Monday, June 13, 2005
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.
Thanks for your story contributions, despite my writing so little this week. Stories will be moved to indeterminacies.blogspot.com.