The girls threw off their shoes and became barefoot zombies. Each footfall drew them further into the perpetual hypnosis of their self-sustaining gait, and they marched, one after the other, a single direction, a single purpose, a single soul. In a dislocated room, mind's eye focused on the phenomenon, sat an aged conjurer in the center of the force, summoning the bodies to him. He uttered the syllables scribbled onto the parchmented scroll, little knowing that he was as much a marionette as the girls had been made so by his repetition of the eternal desirous chant. "Tat-chin-tan-am," he repeated in the ancient Sanskrit syllables, "I want you, that which I have lost." On the scroll was the sketch of a feminine form, rendered erotic by its vagueness. The suggestive lines were to his fertile imagination the seminal source of any and every girl in her years of sexual awakening. He took those lines and wove them into visions of baseness, wrapped them around his ravenous yearnings. Their youth became his youth. When the girls arrived, they did not like how he had ravished them in his waking trance. Without a thought or word, they lined up to slap his face.
Story#235
Thanks for your story contributions, despite my writing so little this week. Stories will be moved to indeterminacies.blogspot.com.
15 comments:
Your wish is my demand?
It was a fantabulous night for a moondance, and Gloria was in the groove. The wet sandy sidewalk was like dancing on the beach, if one used their imagination, so she sashayed and shimmied to her heart's content. Selma tried to retrieve her before she got hit by a car or netted by the guys in the white coats, but Gloria was an unstoppable force. And once the next song started, Gloria shrugged her shoulders and gave into the dance herself.
Did I write demand? I'm not thinking straight, or it's a bizarre Freudian slip. Must be that verfremdungs effect.
Always keep your verfrems out of your dungs.
where's my slippers? WHERE'S MY GODDAMNED SLIPPERS!!!!! will somebody tell me where the fuck my slippers are! they just cant walk away by themselves could they, so w-h-e-r-e t-h-e h-e-l-l a-r-e m-y s-l-i-p-p-e-r-s !!!!!!!!!! will somebody TELL ME WHERE the fuck THEY ARE!!!! WHERE THE HELL ARE MY SLIPPERS!
their in my ass, knucklehead girl.
thousands of people world wide were in need. and these college kids, full of the verve and impulsivity inherent in young scholars out to change the world, were going to make a difference.
volunteers aplenty manned the registration area, taking down the necessary information and assigning each contributor a number and an ID bracelet. the day ground down to night, but still, the kids kept coming. they were making a difference!
pallets of disinfectant and medical supplies sat outside the surgical suites, and nurses, anesthetists and doctors rotated short shifts to stay fresh. you could smell the jubilance and sterility in the air.
candy, full of the giving spirit, walked up to the banner flapping in the night's breeze: "lend a hand, it's only fingers!" a released donor stepped up to candy, who looked a little queasy. "don't worry, you've still got thumbs. it won't make a difference."
she wasn't quite sure what he meant.
So cool, so cool, all of these. I'm envious. It took me all weekend and part of Monday's lunch hour to think of mine.
If a metaphor is converting abstract ideas and feelings into concrete terms, then it seems your story was a metaphor for a metaphor.
Tom & Icy: I judge by your comments that you're very knowledgeable in the field of literary science, which I am not. I just read from a reader's point of view, for the pleasure of reading. But I never analyzed that pleasure or understood it. It's a statement of my ignorance that you see more in my stories than I do. I'm not even sure I understood the comment. My muse will explain it to me. Thanks once again for all your encouragement.
keep the juices flowing.
Ariel, what a nice thing to say. I have to tell you that you kind of gave me the idea for this. Remember what you wrote me?
This blog is filthy! Satan, get thee back!
Still intrigued and in awe about your blog....
Humble thanks, G.D. I admire how yo're so prolific at your blog. Lately I've been having trouble balancing work, family and sleep, to come up with the daily post. Today's story hasn't even been thought of yet, so I may have to skip it, unless I have a sudden inspiration during lunch hour, or on this evening.
Bitterfungus: Thanks for your comment yesterday. I'll certainly try.
A Little Bar of Soap: I think I know who you are. You're Sister Cindy aren't you? You used to come around our campus in the early 80's and warn us all about what would happen if we sinned. Everyone loved your rendition of the devil pulling the sorority girl in chains into the FIIIII-ERRRRRRR!, for giving in to the temptations of campus life and sinning with a boy. You guys really had it good, hitting the Northern campuses in the Spring and Summer, and during the winter saving souls in Florida. I remember your broschure: From Disco Queen to Evangelist, or something like that. Brother Jed saved your soul one night out in the parking lot of the disco, in the back seat of his car. But the broschure didn't make it clear HOW he saved your soul. Anyhow, Sister Cindy, I've missed you and thought of you often, and hereby welcome the prodigal daughter home. You're always welcome here.
Did I say there might not be a story today? Don't worry. There will be. It will just be a little late. Thank God for lunch hours.
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