Robert Sheckley, the science fiction great whose comic sense of the universe is nothing less than sublime, took seriously ill while attending a science fiction convention in Kiev. His condition has since improved and he has been transferred to a stateside hospital, but funds are required to cover the costs of the hospitalization and his convalesence. Details are at his Website: www.sheckley.com.

If you never read anything by Robert Sheckley, blogger Zed Lopez has compiled a list of online texts. If you read them, maybe you will see why Robert Sheckley is one of my heros, and why I hope that each of you will do what they can to help him.

Mario had an intensive gaze that led women to believe there was something mystical about him. It was true that pretty girls evoked a certain concentration in him bordering on the manic. But his gentle features invariably deflected any suspicion of perversity or obsession. He imagined one day what his paradise would be, leading to his decision to invite several of his female friends at once. The mystery of Mario's eyes intently fixed on them, awaiting an answer, invariably functioned with each of the girls he hoped would grace him with her unstockinged presence. And they came, all of them. He had told them he could read their fortune, but in a new way, the way of a lost art that had been passed along in his family, in secret, from generation to generation. He could read the soles of their feet, follow each of the lines of that tender base of a woman, each innocent curl of their toes and curve of their instep, read all the delights and passions awaiting their lives, and - this he kept to himself - he would read them in such a way as to subtly suggest himself. But Mario underestimated the girls, and overestimated himself. The jumbled pairs of bare feminine feet summed to a force of erotic power that strained his heart past the ability to beat. Not even mouth-to-mouth resuscitation could save him.

Story #229

Once a year the bunny felt herself at a biorhythmic high, that day called Easter when it achieved the miraculous task of hiding billions of chocolates and twice as many jelly beans to cheer all the world's children. But when that day had passed, a dampening depression engulfed the poor bunny. The three sisters found the Easter Bunny in the department store the day after Easter, crying to herself in a corner, ready to end it all. They sat with the poor creature, talked to her, sang songs to her. Their exuberance was catching, and soon the Easter Bunny found herself smiling again. They told her funny fairy tales about Tortoises and Hares, but with happy endings. The Easter Bunny hopped for joy and reached into her pocket where she found a leftover lollipop, which she offered to the youngest of the sisters. It was a touching moment. Without hesitation the sisters invited their new friend home with them, asking if she'd like to stay on for a couple of weeks. The Easter Bunny agreed, grateful tears welling in her eyes. They hopped and skipped all the way home. After the necessary arrangements and preparations were made, there was enough rabbit stew to last the entire family the two promised weeks.

Story #228

Thanks to everyone who contributed their own version to this story! They have already been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com!

It's the weekend again. For those of you surfing in via BlogExplosion, and don't know what it's about, every weekday I post a found photo and a story inspired by the found photo. On weekends I invite the visitors to try their hand at a story (See above photo, kindly donated by Mushroom). Each month I give a prize to one of the contributors, selected at random, a b+w self-enlarged photograph I took myself. I post my story on Monday, and move the stories posted here in the comments section to indeterminacies.blogspot.com. Anyone who contributes also gets a link at that site. And you are all invited to submit photos of your own for next weekend's story.

Now an update on the Petesville situation over at Pansifiles, based on several rumors which have come to my attention. After I posted Friday's story exposing the shocking Barbie-morality that rules in Petesville, complete order broke down. Betty Boop is safe. She's with me now. But President Pete is said to have been deposed and was lately seen surfing from blog to blog, from an undisclosed location, leaving comments reflecting his total loss of contact with reality. It's a sad situation, but was bound to happen sooner or later. Hopefully things will be back to normal after Mrs. Weirsdo returns from her vacation. For further information on what this is all about, please refer to the Friday morning post.

Martin and Gregor were two good Catholic boys, that is, until they chanced by the decadent window display with the life-sized, sophisticated Barbies. Unfortunately they noticed the wink. That was the beginning of their moral decline into a dead-end depravity. Up to that point they had been of the respective opinion that they would wait until well after marriage before lying with a member of the opposite sex.

"I might wait a few years after the honeymoon," Martin said. "I don't want to rush into something I don't understand."

"But it isn't sex if you lie with a Barbie," Gregor argued, planting a seed in both their fertile minds.

"When you put it that way... Hmmm, one of those might make a nice replacement for my teddy bear," Martin pondered out loud.

"And the cool thing is," Gregor went on, "we wouldn't have to go to confession about it. Because they have no souls."

"That settles me. So, which one do you want, Greg?" Martin asked his friend while considering the permutations of possibilities associated with each of the two selections.

Gregor had already decided: "I want the one with the mask. My sister has a Barbie like that."

They walked into the store, visions of inanimate splendor coaxing them forward. The storekeeper watched them suspiciously out of the corner of one eye as they approached. Upon seeing their ID, he flew into a rage. "Get out of my shop," he sputtered severely. "You're too young to buy those! Go sleep with a real girl your own age!"

Story #227

Today's story will be delayed a few hours due to ongoing negotiations with Pansi of pansifiles.blogspot.com. As I posted in my comments section, I have photographs incriminating the whole of Barbiekind. All I want in return for not using these photographs is a small favor, a favor which should pose no problem to someone like Pansi or Doodoo man or whatever else those things over at Pansifiles are called. These are disgusting images depicting Barbies seducing and corrupting underaged boys and girls. They are in flagrant violation of international law! All I want for not posting them is a wild night with Betty Boop. I don't think that's too much to ask.

Bambi commented:
Mr. Indecency:
President Pete wishes me to infirm you that you are a evildoer and an enemy of the state.
Even if you were not, Miss Boop has been retired since 1939, and if you were any respector of age diffrences you would understand how unseamly you're request is, in any case the terms of PANSI's contract expressly forbid any business dealings involving rival intertainmant figures.
Even if the pictures to wich you alude proove to be genuine, which I doubt, Naked Gymnastics for JESUS is not responsible for the behavior of Barbies who are not cast members.
Do you're worst!
Sincerely, Bambi

I'm sorry, Bambi, but that's just not good enough. So what if Betty is a mature woman? At least she's not a minor, which, I might add, your kind seems to have a penchant for.

I know that Pansi is terrified I'll use the photographs because she just posted this flattering review of my blog. But I don't think anyone is fooled. We can all see through plastic. Her own profile says that she doesn't read.

In case you don't know what this is all about it's all been widely reported in the media:
At oldtommyboy.blogspot.com
At pansifiles.blogspot.com

Pansi: You get me Betty or else!

-----------

Note: If you're just surfing in here via Blogexplosion, welcome! I had a sudden 5000 credit windfall in Blogexplosion and I'm using some of it for this site, and some of it for the companion blog: indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

There had been no room for them in the painting so the leftover models had all been collected and placed at its base. The real problem was where to put them up for the night. At the museum's closing time they all trekked up flights of Art Deco stairs to the attic where rock hard cots had been placed, imitation Bauhaus, the best the museum could do on their budget. During the day, meals were brought to them, but it became a nuisance, with visitors talking to the objects while they ate, as well as begging for the odd bite, and leaving crumbs. Soon, museum guests began crashing the modern artwork, mingling in with the small group before the canvas. The cozy club grew gradually into an unwieldy mob. They began fighting over the pieces of bread the curator brought them. Art critics who dared criticize the technique or the rendering of the creation were browbeaten to ribbons by the volatile group of seated impressionists. Some were even physically mishandled. It wasn't long before the overcrowded conglomerate became irritable and aggressive all the time. Eventually, the painting's meaning shifted. The religious symbolism weakened. The work became a treatise for man's inhumanity towards man. One day the painting was stolen, people and all. A graffiti-covered school bus was seen leaving the scene of the crime. No one bothered calling the police.

Story #226

Blanche's stern gaze could twist itself into any guy's mind, attaching itself to fears cowering in the darkest corners of the unconscious. Ghosts arose to interfere with the victim's reason. He'd feel himself hopelessly haunted by unrelenting truths, even if he'd seek flight in a divergent direction. The glaring eyes would merely press him deeper into the labyrinth, loosing dark spirits to loom freely on the periphery of thought, summoning a cowering wreck in the place of hollow self-confidence. But Buster was brave. He invited Blanche to his house, bade her sit down before him, while drawing her stare into him. He had to know. He had banished all his ghosts, had what he considered to be the perfect mind, one with no suppressions, pandering instead to perceptions of brutal directness. He lowered all his defenses and met the intensity of her gaze. It was love at first sight. She felt it, too, but, oh, if looks could kill...

Story #225

Vera loved the beach. She often slipped away unnoticed from her friends to a secret rendezvous with the sand. She etched out hearts on the malleable surface of homeless pinpoints irretrievably separated from the where of their birth and the what of their existence. As she placed her hand in the heart she sensed the nearby warmth of the summer sea, a confirmation of the sand's love for her. It had been some seasons now, and the initial pain had seeped away. Only the love remained, and that was as everlasting as a human being could will it to be. She thought of him over and over, thoughts cycling in serene concordance with the tide caressing the shore. He had died so young. And this was the place they scattered his ashes.

Story #224

The cave girls shared a happy-hug. They'd located the late professor's secret credit card, the one from the 25th century, with a 3 billion dollar credit limit. He'd been kind enough to drop it out of his pocket before they sent him back to feed their cat. Now they could do all the hunting and gathering their prehistoric hearts desired. It didn't take them long to discover the online shopping with its innovative one-click gathering and same-day shipping. They ordered a thesaurus, just to see what it was, but it couldn't lick them. They ordered phallically shaped lava lamps, sweet rock candy, tiger skin bikinis and a set of psychedelic paints and brushes. But it was all just ersatz. They spent sleepless nighttime sessions pining and painting modern art murals on the lab walls, reflecting what was on their mind most: boys. During a typical session of cat feeding the girls suddenly gave each other another hug of delight. Their million year old dream had come true. The boy they'd sent Mesozoic survived the test of manhood, hog-tying the cat with a loose vine, and beating his chest triumphantly. The girls finally had their new pet. They pressed the button to bring him back.

Story #223

Note from Indeterminacy: This is part two of a two part set. Part one is here.

Special thanks to Becca for donating her photo. Also, thanks for all the story contributions, which will be reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com shortly.

- Look. Do you see yet?
- No. Nothing. Just a dull purple-gray. there's nothing there.
- You have to look long enough.
- We've been standing here five minutes already.
- But the eyes! Don't you see them?
- Nope.
- C'mon. The artist is a genius.
- I don't see that. I don't see a thing.
- But that yearning expression, embodiment of a deep desire to be noticed. To be cherished. And to cherish in return. All in a tender, fleeting glance. Eyes that entrance you like wisps of visual incense drifting their way towards you, engulfing you in an intoxicating fog, drawing you into a bottomless trance from which there is no return, into an everlasting journey to the serene sensuality of shared togetherness.
- Let's move on. All I see is purple.
- You must try again. Close you eyes when you look at it, like I'm doing.

Story #222

The lady on the billboard willed Clyde to kiss Chloe. He did so. Then the lady willed Chloe to kiss back. She did as the thought directed. Clyde and Chloe both enjoyed what they were doing, and scarcely surmised an involvement by the nearby femme looming flat on the plastered paper. True, the boy and girl had been total strangers up to then, but when that urge to kiss takes control, even a rose without a name tastes sweet. The two-dimensional lady relaxed for a moment, observed smiling how Clyde and Chloe connected at the lips, pleasured countenances telling the tale of savored sensation. Thus satisfied, she began her subliminal sales pitch: "Buy Pepsodent... Buy Pepsodent... Buy Pepsodent..."

Story #221

Metaman was a state-of-the-art, space-age creation, a stainless steel mesh weaving. His fiberglass veins electro-pulsed the blips of light that made him live. He had a twinkle about him, given by the reflective grade of his polished appearance. His brain was a cluster of magnetized staples hovering in his head. He was designed to live an independent, meaningful life. Since no one in the modern age knew anymore what that meant, they decided to observe him and find out. His first act upon activation was to gather together his television, laptop and cell phone and press them all together into a sleek little footstool of classic design. The scientists documented daily forays to the thrift stores. He systematically combed yard sales and flea markets, where he salvaged antique artifacts once used by everyone's great grandparents: A manual typewriter, a telephone with a spinning dial and a real ringing bell of metal meant to resound, even a gramophone. If an object didn't function, he'd fix it by twisting a paper clip into the intricate mechanism. No one could ascertain how he did this as the science of repair was a vanished art. His front door was like a time machine to another century. Nights he would put on Benny Goodman 78's and type away on his book, a treatise on the virtues of recycling.

Story #220

"Look Sherry, you can borrow my reflection for the date," stated the blond whose cotton top of black and white stripes accentuated her curves in the most intriguing manner.

"Will it really work?" Sherry replied hopefully.

Lynn was the most experienced girl in the school, though the collective of her dangerously intense experiences was purely vicarious. Despite her seductive appearance, Lynn guarded her physical virtue like a vicious lioness guards her jungle bed.

"Of course it will work, Sherry. With two sexy auras coming out of you, your own and mine, that guy will be so stunned you can play with him like a Ken doll."

"Lynn, you awe me!" Sherry exclaimed.

Lynn smiled a smile wise in the ways of erotic. "Don't forget to signal me on my cell phone so I know when to take off my purity ring and slip into the passion trance. And don't forget our agreement. I'm doing this for the experience, you know. So make sure he gives you a lot of it."

Story #219

Kamilla wanted to have some fun with her PC. She could get any guy she wanted, but a computer? That was a real challenge. Each function coming up on the monitor plodded her playfulness. A sultry urge made her slip to the floor and pounce upon the tower. She grasped the wires with her hand and administered a long set of toying caresses. The hardware felt it. It didn't know what it was doing now. Programs started and stopped without being called. Bits cycled themselves into a blur. She bent closer to involve her mouth in the process. The tower began to tremble as it felt kisses fondling along the cables, ever closer to the slots and connectors. Her hot breaths caused electricity to surge. There would be a meltdown soon. But before that could happen her tongue shot out hard, toggling the power switch to off. Kamilla could be a heartless tease sometimes.

Story #218

Thanks for all the great contributions. I'll move them here in the next days: indetermincies.blogspot.com.

Martin was undressing Tina with his eyes. First the t-shirt slipped over her head and blew away in the wind. Then he imagined the straps of her bikini-top sliding from her shoulders. Finally he began to toy with the knot spanning it all onto her, anxious for the annoying scrap to flop away. Tina was helpless to do anything but wait while her coverings diminished. Nina, however, began to tease Martin by dressing Tina back up again. She doubled and tripled the knot until it was so tangled he couldn't think through it. With one synchronized swipe the straps slid back over the shoulders. Next Nina imagined a new t-shirt weaving itself around Tina, hiding more and more of her tastily tanned torso. A few minutes later the sun peeked out from behind the clouds and breathed summer at them. With no further help or hindrance, the t-shirts and bikini tops landed in a pile by the deck chairs while the two girls reclined, inviting the warmth and freedom to wind itself around them. After that Martin was more smiles than a happy-face factory.

Story #217

Instead of the daily story I decided to post a rant. That's what blogs are for, right? Destiny, fate, and much, much worse, the Deutsche Bundespost have played a cruel joke on me. I ordered a book, and through no fault of the sender, the book that arrived was a completely different one. Imagine how perplexed I was to find, instead of the literary title I had ordered, a work in Portuguese, by Professor Marcelo Lopes de Souza, entitled "O Desafio Metropolitano - Um Estudo sobre a Problematica Socio-espacial nas Metropoles Brasileiras." Without confiding in babelfish I take it to be a socio-economic analysis of the problems of Brazil's metropolitan areas, a book I wouldn't choose to read even if it were in English. No offense to the subject or to Professor Lopes de Souza who I am sure has written a classic in its own right. I simply detest reading analyses of any kind. I wanted literature.

Upon opening the package I was at first perplexed. Upon closer inspection it became apparent that the package had been opened and resealed with tape labeled clearly with the "Deutsche Bundespost" name and logo. The package also had a stamp of inspection by the German customs office. The original book may have been stolen!

I dialed the Bundespost's customer service number only to hear a recording that they'd all gone home. I looked at the clock. It was 8 PM, the time their service goes to bed. I went to their Website and poured all of my inspiration, creativity and bitterness into a letter of complaint, including a demand for reimbursement. But I know it will do no good. They will tell me the package wasn't insured, it wasn't registered, it wasn't properly packed, etc. etc. In short, that it wasn't their fault.

But I couldn't lose any more time with this. I had a story to write for my blog. I wrote a story. And then I wrote another one. I found that this incident had so affected me that I was taking my anger out on the characters, doing terrible things to them that they did not deserve. If only the chance combinings of indeterminacy had left me with a book of equal value to me or better it could have been so different. But this was just pure meanness. Even worse, my muse is away for the week visiting her parents. She might have cheered me up, but without her by my side, I'm afraid this has fed on my mind.

Then I decided. I will not rest. Though I may be fighting German windmills, I will not surrender. The German windmills have been provoking me for years, and this was the last straw. This is war. I will visit their Deutsche Bundespost. I will speak to them firmly and not without a crazed glint in my eye. I will pursue this matter until I have seen every office and desk in every branch office and headquarters of their entire organization. Some of the employees I will see so often we may even become friends, greeting each other by first name, and talking over old times, when I first began complaining. I may even see my original book lying in the open, on someone's desk. When this is all over I will either have my money back from them or I will be left with a masterpiece of non-fiction surpassing "Der Prozess" by Kafka.

Getting my mind to other things I would like to announce that this month's prize for the weekend story contributions will be a book by Marcelo Lopes de Souza on the problems of urban Brazil. If life gives you a lemon, make lemonade. There. I feel better now.

Story #216

Note: This story is dedicated to Princess Dominique

Hacker baby was having fun. All he did was press a few buttons and before anyone knew what had happened he was inside the NASA computers, playing with the planets. He made the moon blink on and off. He made stars go supernova. Hundreds of them. Because the explosions made such pretty colors. Then he hit reset and they were back again. He made the sun skirt around on the horizon. It was more fun than bouncing beach balls off of papa's belly. Hacker baby loved it. But people outside were going nuts. They didn't realize that all those planets and stars in the sky were put there by NASA and run by a Mac.

Story #215

Dirk had caught her red handed. "You're fooling with the car, aren't you, Stella?" he confronted her.

"No, of course I'm not," she responded with false surprise, "I dropped a bracelet. I was looking for it." She turned her hand so that he could not see the grime on her fingers.

"You're lying. Because I know I saw you fondling the tire," he shot back, but he was bluffing. He wasn't sure what he'd seen, and he didn't want to believe he'd lost her to something mechanical.

Stella considered what to do. What to say. Did he know what she'd been up to, or was he just guessing? Had he noticed the drops of motor oil on her thighs? "Dirk, you know that no chassis can come between you and me," she stated in certain terms. But she was angry at having to justify herself.

Feeling slightly ashamed at his accusation Dirk deflected his gaze to the side. Stella used the opportunity to quickly slip her hand beneath the car for another feel of the metallic underbelly. It made something happen inside her. "No!" she screamed then. "I can't lie to you anymore. Just go away! I don't want you! It's your car. I want to hug it. To touch it. To feel the warm motor oil seeping onto my skin."

The force of her words crushed Dirk. He sputtered a few moments, trying to say something, then stormed off to do private battle with his sudden emotions. Stella inched her way under the car. "Alex? Are you still there," she called, touching tentatively in the dark space beneath the automobile. "I'm here," she heard the mechanic's guttural voice. "Let's start our threesome," she whispered to him.

Story #214

Sigelli was a genius of construction who built living machines out of girls. His first creation, the one that made him famous, was known as the 'Belle Phone,' two girls connected from back to back with a long piece of thread. You'd whisper a secret to one of the girls and immediately the other girl knew, though she stood in the next room, clear out of acoustic range. No one ever deciphered the elegant mechanism. It only worked with secrets. His 'Sigelli Dancers' had shapely figures and patented legs. The group of ten dancing girls could dance sequences of intricate choreography to any music, even atonal classical pieces, which were extremely hard to dance to. It was also fun winding them up. Now he was testing his new creation: The 'Female Slot Machine.' No matter what salacious proposition you fed it with, it never came up with the same three ways of saying maybe.

Story #213

Thanks everyone for contributing! I think the stories turned out great! Stories have been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

Boys lost interest in Gabby and Gertrude faster than a game of spin-the-bottle with a headless statue of Isis. The two were wandering aimlessly up and down alleyways, contemplating what to do about it when they saw the ancient Egyptian symbol of femininity. The attraction and exotic of ancient Egypt were exactly what they needed to revitalize their auras and keep the boys intrigued. Something like that would hold thousands of years, when all they wanted was to live happily ever after for a few months. Fingertips extended, each lay a hand on the glistening gold overlay. The surge of mystery into their blood was immediate. They felt it. One look into their eyes and the power of the Ankh would surge forth and electrify the beholder. One touch from them would tingle the imagination with visions of Cleopatra and Nefertiti. It would be fun with the boys now. They walked on to the pick-up bar, never suspecting that the monument was only two months old and made in China.

Story #212

Laura was an amateur diva. Maybe she wouldn't be the heartthrob of millions of red-blooded males all over the world, or the secret desire of as many women longing for a new kind of adventure. But she was assured of the eye behind the camera taking her private picture. She focused on the photographer through the lens, thought of what a kiss with him would be like, parted her lips asymmetrically as a reaction to the playful idea, bent her knee upwards. His nerves were steady though he trembled inside. He wanted to throw the camera down and concentrate on her with all his senses. This he did, after the photo. Laura became his own personal diva, shared with no one, except the few people reading this.

Story #211

Sorry, today's post will be a little late. I attended a cousin's funeral yesterday. And wasn't in the mood to write last night.

P.S. The prize for an April story contribution (see indeterminacies.blogspot.com) went to Mushroom!

One night the alien came to impregnate Brian with its seed. The results were apparent a few months later as Brian's belly began to swell. His culinary urges took a radical turn. One night he might eat mounds and mounds of lady fingers, another night he'd swallow down plate after plate of sushi. He wouldn't touch pizza or beer. It made him nauseous. At sudden instances in public he began to cry for no reason. And he had been such a macho guy before! People stared at him oddly, remarking later, when he was out of earshot, how that spare tire of his would fit an 18 wheeler. Finally the big day came. He moaned and jerked spasmodically on his mattress. When it was all finished they filled a box with the collective offspring. They looked just like Barbie dolls, petite plasticine figures. They didn't even seem like they were alive. Wanting to put the entire incident behind him, Brian gave away the neo-Barbies to the neighborhood children. The dolls lay in secret with real Barbie dolls and several years later the resulting horde rose up and moved to Hollywood.

Story #210

Note: This story is dedicated to Weirsdo of The Pansi Files, just like that.

The men arrived armed to the hilt. Sometimes it was necessary. This time the neighbors had called. Strange thumping sounds were heard coming from the apartment, and that could have only one meaning: The microwave oven had gammaed. That was what they called it when the oven, instead of cooking its contents, flushed waves of radioactive poison into its food target. For decades everyone had presumed the microwave ovens to be innocuous boxes, but they were wrong. The deadly contraptions were biding their time, planning the next cooking revolution. One bite of a so-cooked TV dinner was enough to turn anyone into a mindless mutant. Then they'd run around berserk in their apartment, making thumping sounds. The authorities had assembled commando squads to round up all the microwave ovens. Public service announcements imploring people to use crock pots and toasters were plastered into TV news programs and newspapers, but most people never watched the news or read the paper. Unless the message was worked into one of the popular sitcoms, there was no chance of it ever being seen. Agent Meier of the microwave decommissioning squad surveyed the situation, tiptoed quietly into the kitchen, removed the deadly apparatus and tiptoed back out. Meier was glad he had the mask. Otherwise the couple making love on the kitchen table might have seen him blushing.

Story #209

Elaine visited the museum one day while touring a city of culture. The works of art spoke to her secretly and imparted upon her their plan, inviting her to return after closing hour to be with them. The Renoir nude would hypnotize the guard, so he would not be a problem. The mobiles would spin on their own, attracting the motion-sensing cameras. The statue by the window would see that the bars were unlocked. Once she was inside, there would be no disruptions the entire night long. Her clothes discarded in the corner, she would stand before the paintings, arms outstretched, and they would cast their colors upon her. She would sense fine nuances that even the artists themselves had overlooked. The sculptures would allow her to glide her fingers over their perfect forms, to marvel at the mystery of skin the impossible texture of warm ice. Ancient objects would whisper their secrets into her ear. She would understand them and appreciate them. And in return she would be understood and appreciated. As Elaine self-assuredly reached to open the bars, she looked forward to a new world of intimacy open only to one girl alone with art.

Story # 208

This picture turned to be truly inspiring, didn't it? I'm glad I chose it. For the prize drawing I'll leave it open until I post tomorrow's story. Anyone still wanting to contribute a story, please feel welcome to. Tomorrow I'll select a contributor at random who will receive a b+w print of one of my own photos, along with a story it inspired. I can send this either snail mail or in digital form, in case the winner does not want to make known his/her address.

The reader stories may also viewed at indeterminacies.blogspot.com.