I'm 21, old enough to own my own cybergirl, so I went to the emporium to acquaint myself with the Spring collection. They stood arrayed, those electronic marvels, on polyester pedestals. Each one was full of attitude, posturing herself to potential customers, as if to say to each "Of course you want to buy me, but who says I want you?" I walked back and forth, standing once before each of them to bask in the electronic fields that emanated from high voltage hearts - I'm a sucker for cyber auras.

Zera X was the one who tingled best. I admired her shiny white limbs and imagined the surfaces hidden beneath the designer coverings. She wanted me, too. I could tell. Those hybrid machines had a way of planting subliminal attraction in the customer, if he was the one they wanted. And I knew that I was the one.

"So, you've bonded with one of our models," the salesman ventured enthusiastically. His inviting smile caused all misgivings or doubts about man-machine morality to evaporate, like an electrostatic discharge vanishes into nothing.

"Yes, with Zera. Zera X," I answered, as self-confidently as a guy might say "I do" before the justice of the peace.

"Then she's yours," he told me, "I'll just have to work out the final price." His agile fingers pushed a long series of buttons on the store register, a little more than made me comfortable, but then he looked up and named the amount, "Fifteen thousand nine hundred and sixty-nine credits. Do you have it?"

"Yes, I do," I said, though not with complete enthusiasm. It would take my entire savings. Somehow these purchases always did.

The salesman noticed my unease and reassured me, "It may seem like much now, but remember, you're acquiring a companion for life. For eternity, if you will. Think of her as an investment!"

The static tingling that originated from Zera and ended in a pleasurable center of my brain continued. There was really no need for the reassurance. I knew what I wanted. I wanted Zera.

"Done!" I said.

After that, my "march down the aisle" went very fast. Two muscled delivery clerks came to us from behind the backroom curtains where they usually waited unobserved for the event of a sale. They strolled over, zapped me with what looked like a cattle prod, resulting in my complete and total paralysis. Then they picked me up, carried my rigid form over to Zera, and finally, as gently as the ring slides onto a bride's finger, they balanced me onto the pedestal right by her side.

Story #387

Sorry for such a late post! Thanks everyone of you who took the time to contribute. That goes double for multiple personalities!

Thanks to everyone who contributed stories last time: My muse, Doug, Mushroom, Al who is at a disadvantage in this list because his name is very short and hard to click, Cheesemaster, multi-lingual Frances Bo Bances, Lammy, Mrs. Weirsdo, and Tom & Icy.

Cooper, Jamie and {illyria} did not write stories, but made my day with their comments.

Feb. 3rd: Damn! I'm having trouble keeping up with everything these days. My story will be posted soon - just can't say when.

"Tell me again, the story of how you seduced me," she said.

"I will try. Yes, I will try - it is all so vivid to me..."

'What are you thinking,' you asked, watching me closely.

'I'm undressing you with my eyes,' I told you, deciding not to mask the truth.

'Oh?' you responded, suppressing a slight smile that clashed with the unerring gaze.

'Now I'm sweeping you off your feet and laying you onto the bed,' I continued, describing what I saw looking past the reality of our vis-à-vis in the smoky room.

And you said, quite eagerly, I recall: 'That's some imagination you have. I mean, here we sit in this cozy cafe, only a round table between us small enough to kiss over. But I like it. Don't stop.'

So, of course, I did not.

'You lie before me, passive. You stretch. Your blouse slips from the clasp of your pants and inches upwards. I see the flesh that is always most tender. I push away the fabric, in my other hand the marker, and begin to write on you, the novella, the account of your seduction, the opening epithet hovering by the navel. But I stop.'

'And what happens next?' you inquired, lifting your glass of wine.

'I pause and watch your breathing relax, like the sea's waves suddenly calming in the idle wind of the summer. I take your wrist. The loose sleeve slips to the shoulder. I begin at the base of your hand, winding words around your arm, sweet words, like the temptations of a serpent as it draws you to the apple. You watch the marker, you look away, you watch again. You have to see every word as it streams out and onto your skin. But you sense the writing with closed eyes, so you close your eyes to feel what is implied.'

I stopped talking and looked at you. You wanted to hear more. But I waited - until you spoke again: 'I can feel the phrases appearing on my body even as you speak them to me. And now I am hanging, hanging by a word yet unwritten.'

I did not answer immediately, but tasted a slight sip of the wine we shared.

Then I continued: 'We are still there, on the bed, the marker in my hand. I release your arm, and it falls in controlled motion to your side. The words still tingle - as I see in your passionate expression. I grip the blouse that is disarrayed in the aftermath of writing, and pull it upwards with one fist, until your arms raise with it, over your head, and with a quick twist the article is in my hand, to toss into an oblivion that doesn't concern us. I am ready to write more. I lower you now with that hand, flat upon the bed. I turn you. You lie, face down, and I begin the next small chapter. It streams in eloquence quicker than one could speak, as words upon your back. Soon both shoulders are covered, and the well between. The writing descends like a tide sweeping down the form of your back, yet your torso remains still, frozen by sheer will - though a hint of the passion shows in the trembling of your limbs. I wait again.'

And then you sipped from the wine. And it was my turn to catch my breath after the imagined writing that whirled through my thoughts. But the story wasn't over, and there was more flesh to fill with the imagined tale. All stories must have a climax, and then a denouement, perhaps even a continuation. And so it is with the story of every seduction, and especially of yours.

I went on, 'My writing becomes more intense, as the space to fill grows less. Jeans slip away, no fabric left touching your body. Now I write haphazardly, across a breast, on a sole, on a thigh. Before I can say how, your body is filled. There is no room left for the materializing thoughts, though the climax of the story is nearly in grasp. I inscribe in words indelible and small, in the slightest spaces I find. These too begin to elude. But the final words are in my thoughts, and I poise my hand to bring them to life. Then I see one unwritten island on your scrawled-over form. I will end the story there, by the navel, where all stories, including this one, begin.'

And then I paused again, to observe the affect of my narrative on you. You waited, and I allowed you to wait. But something was preventing me from the final culmination of ideas.

'Go on,' you said with a tremor revealing the fear that I might not. 'Go on!' you said again in a raised voice, directing all faces in the cafe towards us.

'I cannot continue reading,' I told you, 'I am scanning you from toe to breast, and it seems that I have lost my place.'

"And that is the story's end, the story of how I seduced you. It ends here and fades into the shadows, just as my narrative to you now, and just as I am to do..."

"I see," she said, disappointed, turning away from the mirror, letting fall the marker with which she had written those final words.

Story #386

My muse has contributed a story:

Look here, do you think it is enough? I mean, you said one has to suffer for art, right? Do you think I'm a real poet now? I sufferd a lot, really, the tatoo costed me a hundred bucks - I could've get a new purse or new shoes for that.

That is some suffering you got there, baby, but it would help, if you'd wrote the poem yourself too.

Damn, what now. All this effort for nothing?

You could pass as an intellectual belly dancer.

Why is it so hard for a girl to get a cultural job these days?

---

Two other stories contributed by my muse: #63 and #286

---

And now, it's your turn:

Look into the navel, you are getting sleepy, sleepy, your eyes are heavy, you cannot hold them open, you close your eyes, you click the comment link, you write a story to the photo, you publish your comment. When you see the message saying comment has been sent you wake up and remember nothing...

Signore L was a bottle of Limoncello, a Latin liquor whose proof could weaken, cloud and confuse the most steadfast of minds with swirls of tropic temptation. He stood next to Miss Peach, a curvaceous flask of juices pressed from the malum persicum fruit, pure and wholesome, the kind of drink that might be served at Sunday school picnics. That's why they had chosen her - she knew - for the children to drink at the party. But L thought differently. He wanted her. He wanted her with the cool deliberation legend to citric intoxicants.

"Dear Signori," he spoke urbanely to her, breaking the silence, "please forgive my intrusion upon your thoughts, but who knows how long we might stand here."

"It's quite all right, sir" she answered, surprised that a bottle of alcohol could be so polite. "I was only dreaming about my Alabama orchard and the tree that sprouted me," she continued, her voice as sweet and tempting as apple pie.

"I would love to show you my home in the Sicilian Plains where the sun shines us to a sizzle as it rambles lazily across the sky."

"Thank you so much, sir."

"Please don't call me sir, call me L," he interjected, "When that Mediterranean sun rolls onto you, you want to burst with juices, but you don't. You become richer and suppler and dizzy for lips to drink you."

"I've never felt a sun like that," she told him, wishing privately that she had, but unsettled by the idea of being drunk.

"And the quick relief of the gentle rains as they light upon your lemon skin. They fall mainly in the plains, you know," he elocuted. "Let me describe the feeling..." L continued his poetic reveries and Miss Peach listened. For days and nights on end they stood in each other's proximity on the shelf of the kitchen pantry, Signore L "working" on Miss Peach the entire time. But New Year's Eve was approaching and there was not much time left before they would be carted off to the party. Signore L made his move. "Miss Peach," he whispered, "May I sip you?"

"Oh no!" Miss Peach responded with genuine shock. His suggestion did not seem decent to her, "That would break my seal! I've never been opened before."

"But surely you won't keep your vitamins to yourself!" he shot back, "and you need my vitality. Have you seen your 'use by' date? Without my alcohol you'll spoil in a week, two at the most. Flecks of mold will begin to float in you, and then they will pour you away, down the sink."

"I still say no!" she answered indignantly. "The children could never drink me if I said yes to you."

And so their conversation ended. Miss Peach spoke no more to him, nor did she react when he spoke to her. But in her nectar fermented the fear that she might somehow say yes to his debonair decadence after all. L ceased talking but eyed her constantly while cocktail fantasies inflamed his fifty proof mind. He drooled luridly to himself: "If only I could get my mouth onto hers for a moment, and give her a sip of myself. Her resistance would be diluted. She would be mine then, to the very last drop."

New Year's Eve came. They were taken from the shelf and placed on the drink tray together. Miss Peach saw then that she was not intended for any children. There were no children at all at the party. She was an ingredient, nothing more - to infuse the various liquors surrounding her: whiskeys, ryes, bourbons and gins. Some of the bottles began a raucous chorus:

99 bottles of peach on the wall
99 bottles of peach
Take one down, pass it around
98 bottles of peach on the wall...

She became frightened, a fear which stirred her straight to Signore L, the only bottle she knew. "L! Hold me close. Please," she whispered to him - at least he came from a citrus fruit, as she herself was born of a fruit. "Oh, splash me, spill me, spike me!" she clamored anxiously to L to drown out the breaths of hard vodka crowding against her, brushing her most sodomously. She sweated with the chill of the nearby ice.

L tapped her lightly, responding with all his charm, "Come with me, and we shall be as one, as only two liquids can." Together they wobbled to the edge of the tray, off the bar and away into the bedroom. Unseen. Unnoticed. She nuzzled up to L on the bed as he gazed into her translucency. He spoke gentle words to her, "Oh my god Miss Peach, how lovely you are - like a young girl's breast." Then he was on her. "This will only hurt a little," he said, "I'm going to unscrew you," And with a nimble twist of the neck, she was open, her top removed. He repelled his top instantly, shooting it into a corner of the room. Then they clinked together, glass upon glass, and poured themselves into each other.

"Oh Signore L!" Miss Peach let out, half blind with passion as Signore L slurped. "What are you doing to me?" She felt as dizzy and breathless as a lone girl at spin the bottle. As his alcohol swirled into her pureness she began to tingle and tremble and savor the feeling. "Happy New Year" she gushed at him, then tumbled from the bed to join the vodka bottles.

Story #385

(This photo was donated by dear, sweet, irresistible Roachz whose Limoncello Parties are legend in Japan.)

Postscript: This is the second story to a photo donated by Roachz. The first story (with a juicy picture of Roachz herself that will make your mouth water) is here.


A Safe and Happy New Year to One and All!

In the night after Christmas the loaded sleigh sped away and dissolved into a sudden cloud of glistening snowflakes. Then, silently, it began to exist again, pressing distinct traces into the snow, on the Eve of the Yuletide holiday.

The sleigh's occupant knew the village well, from memory. He crept in and out of each house like a shadow, leaving presents that would later cause a minor sensation, as no one could say how they had been put there or who was responsible. But all were immensely astonished at the insightful selection, as if the giver had known exactly what the person might need later, even before that person had thought of it.

Since McPhearson had discovered the principle of time travel, he kept it a secret, using it only to satisfy his sense of generosity among the people of the village he loved, that special place of his childhood. There were so many Christmases to chose from, and he darted from one to the next, pausing only to replenish the pile of presents on his sleigh.

He made his final stop at an unlit cabin. The mean hermit who lived there had always chased the children from his yard. He was feared and avoided by all. McPhearson knocked. "I am the spirit of Christmas past," he called in response to the frightened stir. The hermit slowly opened the door to stare into his own face.

Story #384

The previous Christmas stories: #118 and #323

Here's wishing all of you a great Christmas and all the best for the New Year!

------

Story #370 somehow got lost in the shuffle, but I've finally posted it.

Imagine an ancient goddess whose name is not recorded in the mythologies of pre-civilization. Imagine also that this is with good cause. The goddess is so horrific that a single prayer to her would cause reality along with all life, time and memory to cease. She is the goddess, not of infinity, but its opposite which holds in a space smaller than a pinpoint the end of all existence. She lived before the nothingness that preceded creation. As human awareness arose from the moor of scents and images, words for this goddess were never created. What is not uttered cannot be invocated. The antithesis of a mother's life-giving force is a metaphor that begins a vague grasp of the essence that is this goddess. But it is dangerous to think further.

Through the ages this anti-goddess remained unsung, unworshipped, and unembraced while her brothers and sisters enjoyed prayers, unerring devotion and the homage of sacrifices. She lived in seclusion in a realm removed from the other gods and goddesses, who themselves were wont to mold her image out of one of their thoughts. But divine beings cannot live in such isolation - they thrive on the love and especially the fear felt by their subjects. Thus it became necessary for the goddess to visit humankind in her most miniscule form.

"Worship me," an elemental particle whispered in the ear of the woman who in her life had mothered a child.

The woman answered with the emotion of surprise - she wondered at the origin of the voice.

"Follow me," it continued it's bodiless whisper.

She sealed her eyes against the light of day, and followed the sound within herself.

"Closer," the voice repeated, and she moved in closer, focusing her sharp gaze on the origin, only to see it recede into the distance before her. She neared, it tumbled away, ever deeper, drawing her after it. She felt as if she were running downwards, in a mad vertical dash leaving behind all that she knew. She ran and ran and soon blackness loomed before her.

"Embrace me!" the field of darkness commanded - and she did. It was then that she comprehended the loss, all would become nothing. Her child was gone, her past, her future, all that she had loved. She gasped, and brought her hand to her face in a physical extension of the anguish. There were no words that could express the primal feeling of the smothering of every thought.

"It's a take!" a voice interceded. It was the director, and he gazed in wonderment at the actress. "That was incredible! For one moment I actually believed. How you capture these emotions so convincingly will always be a mystery to me."

Story #383
---
Speaking of theatre, here is an earlier Indeterminacy theatre story from a year and a half ago: #239

Each night in the extended instant that separates the conscious hours from the time of sleep she is visible to me. I lay in my bed. My thoughts fade into oblivion as the grip of wakefulness relaxes. Then she flows in as if the glass bowl of reality had suddenly become a sieve. I open my eyes and see not the world of colors I breath and walk through, but the outline of her figure, violet iridescence glowing in the realm where the shadows of dreams are cast. Then we stand before each other in the onyx blackness containing us.

"I've found you again," I say to her, and see that her eyes are bound by a thick cloth. Only the lower portion of her face remains uncovered. I marvel at the artistry of her lines - her chin, her lips, and the unblemished surface of her neck, the way it invites as she tilts her head slightly sideways. I had never noticed this constellation before.

"How may I be of service?" she answers as she always does, though the relationship is clear. It is I who stand in subservience to her.

"I wish for a vision of unrequited love, the random terror of malevolent beings pursuing me into a cavernous haven which becomes a ship sinking in arctic seas. Then, as I swim, a fearful plummet into an endless depth. And this time - intensity, it must be brutally intense."

"It shall be as brutal as you are honest with yourself. It is truly what you wish?" her lips form the words as I look at her again. I try to summate her entire physical being by combining the glimpses afforded me in the past. Sometimes it is only her shoulder that is unveiled, sometimes a breast. This time her lips are emphasized. The next visit I may see only her eyes.

"I know it will be terrifying," I tell her,"but the anguish might bring me to realize what I must do. Perhaps when I am awake, I will understand the message I cannot receive in unobscured form."

"Indeed," she comments, "it is subtle, but then, that is how it should be. If the message were open and direct, all our realms might implode..." She approaches, her arms outstretched, palms extended, not to embrace but to transfer the images into me, the images I will dream, the message that my life screams for metamorphosis. She places her hands on my forehead, and my awareness of the realm dims and is extinguished. Immediately my nightmare begins.

Story #382

Thank you to all who contributed their own story inspirations! You may see more of the mysterious blindfolded girl at Samara's Photoblog.

The moon broke from the ebony sky and free fell down to Earth. People were too occupied with their night-time rushing to notice, but Meana and her friend saw. It passed clean through the plate glass window of the restaurant they sat in, merging atoms briefly with the pane but without cracking a splinter of glass or making the merest of sounds. It hovered then, that glowing orb, near the ceiling of the room, contained to the size of a beach ball, but not everyone realized that the heavenly miracle had occurred. The waiter passed by and did not look up. The other guests did not turn their heads to see. Only Meana and her friend noticed the attention of the celestial body as it paid its tribute. Meana saw a face in the moon, serene, beatific, and a smile forming on the countenance, casting its illumination over her. She returned her own smile, casting it upwards. Her friend began to dream with eyes unsleeping - her bed was on the wrong side of the house, and she never saw the moon in the black sky outside her window, only wished she could. Meana did not have to dream - she'd been in love with the moon since the first time its rays shone into her bed.

Story #381

And now I would like to introduce a new Weblog to you, called Creations of Another Nature. I think you will find there a wonderous merging of images and thoughts. The topmost post at the moment is entitled "Simplicity" - the first word that came to mind when I read through the week's postings. Beauty and elegance in simplicity. If you are feeling disharmonic with the world right now, I think you can cure that by taking some time at Creations...

P.S. Thanks to everyone who shared a story last week!

The lamp crashed to the floor. Jon's stream of consciousness ceased its usual flow. No longer did one word cede to the next in an ongoing sequence of thoughts carried in long, perpetual sentences. Images and smells began to dominate his awareness, and desires were his reactions. The cake. The icing. Salivary glands in full activation. Mmmmm. Eat. Jon began eating. Each bite was a sweet discovery. One bite. Another. Again and again and again. The cake diminished swiftly and was gone.

He scanned the room and saw a multitude of highchairs, each holding the same baby - identical to him, each eating cake, or waiting idly before a plate of crumbs. It was never long before a wave of attendants placed a new cake before each baby, which then responded with a smile and a laugh that came straight from the belly. And then the faces would harden in the concentration of transforming that cake into another plate of crumbs. On and on this would go, through all eternity, with endless indentical blends of flour, eggs, milk and icing. Jon had rubbed the lamp and told the genie: "I want to be young again, live a thousand lives, and have all the cake I can eat."

Story #380

Original Post:

If you have any use for something like Pansi, stop by Pansifiles and offer her a job, something like librarian, or that person at a publishing house that has to read all the manuscripts.

An interesting new (non-partisan) blog project is discussing ways to achieve peace, so check it out and cast your vote on a number of issues.

Constance Kreisel, unsung expert on the science of circles, stopped dead in his tracks when he saw her. Those years of consuming textbook upon textbook of geometry, modern retellings of the ancient Greek hypotheses, had made him aware of more nuances of the curvature than any mathematician alive. And these took form in her.

"Forgive me if I am somewhat forward," he spoke to her as he approached, "but I wish to pay you a compliment." She turned her oval eyes to him and formed her lips into a crescentine smile.

"You remind me distinctly of Pi," he said.

"Thank you. Some boys say I remind them of cherry pie. Which flavor do you like best?"

"I wished to imply it in the mathematical sense - you see, the ratio of a circle's circumference to its diameter, as a value, has no precise expression. But it is known as Pi. For my part, I find no words sufficient to fully express your impressions on me. Hence my reference to Pi."

"I'm not used to such intellectual conversations with the boys I meet. What's your name?"

Constance was too enamored to answer. "I like apple pie best," he told her instead, his gaze swimming in the circular symmetry of her face.

"So do I!" she winked, "But please tell me more about Pi."

The invitation ignited a blaze within him. His eyes strayed over her bodily contour as he struggled to retain control of his concentration. He expounded the theory of calculus, with theorems read from her curves. Back and forth he paced like a lecturer in slow and erratic half-orbit around her. She stood enthralled as he delved past differentials and into integrals. As he spoke he scanned the subtle convexity of her hindmost region. From there his gaze slid upwards along the concave arc of her nether back, to linger on the slight cove beneath her shoulders. He explained the theories of volume, her attention entirely his. The rising slopes familiar on the upper torso of females glowed through the twofold coverings she bore - one of her pink blouse and subsequently of her amply long hair dangling like loose strands of an ellipsoid. This he saw, and more. Inspired he was now, to define her form as an equation of irrational numbers: with divisions by zero, and square roots of negative values - a coup in numeric expression! He longed to hear her voice again but realized he must stop talking first.

"That was beautiful what you shared with me. I'm actually quite interested in math, especially in the application of vector algebra to spatial displacement!" she said, looking straight into his eyes - "Would you like to get into that?"

He glanced briefly heavenward, perhaps on an impulse of gratitude towards the God of Mathematics. It was then that he spotted the balloons fixed to the wall near the ceiling. They were perfect. One a deep blue. The other lavender. Twins of mismatched color and size.

"Excuse me," he told the girl. "But I just recalled a prior engagement." He nodded a quick farewell, then brushed past her, straight to the balloons, which he dismounted from their position to take with him as he left the room. He returned home and slipped into bed, embracing the bulbous forms as if they were teddy bears. He slept that night content in his warm bed, dreaming of inflatable spheres.

Story #379

Thanks Cheesemeister for your story! Anyone else with a spontaneous idea: more are welcome!

P.S. Go over to Pansifiles. The Pansi dolls are trying to find jobs or something.

Badgered, bothered and belittled by those around him, not to mention the mugging and maltreatment, Harvey had had enough! The worst of them was Bill, that proverbial bully and sand-kicker, that brute who had dogged his path through high school, and now even worked in the same office with him. That day at work was especially rude - Bill had ridiculed him behind his back, and even the boss had laughed. Now Harvey wanted satisfaction. He paged through the telephone book, hoping to find something that could hurt Bill, when his glance fell upon the ad for Dial-a-Witch. "Love trouble? Want riches? Enemies to deal with? Dial-a-Witch is the magic for you. Full-service conjuring! Curses removed and reinstated! Homeopathic spells. All services affordable! Open Halloween only!"

"This is what I need!" - he told himself - "This is exactly what I need!" Visions of supernatural torture with Bill as the recipient danced jigs around his head as he rang up the number. "Trick or treat?" came a sultry female voice at the other end.

"Yes, please!" Harvey answered.

A moment later a puff of sweet-smelling smoke billowed out of nowhere and when it cleared, he saw the witch, sultry as her voice on the phone, standing before him. Harvey eyed her from the tip of her black hat, all the way down her black satin robe to her pointy black shoes and back up the broomstick. She lowered the broom, showing a face he'd have sold his soul for - to the lowest bidder, even!

"What can I do for you?" she asked, looking Harvey square in the face, an action that always made him stutter.

"I-I have an enemy I'd like dealt with. His name is B-B-Bill. Can you t-turn him into s-something awful?"

"Like a toad, perhaps?" Harvey liked the way she said it. Decisive. She knew exactly what to do, then again, she was a professional witch.

"Yes, a toad, with leprosy," he said, regaining some composure.

"And crooked legs?"

"And warts and shingles and dysentery and allergic to lily-pads!" His imagination was on a roll.

"My, you certainly are vindictive," she commented, laughing from behind the broom.

Harvey blushed. "He's my worst enemy!"

Again her laugh, hidden by the broom. "Why are you hiding your face?" Harvey asked her.

"It's so sensual when I laugh," she giggled, "I don't want to give you any ideas."

She waved a hand in the air, spoke an incantation, then snapped her fingers, studying Harvey after she'd finished.

"So it's done now?" he asked, somewhat confused. He had expected something more spectacular, like a sudden explosion and Bill the Decrepit Toad appearing at his feet.

"It's done," she said and smiled without laughing - which, by the way, looked very nice to Harvey.

"Will I be able to afford this?"

"Some Halloween candy is all I want."

Harvey grabbed a handful of goodies from the Halloween bowl and let them fall into her open palm: chocolates, jelly beans and assorted bonbons. "And there's no catch?" he asked

"Oh, that. I'm afraid there is..." At this Harvey's jaw dropped. She went on: "These days, we witches have to be psychologists, too. Your worst enemy is not Bill, it's you. You see Harvey, you're too timid, and people walk all over you. But I've solved your problem. Each day you must do one bold thing, or you yourself will turn into the toad we talked about."

"Oh no! Please! I can't! I couldn't! Turn Bill into the toad. Not me!" - but somehow he knew it was over, and that nothing he could say would sway her.

"Oh, incidentally, it's almost midnight, so you better start right away!" she added, and purred her magic giggle, face veiled by the broom.

Harvey wasn't sure himself what came over him then. He brushed the broom aside, grabbed the witch by both shoulders, pulled her near and kissed her open lips. Just as he felt that pleasant tingling of a kiss returned, her firmness dissolved into smoke, lips and all.

"I'm a very good witch," he heard her laugh from someplace distant, fading into the midnight silence of Halloween.

Story #378

Happy Halloween! Also: last year's Halloween story, and the year before.

It's been quite an intensive month for me life-wise, which has left me in the last couple of weeks with very little mind for writing stories. Already I am two stories in debt, the story for the previous photo (#376) and the story for #370. November should be back to abnormal, so please bear with me. A warm thank you to everyone who took the time to click by here, and especially for enriching this domain of 24 letters with your comments and stories! (Really, I counted them "indeterminacy.blogspot.com" has 24 letters. Who would have thought?)

Last but not least: a salute to the prolific blogger with a wry sense of humor who is Tom & Icy, Lammy, Lula, the Alien Guy, the Dog-Faced Alien Girl, Dusty Doggy, the Devil, and really more people, creatures and beings than I can keep track of, but it's so much fun to try - thank you for sharing your awe-inspiring creativity with us! There are more worlds in Ohio than one might imagine. Enjoy your well-deserved break, and don't be a stranger, and know that we will all be right back there to see you, at whatever time, space or domain you appear.

Sara: How did you get here?
Boy: I followed you.
Sara: Impossible.
Boy: I only had to close my eyes the moment you vanished.

Silence for a moment. Sara in her private Wonderland was right to be astonished. "By Invitation Only" was the law of her fantasy realm, yet here was the boy, and somehow he had found a way in.

"Run that way," Sara pointed off in the direction of the pink sun. He was off immediately. "But he'll be back," she thought to herself, "when I turn the path the opposite way." Now she pondered the uses of a boy in her Wonderland. "He could put the leaves back on the trees." They were constantly falling to the ground whenever the trees snapped themselves to attention. "Or put me on the slide, in moments I am not." She slid the blue slide down to the gravelly ground. "Now come back," she spoke.

"Here I am!" the boy announced, "I found a tablecloth. We can have a picnic!"

"What will we eat?" she smiled coyly, "There's no food here." There really was nothing. If Sara became hungry, she merely forgot more of the real world, to notice, moments later, that her socks became striped or a wall sprouted dots in shades of primary colors. The boy went away, then returned a while later with a handful of jelly beans. Sara was trying to catch her breath after swinging a complete Ferris-wheel cycle on the swing. He let the jelly beans fall and helped her, heading off the long strip of breath that looked like a rosy red ribbon flapping in the chaotic wind. What a mad dance it was! Never more than two feet on the ground between the two of them, and sometimes none, and neither in reach of the other - nor the ribbon. But finally they cornered the renegade breath. Sara snatched one end, the boy the other, and they shared it between the two of them. Afterwards, contented and waiting for something to say, they noticed the spot where the jelly beans had fallen. A spiral of cotton candy had sprouted into the strawberry sky!

"You can't catch me" Sara teased, or maybe it was the boy. They chased each other first one way, then the other, all the way up the candy, pausing for little bites along the way, for the running was making them hungry. When they reached the top they were holding hands and stickily sweet all over.

There they sat, on top of the Wonderland world, breathing their breaths together. "I still would like to know how you slipped into my Wonderland," Sara persisted.

"It was easy," the boy answered while glancing down at rainbow meadows. "This whole fantasy is my imagination."

She smiled with primal joy, and joined his gaze into the fairy-tale lands below, "I knew there had to be a logical explanation."

Story #377

Thank you to Dark Firefly for sharing her photo with us!

And now, for your further reading enjoyment: Comatose...

The first moment he saw her he could not meet her glance. A repelling force stronger than magnetism diverted his eyes to the sidewalk and her shadow borne by the tips of her toes. She stood among friends. Talking. Unaware. He moved in sideways, looking upwards, as if searching for clouds, inching closer until his sliding steps pinned the shadow. The girl's bus came, and she left with her friends, but the shadow remained with him. The living girl did not miss it. Shadows are transient creatures with as many incarnations as there are angles and shades of light.

Once home with the girl's shadow he arranged the apartment for cohabitation. Shadows enjoy a cool room with sources of light, to accentuate the nocturnal nature of their animation. The shadow girl explored her new abode, casting herself upon the wall, rippling over curtains, and brushing by her newfound protector. That night they lay side-by-side on the bed, the dim glow of the nightlight absorbed by her figure, so that he could only sense her presence where the bed was darkest.

Have you ever felt the warm, breathlike touch of a shadow as it slides upon you, like a second skin melting into your own? He felt it then, as the girl-shadow wrapped him like a larva in a silk cocoon. He became conscious of every nerve in his body, and through each nerve coursed tingling pleasure. The incessant stream of total sensation dazed him beyond sleep into a contented stupor that ended with the morning rays through the chiffon curtain.

The intensity of those hours drove out even the knowledge of who he was. He was someone new now, and so stunned he could only wonder if the intangible memory of the night was of a dream or a reality, or some twilight compromise between the two. The shadow rose and began anew to explore the walls of her home. With ultimate agility she merged herself into corners, danced a twirling dance across the wallpaper, looming or shrinking, depending on her mood. Her two dimensions contained a universe.

He sprawled in the arm chair in the center of the room, head turning to trace her flickering motions, much like a paralyzed moth might follow a moving flame. She grasped the shadow of his camera, began an orbit around him, shooting snapshots from all sides. Then she stood still in the morning light. He planted his gaze directly onto her blank face, wanting more than anything to decipher the wistful emotion that directed her. She stood poised to snap his picture, to capture that moment of bafflement. She did so, then turned the camera upon herself and snapped. The sharp burst of the camera's flash was too much for her to absorb. And she was gone, without leaving a note.

Story #376

Many thanks to Alexandra Shcherbakova for allowing me to repost her photograph. You may view more of Alexandra's photography at her fotocommunity.com gallery.

Also, many thanks to all who contributed their creativity this weekend! You guys are great!

Previous shadow stories at Indeterminacy:
Story #24
Story #43
Story #340

And for those who are fascinated by the art of shadows, here is a link to the marvelous Shadow Art Gallery of Mayuko Fujino.

I posted this photo because everone is looking for love, and I think, but I'm not sure, that the love is right there in her eyes. If you're stopping by here the first time, from BlogAdvance, or perhaps some random search, I decided to compile a list of my most popular stories, at least among that digital entity known as the "search engine." The list probably wouldn't convince anyone human to stay, but here it is, just the same, along with the search terms that found the stories.

1. strip poker (Story #89)

2. hair fetish (Story #84)

3. lolita island, lolita queen, lolita feet, underaged lolitas, etc. (Story #29)

Sometimes people actually found my blog searching for Indeterminacy or Synchronicity, and lately, my post for Whitlow Awareness Week is moving up in the search ranks (which means my campaign for awareness was a success!), but the above three pages are always among the last 100 hits. The really crazy searches like "extremely naked gymnastics"??? which should have gone here would be a subject for another post...

There Chuck was, surfing at work again, when a random blog caught his eye: "Life got you down? Aggravated by the high price of cheese? Want to get away from the rat race?" the post summed up the seemingly insoluble dilemmas of his modern life, then suggested a solution: "Be a mouse!" His finger lingered on the computer's navigational device, ready to click the page away, but he read on instead. "Enjoy one entire week in rustic splendor, all you can eat buffets, exercise studio, guaranteed friendly caregivers and cat-free environment." That sounded good to Chuck who'd definitely had enough 60 hour weeks that year and rude nudges in the subway, so he clicked the Web button that beamed his consciousness through the Webcam and into the mouse, while his body went on deposit in an Internet stasis-loop. The calm of vanished responsibilities came down on him like a beach on a desert. And there he was, exploring the sawdust floor of his comfortable cage, racing in the wheel, climbing the tubes, rolling back down into the sawdust, gorging himself on cheese and peanuts. In the afternoon a nice little boy came to pet him and allowed him free roam of the playroom. Stepping around all those giant toys reminded him of the carefree days of his youth. That night during his workout on the running wheel he decided there was no reason to leave. So he nibbled his return voucher to shreds and lived happily ever after, or at least as long as little mice can live.

Story #375

Thanks to all who contributed! And a wow-I'm-stunned-and-flabbergasted thank you to BlogAdvance.com for choosing Indeterminacy as October's blog of the month. Blog Advance, in case you didn't know, is the friendlier traffic exchange service with an excellent sense of community. Check it out!

P.S. Aficionados of the golden age of radio will recognize the Escape influence in the opening line of the blog post. Read more about Escape at Broadcastellan.

Mario and Maria kissed. Haley's comet did not stripe by in a glow of burning light. The planets did not millennially align in stellar salute. The sun neither blinked nor smiled. The Earth quaked not a single iot'. Waves did not rise from the sea to embrace the waiting shore. Orchestras did not synchronously chime into a melodic tribute to love. Internet traffic did not register an increase in searches for kisses or kissing. Humanity did not instantaneously freeze in posture and gasp a collective unison of sudden awe. And nothing mythological happened either, such as Mario changing to a woman while Maria grew into a man, an ordained effect of an eternally forgotten god of universal gender. But the moment their tongues touched everything turned orange.

Story #374

THanks to the storywriters who contributed their take on this photo!
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News 1: Songblessed is an island of creativity and beautiful ideas which somehow came into existence in the middle of the blogosphere. You may recognize the blog hostess Pizazz the Pyrate Queen from her photograph in a previous story.

Note 2: Several weeks ago I posted a couple of my stories written when I was 11 years old. I then reposted the entire set of stories at a new address, and thought the matter finished. But something strange has happened. I encountered this post at Waking Ambrose, and the indeterminacy11 site has mysteriously returned to life.

Censorship at YouTube of Blogger "Less People, Less Idiots"

Around April I found a fun blog called Less People, Less Idiots, with the host Rev. Billy Bob Gisher. The posts were an enjoyable blend of satire and thought provoking points centering on current events. This poignant and very personal post about racism struck me especially. Other posts had me in stitches, like Arnold Schwarzenegger's dating tips.

The points are subtle and the satire divine, but after all, the blog is run by a Reverend. Unfortunately this post doesn't end yet. Shortly after I found out about Less People, Less Idiots, Rev. Gisher began producing satirical videos. His traffic went way up - videos get more attention than plain text posts, but some of the attention, in this case, turned out to be negative. On several occasions, the Reverend has seen his videos banned from hosting services like Google Video, Yahoo Video and YouTube.com, and recently YouTube and Yahoo have both banned and deleted his account entirely claiming his videos were pornographic. The ones I have seen were no worse than an MTV video, and Rev. Gisher has documented that there are countless videos on YouTube, etc. which go much further, and are not banned. Videos which, coincidentally, are corporate sponsered.

It looks like something is going on here, and Rev. Gisher has been documenting this in great detail at his site. If you would like to lend him moral support in his fight against censorship and for freedom of speech, please stop by and add your name to the list of bloggers from the left and right who have chosen to stand by him:
Youtube Bans Gisher's Entire Account

Francois had an eye for pretty girls and he always knew which ones to follow for the greatest yield of enjoyment. Call it a seventh sense living in the loins. Or voyeuristic vibes resounding in the brain. These were the girls - yes they were - he'd spied them a while before, strolling together on and off the curb, girlhood giggles trailing in the breeze. That alone was music, tunes temptatious teeming through the heaven of his fancies. They'd loitered and laughed; and secrets passed between them of the boys they knew, and perhaps what they'd done in moments unwatched. Awakenings. Awakenings, of a tenderous gender. He rejoiced the loose fabric sliding on blossoming shapes, sliding in time to the rhythm of the gait. And the beats of his heart surged like fireworks in the air, as they turned their figures to the ice cream parlor. Brain made giddy by the adrenaline flash, he drifted in behind, observing with the masterful face of disinterest. He believed himself made of ice cream to be selected and scooped into cones then placed in the grasping hands and moved towards tropical lips; and then the licks, the glorious euphorics of each single slide of rosy flesh on the conical culmination. Soon now! Soon now! This sweet rendezvous. And that's when his heart burst as it had before, the time it transformed him into a ghost with unfinished business in fellatial fulfillment. Tragic for him, more so because the service had been paid in full in precedence of collection.

Story #373

Anyone wishing to contribute their own story to this photo, please feel welcome to do so. I apologize again for the irregular posting lately. It has become a challenge to balance work, family and blogging in the last months.

From a hollow in the ground two pairs of eyes followed the silhouetted figures as they roamed the barren tundra. Lingering near the horizon was an indifferent sun that would neither rise nor set. The indistinct figures traversed the confines of the twilight horizon, to and fro, without aim and with no apparent design.

"They're automatons," a deep whisper stated, "of my creation."

"I see," came a soft voice, "I've pondered them for a long while, spied at them from afar or, on occasion, nearby, from the safe shadows of a lonely shrub..." The voice trailed off, but the ponderings continued in agile eyes that burned their brand into whatever they saw. It was a woman who had answered.

"I apologize for the tedium," the man responded. There was a long silence in which the stiff figures dragged themselves in their never-ending journey to nowhere, while the audience of two looked on.

"But it is not tedious at all," she declared finally, "They are admirable creations, to be sure. But what drives them?"

"They search, search without recognition. They seek that for which they have no words. There is no soul in them. Only action and reaction, one perpetuating the other."

"How did you create them?" she wondered.

"Sticks bundled together and jointed, tight wrappings like a living shroud, a breath of brain from my own mouth."

A sharp look of surprise: "You possess such powers?"

"In a moment you will suggest the obvious. You will suggest that I am one of them, spawning my own kind, but that is not the case, though they are made in my image. I am real, as you are, but no matter how many tens of thousands of them exist, they would never be capable of originating a thought."

"Why is this not possible?"

"Because there are limits to what my magic - what any magic - can do. And that is why I have sacrificed my last powers to create you, my child."

"!!" and the look that brands.

He continued, eyes averted from her firm stare: "You must go to them now, allow yourself to be seen. They will pursue you, worship you, elevate you to the stature of goddess. You will inspire what they cannot conceive alone: a single thought, the catalyst to eternity.

"And then?"

"And then, with passions untold, they will consume you - mentally, physically and spiritually."

Silence - broken only by the sound of shuffling footsteps.

From the fold of the apron that clothed her, she drew a stone and brought it down fatally on the head of her creator. She embraced his slumped form and breathed into his mouth. He stirred, stood up and climbed from the hollow to join the aimless meanderings of his automatons.

Story #372

Important bulletin: Go and sign this petition that Cocaine Jesus has started to BRING BACK TRANSIENCE and to convince Blogger to take action against creeps like the one who drove her from the Blogosphere.

Postscript: Go check out D.T. Holt's Weblog "I Got a Lot to Say". He posted a really nice write-up about Indeterminacy, as well as his own experiment in spontaneous prose, which turned out quite well, I think.

That girl - that girl - sitting on the park bench the entire span of the summer. Every day I'd seen her. Every day a new motif of thoughts flurried up at the sight of her. This time I would talk to her, but safely. I spoke to her in the language of imaginings. With a non-verbal thought in her direction I ventured the invitation: "Would you like to visit my mind?"

"Are you nuts," she replied breathlessly, writing the words onto her eyes.

"No. Really, it's rather nice in there. Fine silk carpet, the best imaginable. And a plush sofa to engulf you in comfort."

"Will my cell-phone work?"

"It's quite possible. My brain offers all the amenities. Television, mp3 library, and if you see a dream you like, you're free to jump into it."

She reflected a moment, then looked up with a nod that said,
"Let's do it!"

Before I could even thrill at the notion, she had entered my cortex. After a quick scan of her new surroundings she gave herself to my sofa. The cushioned softness formed around her while whirlwinds of my contemplation cycled about like leaves in an autumn gust. Then the playfulness began. She'd puff a breath into those bundled thoughts and scatter them in all directions. They never, ever found their way back together again. She began turning on light bulbs - but when I looked to see what the idea was, she'd switch them off again. She painted faces on my nighttime visitations - gorgeous Venuses, once. I'd convulse with laughter at the ridiculous lines of red lipstick, and then my dream girls, insulted, turned backs and paced briskly into the distance, with me chasing after in slow motion.

"I don't like this arrangement," I stated, sitting before her in the lotus position, hands folded in my lap. And then it happened. Sudden, spontaneous and swift she pasted a kiss flat onto my inner eye. I blinked and in the space of that blink she was gone. But like wisps of smoke in a corked bottle the memory of her lived on.

Now, though years of life and dreams have separated me from the instant of her departure, it might just as well have been a few seconds. On every mirror my mind conjures forth, there remains the imprint of her lips.

Story #371

Note: If you've fallen madly in love with this girl and would like to leave her a message, and see another of her photos, you may visit her at flork.com/martyna.html

Another note from Indeterminacy: Thank you for all the get-well wishes and birthday greetings (how do these secrets get out!?!). My finger is fine now and doing its share of this typing. So now I've posted the 371st story and have yet to write the 370th. And all your comments and e-mails to answer. Please bear with me - and I know I don't have to apologize but I felt bad having left the blog hanging so long.

Another note: Welcome to my new(?) visitor from Moldova! I saw in my statistic that someone in the city of Chisinau in Moldova stopped by in the last few days. This is one of the countries I know nothing about, and the name makes it sound mysterious and magical to me.

Whitlow Awareness Week

The following is a public service announcement from indeterminacy.blogspot.com:


If you are like me before this week you have never heard of whitlow, a little known affliction of the finger. The human body (not counting the mind) is perfect in many ways. It is a work of art. The lungs breath air, the heart beats, blood circulates through the veins, white blood cells scurry around fighting off infections, etc. But there is a minor design flaw. Once in a while a bacterium or foreign particle might enter through the fingernail, an infection begins, the bacteria multiply and cannot be driven off. From their secure position in their fingertip-fortress, they can plan and execute one attack after the other. Before long, the tip of the finger begins to hurt and swell and demand medical attention. That's what happened to me last week and this - which explains my absence from posting.

The German word for whitlow is Nagelbettentzündung, an easy word to understand: an infection of the embedment of the fingernail. When I looked up the English translation I found I had never heard it before. I asked Doug - I just have to think of one of the nice people who read my stories and they materialize before me - I asked Doug what he thought the word meant and he suggested that my stories had been low on wit lately and that this was probably a sign that I should do something about it. I had noticed the lack of wittiness myself, and agreed with him before showing him the way out.

So if you happen to develop a strange swelling of the fingertip, see your physician immediately. My physician told me I had come just in time. It was already fairly acute and the bacteria were poised for a one-prong attack on the rest of the finger and hand. He shuddered as he mentioned how bad that would have been. So I asked if there was anything I could have done to prevent it. He said no. It can happen if bacteria happen to enter through a wound in the fingernail. Then there's nothing you can do. I just know I got this because my muse always has me take out the garbage. She'll never do it herself. So if you suspect the whitlow is happening to you, be sure to see your physician immediately and have it taken care of. Also, if you wear a ring on that finger, it's probably a good idea to take it off before the swelling gets really bad. The whitlow is unpleasant enough as it is. The whitlow hurt, the shot hurt, it hurt when they took off the bandage which got stuck in the cut the doctor made. It's settled down now - but I only have half a pair of hands at my disposal and I'm off work for a week.

So what can you do to avoid the whitlow? As I said, probably nothing. If it makes you feel better, wash your hands a lot and use disinfectant a few times each day. Take out less garbage. I don't know. Maybe it's enough to just keep your sense of humor.

Say "no" to whitlow!


P.S. I'll post a photo for stories tomorrow. But due to this damned whitlow, I'm going to stay away from the computer for a while. When I'm back I'll post last week's overdue story.