top. She put the glass back down, sat back against the leather, slid down a little to tilt her hips upward with knees apart and the palms of her hands down on the table top.

She said, “If anyone has to use the restroom…”

She said, “I don’t believe I’m letting you do this…”

She said, “This is so perverse…”

She pressed her face into his shoulder to muffle her sounds. After a few moments she tensed…and then she slowly relaxed.  A faint flush suffused her neck and face.  He held her close, kissing her mouth, cheeks and closed eyes as she leaned weakly against him.

Up front, the legs of a stool scraped the floor. Paul and Colleen composed themselves. A workman glanced at them on his way to the bathroom.

Paul said, “I just wanted to do something crazy like we use to do.”

“You know it thrills me. You know it turns me on.”

“Does he know it turns you on?”

“He would think it was vulgar.”

Paul laughed. “It is vulgar. It’s cheap and vulgar.”

Paul took their glasses to the bar for refills. The bartender turned on the TV and then said to one of the workmen, “Now are you happy?”

“I got one hundred bucks on this game.”

“I don’t bet.”

“Ah, Lou, where’s the spice in that?”

The bartender took Paul’s order. Paul paid and then went back and sat opposite Colleen.

“What just happened,” Colleen said, “what we just did doesn’t change anything.”

“Does it get me an invite to the wedding?”

Sunlight flooded through the big window up front. Colleen Hammond looked down at her fresh drink, dipped the first finger of her right hand into the drink and then circled the lip of the glass. She kept dipping and circling until the glass began to sing.

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Short Story Ideas That Work

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The Gazette Is #1

Hello, hello, hello my brother and sister bloggers and flash fiction writers and the rest of you cats out there.  The word “cats” really dates me, doesn’t it?  But the Old Soldier doesn’t mind being dated.  The Old Soldier is a survivor.  Today is a day of celebration.

It’s a day of celebration because according to Google, The Gazette is the #1 flash fiction blog in the world!  If you Google flash fiction you will find The Gazette on page one.  As of today, The Gazette is #4 on the first page.  The other three links are not blogs.  So, there you have it.  The Old Soldier must be doing something right.

Are you a writer?  You want to make a few bucks?  Check out Textbroker.

So, that’s it for Thursday.  The Old Soldier is celebrating with a six-pack of Past Blue Ribbon…

Scott Delaney is the Old Soldier’s alter ego.  I really lived what Scott goes through.  The thing about the following story is that it’s all exposition.  It flys in the face of “show don’t tell.”  It’s a perfect example of how not to write a flash fiction story.

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Jocks And Ballerinas 

When Scott Delaney turned eighteen he joined the army to get away from killing his father who would get drunk and beat his mother. He attended Point Park College in Pittsburgh just before he joined the army and went to Vietnam when the college was still a two-year institution, a junior college. After he was discharged from the army and after he enrolled and finally dropped out of Duquesne University in Pittsburgh he hung around at Point Park College for several years. He wasn’t an official student but many of the professors knew of his serious interest in writing short stories. His youngest brother was president of the student body. Scott was admired by his youngest brother who introduced him all around. Scott became well-known on campus. He was issued a special library card and could take out books just like a student. He carried his notebook and collections of the writings of Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, John O’Hara and Gertrude Stein everywhere he went. He usually sat at the same table in the snack bar, writing in his notebook and watching the students.

By chance he had picked an empty table where the female ballet dance majors always sat. He was surprised when several student ballerinas in black leotards and white tights, their dance bags slung from a shoulder, came over and sat down. It was their table and that’s where they always sat. So, he always sat there, too. You could tell a student’s major by where the student sat. There was mixing but the groups stayed relatively stable.

The school had a fine baseball team. Many of the jocks on the team belonged to this one fraternity which had the worst reputation of any group on campus. Sometimes in the snack bar they really carried on occasionally bringing their bats and taking full swings at imaginary baseballs. Scott was always afraid they’d smack someone walking by. It never did happen while he was there. He became friendly with the president of the fraternity. He joined the fraternity as a “social” member.

The president of the fraternity was no saint but he was constantly worried about the wilder behavior of some of the other members. It was funny. It was like riding a souped up truck with one foot on the gas and the other foot on the brake.

Still, to be a dancer or a jock you had to work through a lot of pain to become any good. Not until years later, long after he had stopped hanging around Point Park College and was putting together his first book of short stories, did Scott Delaney realize he liked jocks and ballet dancers for the same reason.

Short Story Ideas That Work

Finding Your Place on The Web

Older Woman/Younger Man

Hello, hello, hello my brother and sister bloggers and flash fiction writers.  The Old Soldier has the Tuesday edition of The Gazette for you.  I hope everyone is doing well.  The snow is slowly melting here in Pittsburgh and tomorrow my social security check arrives which means the Old Soldier can get a six-pack of beer to celebrate making it through another month.  When you get to be the Old Soldier’s age and you’re still kickin’ that’s worth celebrating.  I got no aches and I got no pains.  I might even pay a visit to Del’s Italian Restaurant in Bloomfield later on in the week to see my peeps.  They haven’t seen the Old Soldier in weeks.  I’ve been MIA…

  In this edition of The Gazette is a story from the archives and another poem from Lady Sunshine

Now you know The Gazette is looking for a few good flash fiction writers to publish as Guest Writers.  And every once in a while one of those Guest Writers will be awarded a $15.00 honorarium.  That’s right.  Enough for two cheap six-packs of beer.  For all the details just click on the Open Contest/Submissions tab at the top of the page.  The Gazette does not accept poetry, yet.  The Old Soldier is waiting to see what the response is to the poetry of Lady Sunshine.  I like her poetry.  I hope you like it, too.  Cick on her link to read her entire body of work.  Or all of the work that she has on her site.

The next edition of The Gazette, the best damn flash fiction blog on the web, will be published on Thursday.  This is the Old Solier reporting from Oakland in the heart of Pittsburgh.

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Love Lies Bleeding

Where does my heart lie?

In the depths of your eyes?
Or the delicate, whispered sighs?
When your anguished soul cries?

Lay in love’s bed
Rest your weary crown
As I kiss your forehead
Slowly, your sorrows drown

Languorous lips linger

As true love lies bleeding  
In breathless surrender
An aching soul seething

Give in to love’s lust
Yield implicitly to its trust
Delight in its torrid caress
As our twin hearts coalesce

Lady Sunshine lives and writes poetry in California.

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Forbidden Love

It was a warm, sunny April morning in downtown Pittsburgh. The letter Frank Everett got the day before from the State Civil Service Commission stated that only 10 people in the County of Allegheny had scored higher than he had on the State Civil Service Test. That meant he’d probably have a good job within the year. Once he got the job nobody could say he was a loser, a loser like his old man. How his mother stayed with his father Frank could never understand. His mother and father were just from a different generation. Frank was still in his twenties, but he’d never gone to college and found he could only get dead end jobs like the one he had now. Well, all that was going to change. He’d even brought the letter to work to show Rita. Rita Lopez was the only thing he would miss from his present job. Frank started putting down the stools on the dry floor. Rita would be in any minute.

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With everything in place, Frank sat on a stool at the bar and smoked a cigarette. It was the best part of the day. Soon he wouldn’t have to work at night. He wouldn’t be on Public Assistance. When Rita came in he could always get a couple of beers on the house before the bar opened. Today he was hoping Rita would give him more than just a couple of beers. Rita might be forty-five but she was hot. She made her tips on low cut, short dresses that got even lower when she bent down to get a beer from the cooler for a customer. And there were her beautiful legs. Frank heard a key in the front door.

In a moment Rita came through the swinging doors. She was wearing her trade mark low cut, short dress with black pantyhose and white tennis shoes. “I put on the show for the customers,” she told him once. “But I’m not going to have my feet hurt.”

“Hi, Rita.”

“Frankie, the place is so nice and clean as usual. Would you like a beer? I’ll have a cigarette with you.”

“Thanks.”

She put her things away behind the bar and then bent down into a cooler to get his beer. The neck of her dress came open. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She had never had children. Many young women would be envious of her breasts. She looked up at him and saw him looking.

“My Frankie gets his own private show.”

“You’re my private dancer.”

She opened a bottle of Iron City and put it and a glass in front of him.

He said, “I got something to show you.”

“Good news?”

“I got the letter.” He put his cigarette in the ashtray on the bar.

“Let me see?” she said.

She came around and sat facing him on a stool. He took the letter from a pocket of his jeans and gave it to her. She unfolded it and began to read. Concentrating on the letter she crossed her beautiful legs, the short dress riding even higher. The black pantyhose accented the beauty of her legs. Frank thought of how young women didn’t seem to wear pantyhose any longer. He wondered what would happen if he reached out and squeezed her thigh. He turned to face her.

“Frankie, this is wonderful news.” She looked up at him, happy for him. “Oh, I’m going to miss you.”

“I won’t miss this place but I’ll miss you.”

“You’ll meet some nice sweet young thing and forget all about Rita.”

“No,” he said. “I really will miss you.” The bar seemed very quiet.

“That’s so sweet.”

“Rita?”

“Yes?”

He reached out and squeezed her thigh. There was a moment when nothing happened. There was only the thrill of the feel of her pantyhose and the warmth of her thigh. Then Frank felt a stinging sensation. She had slapped him. The entire left side of his face was stinging.

“Oh, Frankie, I’m so sorry.”

“No, no. That’s all right.”

“Why would you do such a thing?”

“I stepped out of line.”

“You don’t want to make a pass at me. Frankie, I’m old enough to be your mother.”

“No, it’s all right.”

He began to feel strangely more confident. He thought the slap had given him a certain advantage.

“You were right to slap me. But you’re not my mother. And I’m a man. And you’re a woman.”

He put his hand back on her thigh. She looked down at his hand. He saw she was breathing deeper. He got off his stool and uncrossed her legs. She was looking down at his hands as if she was hypnotized. He reached under her short dress and ran his hands slowly up and down her outer thighs, thrilling to the feel of her pantyhose and the warmth of her body. 

“Frankie, what are you doing?”

“Something I’ve always wanted to do.”

“Frankie, this isn’t right.” She rested her hands on his shoulders…

Moments later Rita was on her back in a booth.

“That’s it,” she said. “That’s what Rita wants. That’s what I need.”  She moaned.

“Rita, you don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

“Do me, Frankie.  Do me.”

Later that day Frank Everett and Rita Lopez began to make plans for the future.

Short Story Ideas That Work

Finding Your Place on The Web

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