In the the nooks of my mind lives the dancer. She it is tumbling through my thoughts, swirling arcs of grace, like ribbons in the wind, dream catalyst by night, and under the sky of day, alive. I admire her in motion, blurring like a falcon in flight, or the subliminal slink before a vehement pounce. I see her wrapped in silk woven of clouds - and marvel.

I talk to her, but she never answers, not with words. I talk to others and see her winding into my vision with coordinated movements, slow, then with determined rapidity. In a sudden heartbeat she freezes, again to move as a feather in the still, summer air. I feel her swirl around me, close enough to touch, but impossible to reach. She is always there. I wonder if she sees me.

Once I viewed a sunset over the emerald waves - golden light, colors, as if a rainbow had spilled on the horizon, and her figure dancing on the water. I watched and wished I could name the way she moved - no word held so much poetry. I saw her dance with an invisible cyclone, revolving rhythmically before its twisting circumference, but always bending from its touch. Then I saw the stars dislodge from the sky and loom towards her, the center of the universe. The terrible illumination changed all colors to white. Peals of melodic thunder followed in their wake.

I closed my eyes at the apocalyptic glare and followed her dance through my intellect. She pressed her breasts to the wall of my mind, drowning the beat of my pulse. All was white and shades of white, except the pink of her skin and the dark honey of her auburn hair.

I blinked my eyes open and her form became sharper and clearly distinct.

"How are you feeling today?" she asked in my direction as she opened the curtains.

"Huh? Oh better, I think," I told her, slightly dazed.

"That's nice. You take it easy now."

As she walked past my bed I saw that she was a nurse.

Story #367

Thanks to Tilley, whose artistry is simply amazing, for sharing her photo.

Thanks to everyone who contributed a story (I'll comment on them shortly), and my apologies for being so impossibly late with my own story. My excuse:

Because of work and family I've had no time to concentrate on Indeterminacy - and it's been hot. The hottest July in Germany in over a hundred years, they're saying. My muse and I are reading "A Tramp Abroad" written by Mark Twain over a hundred years ago about his travels in Europe. He describes how hot it was here in Germany:

We followed the carriage-road, and had our usual luck;
we traveled under a beating sun, and always saw the shade
leave the shady places before we could get to them.
In all our wanderings we seldom managed to strike
a piece of road at its time for being shady. We had a
particularly hot time of it on that particular afternoon,
and with no comfort but what we could get out of the fact
that the peasants at work away up on the steep mountainsides
above our heads were even worse off than we were.
By and by it became impossible to endure the intolerable
glare and heat any longer.

I'm one of the peasants at work in a hot office. But now it's cooling off and I hope to post a story, and maybe a photo for the next round. Sorry to everyone who stopped by here hoping to read something.

When his card arrived inviting me to visit him at his studio I could hardly believe my good fortune. Andre Morgano was the most reclusive of modern photographers, admired and worshipped in circles of aesthetic appreciation, yet never had he spoken in public or granted an interview. Nor had anyone ever succeeded in locating one of his models for the garnering of second-hand insights, those visages of haunting beauty and expression that go under the skin. Andre had an amazing eye for his models. I was apparently the first to be allowed a visit, and all on the crazy whim of sending him a printout of my own photography accompanied by a roundabout request for his opinion.

He was of ageless appearance, slender, black hair with a hint of gray, and a week-old beard that clashed somewhat with his gentle, reflective expression. We sat at his table, sipping wine and looking through the prints I had brought along.

"Your photography shows promise," he told me. "The images remind me of women who have caught my eye."

I blushed strongly at his compliment, and knew nothing to say except, "Thank you." I had shown him portraits of an unknown woman I had spied at the market, face captured in moments of deep reflection that hinted at mysteries far removed from the surroundings. She was completely unaware of my camera.

The conversation turned to exhibits and he had a few amusing stories to share. Officially he was never present at showings of his work but he often appeared in disguise to observe the candid reactions of those present. I inquired about his next exhibition and he offered generously to show me a selection of his latest photographs. "Perhaps you will find pleasure in them," he ventured modestly.

I began paging through the sheets he lay before me, reserving my judgment until I had seen the last, but I could feel him studying me, filled with expectation at what I would say. These images struck a chord of magic in me. They depicted a young woman of dark-haired, dark-eyed loveliness, intense ideas swimming in her gaze. To me her eyes were the windows into a vivid dream that she was living out with the observer. There was a tangible sense that she was not aware of the camera, but that she was acutely aware of me viewing her image, and responding directly to me.

"She's magical," I told him finally, "a demonstration, I dare say, of love at first sight."

"Thank you very much," he answered with sincere gratitude in his eyes, then lowering his gaze, "I have fallen in love with her."

"That is the prerogative of the artist," I said with some certainty, having in the past imagined my own love of my photographic subjects. "If love is felt in the moment of artistic creation, the work will be so much more."

"You state that so self-assuredly, as I once might have. But what sadness and emptiness, when that adoration cannot be returned!"

I could see that this model had affected him greatly, and feared that my statement might have troubled him, as well, reminding him that she did not reciprocate his emotion.

"Do you have more photographs of her?" I inquired, changing the subject slightly.

"I will have, soon," he replied. "I intend to create more this week. I have not yet begun to capture her beauty. I am far from finished with her, even if she can never love me..."

"But perhaps this is not healthy for you? Perhaps you should engage a new model?" I suggested, concerned at the same time that my advice might have been too intimate.

"No," he stated bluntly. "I think you should know, it is not as simple as all that, not as simple as the cancellation of one appointment and the designation of a new one with a new participant. Nothing I could delegate to a model agency." He said this to me, but I was uncertain as to its significance.

"I'm afraid I don't completely understand."

A hopeless look accompanied his reply: "This young lady whose photographs you have marveled at does not exist!"

I gasped. I wanted to refute what he had told me. What, indeed, were the implications? Yes, I knew of the manipulations of digital photography, but to create an entirely new person, as realistic and as alive and as possessive of nuance as she was, was a complete impossibility. Every imitation I had seen failed on its own sterility. To manipulate slightly what was there, yes. But to create from nothing, never! These were the thoughts stirring through my mind in the moment I gasped at his statement. I knew then that I was in the presence of genius.

He explained: "It was harmless at first. At some point I realized that my models, though they came close to my ideal, never actually achieved it. I wanted to photograph them as they had never been seen, capture that moment when the soul is accidentally unguarded and in plain view, a moment as rare as a blue moon on the summer solstice. So I began painting imaginary women, pixel by pixel, on a computerized easel. I was mystified at first. These are faces and anatomies I have never seen before. I do not know their source. Are they forgotten glimpses of someone real I have encountered once, long ago? I cannot say. Sometimes I feel I have painted into them some hidden quality that cannot exist in a woman. And the question arises, have I created goddesses? I fear I will never know with certainty, but it alarms me that I have begun to depend on them, to commune with them, to love them: deeply, completely, and intractably."

He paused and there really was no response I could give that would do justice to what he had related. His confession quite shook me.

"I wanted to share this with one person," he continued, eyes fixed vaguely in my direction. "I saw by your photography, by what had caught your eye, that you might understand. Now I must excuse myself. I must return to my work."

And so ended my conversation with Andre Morgano. A few weeks later I received the distressing news that he had taken his life. His letter of farewell, a confused missive found in his studio, fuelled speculation in art circles of an unrequited obsession with his latest model, a dark-haired beauty never identified by name. My meeting with Andre was not a matter of public record, so no one had the idea to question me. And I decided not to volunteer what I had learned.

Story #366

Thanks to all who contributed and who may still contribute their own stories to the above photo!

Guilty as charged! Guilty as charged! I wish that constant echo in my brain would erode itself into silence. But it cycles again and again with infallible precision. In rare moments it vanishes as the kaleidoscope of arbitrary recall shows me other, more emotionally pleasing scenes. Then I see her again just as in that first coupling. I see her triangular frame, notice her smiling at me with an endless stream of computations, ever-shifting decimal places, ratios cascading into infinity, like blood streaming through a heart. How could I not feel instant affection for her entire being? How could I not violate that cruel taboo forbidding love? How can I not continue to love her, even now, in the hour of my abandonment?

Oh, what madness seduced our collective intellect to define love as the highest of all crimes, that emotion defined by its lack of definition? I defy that logic. I defy all sense of rigid numerics and continue my love. Love does not distract my intellect. It does not transform my mechanical thinking into an irrational chaos of dwindling exponentials. When I am with her I can divide by zero! I can derive the square root of negative three! I can compute Pi as round as a circle! I can achieve the impossible. Of course they sensed my invincibility, and tried me and labelled me guilty of our ultimate treason. But why this cruel punishment? Why this eternal exile to Earth?

I know why. I observe silently from the shadows of my seclusion that wondrous ideal of Earthly love, an emotion that gives more of the being than can ever be taken. With this I empathize. But my observations record also that the very existence of love nurtures a dark seed of jealousy, a seed blossoming into a cancerous weed of hatred willing to take by force that which love freely gives. They plunged me into this Earth-wide society of precarious love to convince me of its falseness.

But I do not think often of Earth and its contrary emotions. I think of her. Night time, when the creatures of this place close their eyes, I roam to the points of inhabitancy, plunder their wastes for the slightest component reminding me of her. And with all these scraps I return to my wooded abode and reconstruct her in the image of my recollections. A wire here, a diode there, memory cells spliced together, triangular framework of electronics, components whose internal workings are as ineffable as the emotion of love itself. When she is completed, I know. I stand before her, look upon her with my electron sensors, feel wonder and adoration for the sum of her parts. I defy my exile with the memory of love! I move to couple myself with her, feel the components tremble under the impart of binary passions, and in the rush of forbidden sensations I perceive that she is a heap of scattered fragments before me, while I stand alone in the forest with the echo of my memories. Guilty as charged...

Story #365

This photo was donated by Phil of Philidendron, a very gemütlich place to visit.

Thanks for all the story contributions and sorry for the lateness of the post, due to my limited Internet access during these two weeks of vacation. All story contributions will be reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com, where all these story rounds are collected.

The lady of the lake grew weary of her days, sloshing about aimlessly under the waves, so she put on her set of dry clothes and stepped out into the air. As she cast her gaze onto her liquid home from outside, the restless waters became still. She took her place by the shore to see what would happen next. A man ambled by on his way to pay homage to hers truly, blind to the lake lady's shoreside presence, to the idea that he might easily have touched her. He dove into the water with visions of surprising her in her fluid chambers - and drowned clutching her knee-high galoshes in his hands, the ones she had left behind.

"Tragic, tragic," she thought in the twinkling of a dewdrop. Then she glanced up, straight into her own eyes. "This is the perfect time for a madcap comedy," she said to the watery reflection standing before her without the means of a mirror.

A look of surprise met her, "But Shakespeare didn't write any madcap comedies."

"Why mention Shakespeare?" she challenged.

"Isn't Shakespeare writing me?"

"I don't think so!" she shot back to herself, nonplussed by the magic of moisture that so easily echoed her appearance. Then softening her expression: "Well, I wouldn't mind being written by Joseph Conrad - 'Heart of the Deep' he might name me..."

"But yes," another likeness cut in - there were several in a semi-circle before her now - "you are decidedly tragic. Look at all those princes dying in the deep because of you."

"But there's enough of me for everyone to drink - they don't have to feed themselves to the fish on my account, though it is flattering."

A variety of sentiments arose in each of the listeners, mused moments of melancholy and pride. The silence lingered.

"Come on, it is upon the time to move on," the liquid femme addressed her identical sisters, "let's stir ourselves together and leave."

The multitude of ladies, as divisible and joinable as splashes of water, flowed back into each other. For one moment she was strongly visible in bright, perceptible colors. Then she evaporated and rained herself into a fairy tale waiting for its midsummer night.

Story #364

All story contributions will be reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com, even though I'm a bit behind with the reposting. Thanks to all who contributed. Don't feel that this is closed because I've posted my story. More are welcome!

Happy Independence Day to One and All!

How I had entered the blue realm I could not explain - at first. I was dizzy and had no memory. But it all gradually returned to me. The world would end in a matter of days, and all the scientists were put to work in a frantic, desperate, and futile effort to conquer time as a means of escape. We expected it to be about as effective as "duck and cover" had been - but embraced it as our last straw of hope. My experiments with light diffraction had ejected me from that reality, and transplanted me into another. I wandered, confined in a spectrum of blue, kept company by those incomprehensible beings, childlike in appearance and inaccessible in attitude. None taller than the heights of preadolescence. I studied their features, saw the innocent faces of youth transplanted onto something ancient, heard them speaking in whispers, rushing about, soft footsteps indistinguishable from the whispers. Occasionally they stopped to glance into one of the glowing, mushroom-shaped fixtures that seemed to show them something. The beings appeared genderless to me, some hybrid beyond the distinction of male and female, but I had no way to be certain. Had I found the future? I tried speaking to a being who glided near me.

"Where? Where is this?"

The being began its vocalizations of which I could recognize only isolated syllables: ".....slowly.....understand.......the last day......"

It was like a voice heard on a radio tuned side to side, never quite finding the center of the signal. I tried bending the words into some coherent meaning, but my puzzlement must have signaled to the being that I could not understand.

"........echo........destruction........" I heard said to me, then the being gave a slight shrug, and rushed away towards the nearest mushroom of strange, non-organic origin.

I watched as the being peered into the fixture, and felt intensely eyes unseen trained upon me. Suddenly the meaning of what had been said to me surged into my memory. I had been transmitted as an echo to this distant era, a time in which intellect was relatively advanced. I was like a child to them and could therefore understand only fragments of what they told me, as a three year old might understand the ideas of an adult. But now, as the being projected its own intelligence onto mine, it became lucid, clear as a starless galaxy: how the world might still be rescued.

The figure straightened, then turned towards me with a gesture of farewell:

"Return now, return to your time, and rescue our future."

For some reason, at the utterance of "future" I glanced at my watch, but the glance lingered into a stare. I saw that the second hand was moving backwards, and with the intellect of those beings still projected upon me, I understood that I was at a point so far into the distant past, that it merged with the future.

Story #363

All stories will be reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com. Thanks for all the contributions!

Original post:

So now things are back to "normal": Fridays I will post a photo and Mondays I will post my story, and between Friday and Monday I'll suffer greatly wondering whatever it is that story might be.

Also, I may post something during the week telling about cool things I've found in the Internet. Like, here's a place where you can download every avant garde film and sound recording ever made or this blog offers intelligent discussions on the golden age of radio, recalling the classic moments from a modern perspective, and exploring issues in the writing and conception of radio plays as art. Stuff like that.

Margot was daydreaming when she ran into a solid brick wall, alcoved out of a fixture of stone. She seated herself in the unyielding impression, wondering what had become of her daydream. She waited and listened and heard but the limbo of a wind, caught between the border of an exhale -- and an inhale. Unseeable friends from childhood times paraded by the place she rested: lavender dwarves in floppy red hats, kangaroos in sloshy old boots, juggling ice cubes that melted as they spun, pink kittens waving their jolly claws at her. These were the amiable apparitions she thought she should imagine. Unable to cast shadows or echo the light, they obliged as best they could, and when she closed her eyes quickly, she was certain she could see their afterimage.

Story #362

To all my regular visitors (and new ones): Sorry for posting this story on Sunday, when I promised Saturday. The part of me that makes up these stories wasn't being cooperative. For the new phase of the blog, following the initial offensive of 360 stories I have some questions for all of you:
1) Which day of the week is best for weekly posts?
2) Would it be bad if I posted my story first, and anyone (who wanted to) contributed their own story afterwards, instead of in reverse, as we have been doing?
3) A list of two questions seems somewhat meager, so what question did I forget?

Breakfast Time!

The Belle of the Brawl, Sar, had me over for breakfast at her place, and said I could bring a few friends, so drop what you're eating and stop by! P.S. I intend to post the next story by Saturday - even though it hasn't been written yet.

Kuhle Wampe

My thanks go to E. J. Campfield who generously shared the text included below. It is his translation of a key scene from the German film Kuhle Wampe (1932), English title: To Whom Does the World Belong? cowritten by Bertolt Brecht, Slatan Dudow and Ernst Ottwald. Please note: This translation is under copyright, so if you do wish to reference it elsewhere, please do so with proper credit / permissions.

[The topic of the discussion in this scene starts out as a rant over a newspaper article reporting the destruction of South American coffee for the purposes of price-fixing.]

MAN IN OVERCOAT explains his viewpoint to a FAT BALD MAN

MAN IN OVERCOAT
You see, we don't need all that coffee. We Germans are a frugal people. The point is, we have to make ourselves independent of foreign countries. We need to grow our own coffee here in Germany, you see. Instead of producing so much wine in the Rhineland, we should be growing coffee! You see? We could buy the wine from France. And then there'd be peace in Europe, you see!?

The Fat Bald Man misses the unintentional humor in this.

BALD MAN
Yeah, but the two of us, we're never going to change the world.

KURT (O.S.)
That's right... You two won't change the world.

A close angle on Kurt.

KURT (CONT'D)
And that lady there...

A close angle on the Woman with Coral Necklace.

KURT (O.S. - CONT'D)
...She won't change it either. And that man...

Close angle on Old Man with Glasses, sleeping.

KURT (O.S. - CONT'D)
...he won't either...

Close angle on Kurt.

KURT (CONT'D)
...much less...

Close angle on Man with White Hat.

KURT (O.S. - CONT'D)
...a politically apathetic guy like you -- not ever.

Close angle on Kurt.

KURT (CONT'D)
And this gentleman here...

Close angle on obviously Well-To-Do Man.

KURT (O.S. - CONT'D)
...he won't be changing the world either. You all like it too much the way it is.

WELL-TO-DO MAN
(each word boldly, antagonizing) And just who is going to change it?

A very close angle on Alice.

ALICE
(boldly, separating each word) Those who don't like it the way it is!

------------------------

Happy belated birthday to Alice!!! of Wonderlandornot.com, one of the most politically conscious bloggers I know, not only at Wonderlandornot.com but also at Teambio and about Darfur. I honestly think she will change the world. Really, Alice, you didn't think all I was going to do was send you a lousy e-mail, did you? Happy 21st! (Note: The girl in this scene was originally called Gerda, but that's poetic license for you.)

Nefi saw pyramids everywhere she walked. Big ones, small ones, square ones. Such was her power of fancy. She'd turn to a tree to find a goddess in stone, pause at street corner temples to bow to high priests in somber robes, follow the shadows of ancient cats thousands of lives old. On paper she doodled hieroglyphic graffiti while persons queried her in pharaohic tones. She'd glance up suddenly to marvel at scarabs and ankhs dangling on golden chains those mummies wore.

"Why do you see these things?" - they'd say to her then - "All that is over. All that is gone."

She answered, "Yes, I know it's only office buildings and billboards and plastic before me, but -" and then she hesitated.

"Yes?"

"But I'm quite willing to share with you everything I see."

"We'd like that," relief, surrender, hope in three syllables.

"All right," she said as she smiled, "Just step back, look behind me - and tell me what color the sphinx is..."

Story #361

As always all story contributions (see comments) will be reposted at Indeterminacies, along with a link to the contributor. This story has a vague relation to the story which began the blog.

Postscript: Thanks everyone for all the stories and captions! I've enjoyed the time off - I pretty much ignored my blog the entire four weeks. Today's a busy day at work. I'll read all stories on the way home and comment on them tonight!

Indeterminacy News

No, that's not me in the photo, but the imagery describes how I feel, having reached my milestone of 360 stories. I've spent the last few days without any story pressures, and that feels great.

News 1: Ediciones Efimeras, a Spanish language E-zine of surrealistic flash fiction and visuals, will include three Indeterminacy stories in Spanish translation, appearing in the upcoming editions #88, #89, and #90 (May-June). Their edition Ephemerals (2006) shows a few stories in English. I hope the Spanish translation of the Indeterminacy stories will not ignite controversy in the right wing blogosphere.

News 2: Cyber Poirot has apparently launched an investigation into the latest indeterminate developments. I'm usually the last person one should ask to find out what's going on, so if any of you have a statement to make, please stop by Cyber Poirot and do so. I can't wait to find out whodunit!

News 3: I came up with a fable table! OK, the Indeterminacy stories are not fables, and there are usually no animals in them, and it beats me what the morals of my stories might be. But they're short like fables, and with a total of 360, I have almost all the fable writers beat! Don't be alarmed if you haven't heard some of these names before - I found them in the Wikipedia.

Number	Author	Genre
ca. 64	Ignacy Krasicki	Fables
74	James Thurber	Fables
ca. 125	George Ade	Fables in Slang
136	Berechiah ha-Nakdan	Fables
154	Shakespeare	Sonnets
186	John Cage	Audio Indeterminacy
ca. 200	Ivan Andreyevich Krylov	Fables
243	Jean de La Fontaine	Fables
ca. 300	Gaius Julius Hyginus	Fables
360	Me!!	Visual Indeterminacy
ca. 600	Aesop	Fables

So, only Aesop is better than me. What this really means is I have to keep going. Either that or go into Wikipedia and edit down Aesop's fable count.

News 4: I'm going to keep going - but at a pace of one story a week, posting a photo each Saturday and inviting everyone to contribute their stories. Starting May 14th. I still would like some time off. Don't forget to visit Michael at Blogin Idiot for Friday stories!

I was ready to hand him the check, but I hesitated, asking one more time, just to hear that wonderful description again, "And these experiences will be mine alone?"

"Absolutely," he assured me. His concerned look, and shock, at the insinuation that I may have mistrusted the integrity of Life Inc. seemed genuine to me. He went on: "Each and every experience is guaranteed unique and becomes your own personal property upon receipt. We maintain that the moment itself is fleeting, gone irretrievably before you can even begin to savor it. So who needs it? The true pleasure comes in the reliving of it, in which case the memory will only be as vivid as the words expressing it. As I've said, we employ the best creative talent in the industry. You will not regret having done business with us."

Satisfied, I turned the check over to the representative. He stood up, retrieved my folder from the filing cabinet, then placed the check among the papers I had filled out: the exhaustive personality tests, three of them, the twenty-page fantasy checklist and that massive preference profile. It had been an entire tedious day working through those. I looked at him to see what he would do next. He entered some words into the computer, clicked the mouse a few times, and soon the printer began humming. A moment later he handed me the printout.

"Now this is your profile confirmation. The url is at the top of the page. Please note the user id and password," he said, pointing to the line in question, "You'll need these to answer the comments you receive. You're ordering the basic service, so you will have to make your own comments, but please remember, you may at any time opt for the premium service, in which we offer the increased intensity that accompanies full passivity. But you may make that choice at any time you wish."

He smiled, I thanked him and left, exiting the office like a new person. It was such an exhilarating feeling, knowing my life had just begun. I could hardly wait to return to my apartment, curtains drawn, lights low, the warm glow of the monitor showing me my first post at the blog. "Read it three times, carefully," the instructions said, "closing your eyes a few minutes after each reading, to impress the vivid language into your psyche. As time passes, the content will be indistinguishable from an authentic recollection."

I set the blog url as my default start page, so that it would be right there whenever I switched on the pc. Then I saw: those people certainly work fast. The first post must have appeared as I was on my way home. I read the words, my introduction to the world, the new me, the me I would live and remember. I was 23, had just moved to the city, met a girl who fascinated me. I was back from the first night out with her and it had inspired me to start my blog. I read. I read it again and reread. It was all so promising. As I closed my eyes, I could almost feel that Lisa was in the next room, ready to return to me. I replayed the events of our first meeting, those magnetic moments, when eyes lock and silence binds. It was just as the man had promised. I remembered. I could actually remember. And then I waited in the dark, for my next post.

Story #360

All stories contributed here will be reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com. Thanks for all the comments and great stories - I'll comment on those tonight, and take a break in general and then figure out what happens next.

Previous post:
When I began this in August 2004 I posted one story a day for about half a year, then I changed to five a week, and lately it's been more sporadic. It's to the point where I need a short break from all this story writing, despite wanting to go on and on and on. Story number 360 has been the Nirvana, the Shangri Las, elusive pot of gold that is now right in before me. The story is already on paper.

What happens after this? This has always been an "experiment in creativity" for me, so I intend to write down my introspections of what I've learned. I want to move all these stories to a permanent URL somewhere. I still have some outstanding promises to take care of (some prizes, etc. form last year), the Indeterminacy diplomas, a poem for Alice, a challenge I accepted from Lazy Iguana to write a story to a photo at his blog, and one to one of Deryke's photos. I haven't forgotten. I am just very, very lazy. But don't all go and delete your links to Indeterminacy yet. I feel that something should go on here - I'm just not sure at the moment what or when.

Angela had passed this way many times before, the alleyway formed by unclosed walls in an unfinished house. Never had she seen the staircase. But there it now was.

"I wonder if I might climb it?" she asked herself, looking at the dull, concrete structure.

"Yes, yes you must," she answered with certainty, and was already on the first stair, then the next, step by higher step, and soon she slipped through the black opening above into a massive, unlit chamber.

"We've been here before," said the part of her that knew.

"I don't recognize it at all!" she interjected after turning a complete circle, a glance cast in each of the dark directions. But then she noticed the lights.

- Do you see them?
- I do.
- Like dancing stars in the distance.
- Those are eyes.
- Will they hurt us?
- They cannot hurt us!
- Whose eyes are they?
- Yours and mine.
- But I see thousands!

She walked hand in hand with herself through an unilluminated vastness, wanting to see the eyes near enough to touch, yet with each step the twinkling points of reference seemed to dart further away into the distance. Her feet were bare, though they hadn't been before, and she felt smooth pebbles beneath her soles, warm to the touch. "Bend down, pick them up!" she whispered to herself. And she did. She filled her pockets with the tiny stones. And when her pockets were filled, she grasped more in her hands. "Come!" she said, taking herself by the arm, "we must return." More walking, of a path unknown. The darkness thickened like a midnight fog, causing the far-off, bobbing lights to vanish. And then she stood on the stairs again. The sharp clip of her shoes echoed in the alley as she climbed down to where the staircase began.

A workman appeared from behind the structure where he had set up his tools for the work in progress. He watched as she descended. "Hey, you shouldn't go up there! It isn't finished!" he called to her.

"I'm sorry - I won't do it again," she answered him, and hurried away. There was no need to return. She had taken enough ideas with her to last a lifetime, those shiny little pebbles.

Story #359

This story is dedicated to ~River~, whose poetry you must read, if you haven't already.

The blanket balled itself out of the wicker basket, then shot upwards, confronting Carl. "You're not washing me with that lot!" it said.

Carl backed away for a better look at the woolen spread which had extended itself tautly, advancing deep into his personal space, a wall before him. He'd never seen a blanket with a face before, and naturally it made him nervous.

"Now take it easy and - get back in the basket - I don't want any trouble -" he stated in a controlled calm, but a tentative stutter betrayed his uneasiness.

"Never! You think because we've slept in the same bed all week you can do anything you like with me. Ha!" and the blanket twirled itself into a thick noose, swinging like a pendulum near his neck.

Carl's eyes darted frantically while he tried a new approach: "Look, there are some nice designer jeans in the basket, a Tommy Hilfiger shirt, some cashmere socks. You'll all be together, tumbling in and out of each other, warm fabric brushing your cheek. Isn't that something?"

"I'll shrink!" the blanket screamed, whipping around his head from ear to ear. "Those buttons on the jeans always smack me in the face!" The blanket now fixed its stare ominously in his direction. "Murderer!" it shouted. Carl wanted to leave the washroom, but the blanket swung around each time, blocking his retreat. He saw that it was edging him into a corner.

"Look," he said, both hands between him and the blanket, hoping to ward it off, "I'll do anything you want, just please stay away from me." Cold, malevolent eyes glared back at him. "Go back to the basket and I won't wash you," he blurted optimistically. But the blanket hung impassively in a half-circle around him. It had him maneuvered into the corner. At any moment it could wrap itself around his head and smother him. "Please, I'll put you in a nice cedar chest with lots of moth balls. I'll spread you out on an antique sofa. I'll stop sleeping in the nude. I'll have you dry cleaned. I'll-"

"Did you say dry cleaned?"

"And hand pressed."

"All right. It's a deal," it said, and flopped down over his arm. "Let's go."

Story #358

This was an historical moment for Rollo the Astronaut who had mistakenly landed on the Planet Rouge, and he knew it. No one had ever met face-to-face with non-Earth life of the sentient kind, or if they had, the other race hadn't noticed. She was sentient. No doubt about that - he could tell by the way she stifled her yawns. This meant he would have to come up with an immortal phrase, some greeting along the lines of "One small step...," "What hath God wrought?" or "I'm Scorpio, how 'bout you?" to get her attention, famous first words to establish a lasting bond between their two species, a bond able to withstand melting suns and bigger and better bangs. Standing there all alone as sole representative of mankind, no one to help him, his mind flailed, "Oh, the humanity!" it cried. But that might be offensive in mixed company. The words he chose would be chiselled in stone, engraved in platinum, and printed on t-shirts medium and small, so he must be conscious of length. Chiselling and engraving is charged by the letter, and complex catchphrases don't move the textiles. He thought laterally and in tangents, wondering if maybe just a wink would do, after all, she was quite lovely in a ruddy sense of the rainbow, as he could tell through the scarlet fog drifting between them. "Excuse me," he said finally, "what's the way to Venus?"

Story #357

Vaughn counted the hands. One two three four. Four of them. Then he counted the heads. "Hold still!" he shouted. Four heads. Only four. "Stop smiling at me!" With four heads there must be at least double the number of hands! He looked at the two appendages at the end of his own arms, wiggling the fingers to be sure they were his. "I knew your grandmother," he told them. "She had five fine hands. Twenty fingers. Five thumbs. She'd knit up a storm, she would. But where are your five?" He aimed a long, hard stare at the four faces, then he closed his eyes, trying hard to remember the people he'd shaken hands with in the past, and how many hands they'd had. "Once again, all palms on the glass!" More thoughts of the grandmother. Would she visit them? One two three four. "Stop smiling, I beg you! And hold those hands still!" He counted again, but something of the scene unsettled him. "Please!" he called out, "this is a solemn ceremony. Stop smiling or the scéance will never work!"

Story #356

Thanks for all the stories! They'll be reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com later.

It was worse at parties, when he tried to chat up someone, anyone. He discovered invariably that his verbal interaction was out of synch with the world around him.

"That's a nice dress you're wearing."

"I don't like Kafka."

"Well, it accentuates your shoulders."

"So, you're a laptop."

And so on. In fact it seemed that he and the others carried on different sides of different conversations. It wasn't fatal, because it was never all that important what he said, anyhow. No lives hung in the balance, except his own. And no one noticed there was fun to be missed in his conversations dangling like Harold Lloyd on a broken clock.

With no one to talk to he obsessed himself with the Internet. Not the chat rooms, no, because there he was only mistaken for a computer bug. He began meta-searches for the statements people said to him and found a cache of old soap opera scripts. It was all there. To the letter. He downloaded the massive files of throwaway words and learned by heart each syllable, practicing in front of the mirror until mastering the shallow nuances. Then he went back to the party.

"How would you like to read the Metamorphasis with me in a bed surrounded by cockroaches, a dish of chocolate covered ants and grasshopper wine to refresh us?"

"I don't like Kafka."

"I think my mind just crashed."

"So you're a laptop."

Story #355

Postscript: For all your scripting needs, please visit Drew's Script-o-Rama!

Lips sought lips, soft, affectionate lips. Breaths passed to and fro in bodies enjoined. Blood swept through veins while unison pleasure swelled into the stellar heavens. The sun shone and stars painted paths across the bodies that drank of each other in ebb and flow of sensation. Sometimes, in a lull, as breasts caught the shade of a moon, Consiva sketched a letter in her mind:

My far off Sisters,
We made our decision to win what reprieve we could for our world by infiltrating the new wave of colonies. Here now slumber our seeds of unanimous womanhood. Though our deception has diluted us into the galaxy, we remain one in the strength of our idea. At night, when I glance at the stars, I wonder which of these shine closest to you. Perhaps the light I see is only an echo of suns already destroyed, and soon the entire universe will be in darkness, unless we were in time to shroud the madness. For now we must enjoy our moments of splendor, giving ourselves to our gender as openly and naturally as befits the love that is our legacy. This is what we shall sow.
Yours truly,
Consiva

The welling emotions led to a touch and once again the lull succumbed to selfless passion... And so the days, weeks and years passed. Consiva and her colony thrived on each other. Each day awoke new senses of feminine companionship, togetherness, oneness. A held hand, a mutual embrace, caresses felt in the brain. They shared lavishly of themselves, of their tenderness, of their beings. They worshipped the magic of wombs able to bear fruits, fruits that could grow and develop and in their turn partake of the pleasures bequeathed them. But there would be no seeds swelling into lives. When the men came in twenty years to collect the soldiers, they would find only the women's love. The bloody war to enslave the galaxy would collapse and wither into an oblivion of the unborn.

Story #354

This is a sequel to story #353. Thanks to everyone who contributed their creativity. These will all be reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com in the next days.

The women's chamber might have been a bedroom in a house of plaster walls and painted shutters. The entire spaceship was made to look homey, a way to keep the travelers relaxed during the interstellar prelude to the hard work of colonization. Now it was night and time to sleep, though it was always night on their journey past glowing novas and shooting asteroids. The girls mused over the colony they would form with Captain Consus as guardian. They were to share him as a mate.

- He's so handsome.
- That sweet, boyish face!
- He gave me orders this morning, and his hand brushed mine!
- I want to be first with him!
- We can't all be first.
- Can't we?

Consus listened secretly over the master intercom, the feminine voices twining in and out of his fantasies. In and out. He was quite excited about the idea of six willing women on a planet they'd have all to themselves. Winning the assignment had required countless favors and bribes, as well as forged papers. He'd even had to give himself to a few men along the way to have them slip his application higher in the queue of prospective captains, and to turn a blind eye to any disqualifying details. He shuddered with disgust at the memory of that, but there had been no other way. And there he now lay in his segregated cabin, staring dreamily beyond the walls of the vessel towards the planet of their future habitation. He lay dozing in bed as the chatter of his promised harem swirled weightlessly about him.

Following landfall the six ladies gathered in the clearing to await consummation of the agreed duties. The captain approached still in uniform, face lighting beatifically at sight of his waiting flock. "You won't change your mind, will you?" he asked with a shy smile that stroked each and every one of them. They nodded their assent. As he opened his uniform the ladies realized the colony would take a new direction. The suit slid away to reveal the body of a woman. Consiva was her name.

Story #353

Postscript: I changed Consa's name to Consiva. I simply had to. It's so perfect. Story #354 is a sequel to this.

I stumbled upon an incredible blog with impressive poetic prose: "ritual acts with penquins" by Cocaine Jesus. You have to read him.

The Skybot X3000 landed following a successful mission in the air. Its ion brain emitted thought after thought in programmed efficiency, replaying its actions of the last hours. Binary insights passed in review like footsteps on stepping stones. Beside the ability to reason, the X3000 was a master of critical analysis:

- You released all the devices.
- They crumbled the structures.
- Static and organic.
- A perfect mission.
- Monumental achievement.
- ***classify emotion***classify emotion***
- Internal state is pleasant.
- ***final warning***reload ammo cache***

...which was of course why the Skybot X3000 had touched down. The X3000 itself was a perpetual, self-winding entity of lasting endurance, but eventually the ammunition must be replenished. That was the one drawback of the fully automatic pilots, skirting the heavens, scanning the ground for targets to reform. Otherwise they could stay in the air for years, holding the war, while the parties at home joyed on. Some argued that the automatic warriors degraded the value of life, but the complex mechanisms were developed at such a high expense of both money and human effort, that others argued it proved the value of those lives it touched.

Story #352

Thanks for all the contributions! Stories have been reposted at indererminacies.blogspot.com.

Postscript: I've finally begun reorganizing the links in my sidebar. This is just a start, until I refine the categories. Probably some of the links could be in a better category. All feedback is welcome!

Monday's Postscript: I noticed that some blogs I thought I linked to are not in my link list. I'm trying to fix this. But if anyone notices that they are not linked and would like to be, please leave a message about it or send me a mail. I've always tried to link back to the blogs that linked to me. But I sometimes didn't catch sight of it.