Striped socks, checked socks, striped socks, checked socks
coursed Theta's thoughts, as she stood before the mirror.
The skin of her soles touched the floor – the planks of the wood were happy.
Checkers make the boys go blind, spinning cubes before their eyes.
Stripes might make them lose their mind, wondering what is hid behind.
Blind boys. Crazy boys. Blind boys. Crazy.
She dressed in stripes for today she was lazy.
Now she waited, staid in the park, wond'ring if crazy was what she'd want.

Story #420

This wonderful sketch appears by kind permission of Tabita.

Annique and Lila lay in the grass, a chessboard resting between them. They were as silent as the sun as they concentrated, eyes fixed on the board. "Checkmate!" called Annique, after moving the queen two squares away from the empty edge. Lila searched out her king. She found it prone in the grass, stoically tickled by the green blades. She placed it on the vacated square in direct line of the queen. The king was surrounded now by fatal fields that dared not be touched. In response Lila allowed one of her pawns to take a diagonal retreat. Annique added a bishop directly in that square, and Lila backed the pawn away a further space. This time Annique slid the queen a few squares down, with Lila placing a rook in the regal woman's wake. Back and forth, more and more pieces appearing. With each turn, the population on the board increased - the pawns, rooks, bishops and knights falling back into their original constellation, like an explosion seen in reverse. Finally the pieces rested on two opposite sides of the chessboard, in two solid rows each. "We won!" Annique and Lila exclaimed together. "Now let's play again!" Lila suggested in a delighted tone. "Yes, let's" Annique agreed, as she turned the board 180 degrees. "But this time," Lila continued, "I will be white, and you will be black."

Story #419

Thanks Tabita for sharing your drawing with us! And thanks everyone for contributing stories! Tabita is a new friend I made at Redbubble where I reposted some of my older stories. I saw some of her drawings in a style I really liked and asked her if she would post more. A few hours later she posted a new drawing, this one you see above, with the comment that she didn't have more, so she had to draw one first. There's an enchanting charm to Tabita's sketches that I can't help liking.

Clop. Clop. Clop. Clop. Never since The Battleship Potemkin, that moment in film on Odessan stairs: soldiers, civilians, blood and a baby carriage rolling unattended to its fate - never had such a scene of revolution presented itself, albeit in the category of humoresque. Three donkeys on three stone steps, each clopping from one end of the step to the other, meticulous tick-tocking, a synchronized trio. As the donkeys reached the end of their walk, invariably at the same moment, they twisted around with a flurry of hops and clops, landing about-face and beginning again the slow clops to the other end. Synchronized swimmers are less of a marvel, lacking, as they do, elongated ears, furry tails and the shaggy fuzz of burro bellies.

A crowd built as steadily and rhythmically as the beasts of burden paced their narrow gangways. These were pack animals, so it wasn't surprising that the movements of the creatures held up and carried the pulse of time, became the new ticks of time, the space between clops defining the new second, and delineating these new seconds from other, subsequent seconds, the turning-in-place defining the minute. Faces watched and continued to watch, not without impression. Hours slipped past. Then it happened. A birth. A zeitgeist carried by lightning not seen but felt in the mind. The next day throughout the land, the new way of fashion was there, the result of instant incubation. Fabric was thrown off. Discarded. Passé. The mysteries of bodies male and female gave themselves from breast to pelvis through shaggy fur pasted in place, ears like big furry almonds, a bushy tale hanging behind, and shoes that went clop.

Story #418

Banno, whose site is called Banno, Dhanno and Teja, invited me to borrow one of her photos for a story. Not this one, actually, but I just fell in love with this picture, taken by Teja.

John heard a legend about the Valentine's Day hitchhikers - two sexy lady-girls just turned 18 who appeared once a year, on a road out of Clay County, in a wild zone of Kentucky. John screeched his car to halt when he saw them posing at the roadside.

One had auburn hair, tanned limbs and a one-piece blue-splotched dress, modernly abstract, ending tangibly above the knees. The other was blond, hair braided in a ring crowning her head, like an unofficial princess. She looked tasty in the two pieces she wore, one black and daringly high, the other pink and daringly low. The girls had curves like zig zags never existed.

"We just turned 18," Auburn stated with a no-nonsense look at John.

"And we're going to our birthday party," her blond friend continued. "Would you like to take us?"

"Sure ladies," John said, "hop in."

They took the back seat for themselves, dangling and bending legs so that knees reflected in the rear view mirror. John was euphoric to have two such sweetnesses in his car. He turned the wheel, and pulled back onto the road.

"Where is the party?" John asked.

"I don't know," Auburn said.

"Neither do I" said Blondness.

"This is quite a dilemma!" John replied, hoping they had a fun solution.

"We'll just have to find it, won't we?" Auburn imposed.

"And don't be late!" said Blondness.

John drove and drove, unable to concentrate on the road. All his thoughts were with the female population of his car. He took turns, drove up slopes, drove down slopes and took more turns. He had no idea where they were.

"Do you have any idea where we are?" asked Blondness.

"Are we getting close to the party?" Auburn wondered.

"Nothing to worry about ladies - it's still Kentucky," was all he could think to say.

More driving. Every time he peeked into the mirror to glimpse his guests he saw their eyes studying straight into him, and the kind of mischievous smiles that any moment might spill into giggles.

"We're getting tired," ahhhed Auburn.

"Yes, take us to a bed," suggested Blondness, just as the car shot by a sign for the Lonely Hearts Hotel, 5 miles ahead.

In a few minutes, they were there. John checked them in quickly. There was no trouble. They entered a room with a table, a TV and one wide bed.

"Wow! There's room for five of us on that bed," Blondness noted.

"Yeah, too bad there aren't five of us," Auburn added.

John was weak with excitement. He sat on the edge of the bed, smiled 15 smiles at once, and gestured them to join him. Auburn and Blondness smiled steadily back at him, then approached.

"Close your eyes," Auburn requested with a wink.

"Yes, we want to surprise you," added Blondness.

"Whatever you ladies desire," John said, as he shut his eyes and covered them with one hand while propping himself on the bed with the other. He waited, heart beating like the drums in "Sing Sing Sing." He sensed a tender touch on his lap, then another. Hands sneaking into pockets. His mind felt like it was spinning in place. He waited. And waited. Not a sound. Not a breath. Finally he had to open his eyes. Because nothing else happened. He looked around. The girls were gone, but in each of his pockets he discovered a candy. He squeezed them out of the wrappers and into his mouth. Tongue playing over both candies at once, he tasted a mingling of honey and cola.

Story #417

Previous Valentine's Day stories:
Story #160 (2005)
Story #334 (2006)

And here is a news flash from Creative Crabbing:

Story Contest Canceled
by Kizz Myass
for The Crappy Times

The Great Valentine's Story Contest (see post below) has been canceled due to fear of the wrath of Brittney and/or lack of interest. You're still welcome to submit a story if you wish but there is no longer any competitive factor. Yam Man would be proud!
Kizz Myass

If you're feeling playful, why not go over and make Brittney change her mind! There are some cool stories posted there already.

I sit gazing at the most beautiful girl in the world. It wasn't easy making the arrangements for this to happen. It took months in quest of her mere existence, months of walking the streets, lurking on corners near beauty salons and hair studios. Ironically the girl who caught my eye walked a straight line past a salon without even turning her head. She was completely natural. Exactly what I wanted, needed, desired for my purposes. A girl of lesser aesthetics, touched up cheaply to hide her imperfections, would not be satisfying to me.

Once I had spotted her, I had of course to arrange a chance meeting, and to make it appear as chance. I could not in the slightest way pursue her. That would be all too familiar to her. Pursuit. That boorish behavior of the conquering male. It would frighten her away. Our contact had to come about in a way that made it seem as if she were the initiator. I trailed her to her apartment, noted the address, then arranged rooms across the street from her. From there I could observe her routine, and once I instinctively felt every regularity and variation of it, could blend myself into it, producing the mutual proximity that would lead to her noticing me.

After a week of observation I had her routine, and constructed my habits to match hers. We saw each other in the same bus, in the same stores, at the bank. My appearance is tall and distinctive - it wasn't long before she began to notice me. And finally, in a sudden moment, when we found ourselves catching each other's eye, a hint of a smile formed on her lips. Then I knew - that it was time. I began a conversation with her, "You live around here, don't you? We always seem to run into each other."

"I live around the corner on N----- Street, next to the tobacco shop," she told me.

"Ah, that's why we see each other so often - I live right across from you. I was sure you couldn't have been stalking me!"

She laughed a disarming laugh of childlike charm, not sensing the irony of what I'd stated. It was progressing beautifully. Soon we found ourselves immersed in conversation that flowed like rivers flow: swiftly, madly, wildly. All the while, in back of my mind, the knowledge of what was to come. Soon I would take her. I would take her, and have her as long as I wanted. But now I must make my move. My instincts told me she would not refuse a drink at a neutral location, the corner cafe, for example. To invite her to my apartment, now, for the drink, would have created too direct an impression, and possibly ruined my entire plan. She would not invite me to her place either, not this soon. But the location was inconsequential to me.

I am very good at card tricks, the sleight of hand necessary to hide objects and make them appear. It's all done with misdirection. And so, when we sat across from each other, flowing in words, it was simplicity itself to slip the drops into her drink. She would not become ill or lose consciousness, rather she would become highly relaxed and susceptible to my hypnotic attentions. I began swaying my head slightly as I spoke to draw her into the rhythm, and as I picked up the glass to drink a sip, I held it suspended, creating the pendulant motions that would open her psyche to my suggestions.

My gestures and movements drew her deeper and deeper into a pleasing passivity. When I was finished, she trusted me implicitly, as if I were her own father, a father who had never damaged that trust. That was the look she gave me - a culmination of all that was pure and honest in her. I made a good note of the way she looked at me, because that is the look I needed to memorize while she was able to give it. After the drink, we said goodbye, with the nonchalant suggestion of doing it again sometime. She left, but did not return to her apartment. In her mesmerized state, I had subtly instructed that she lived in my apartment. Some more sleight of hand had exchanged my key for hers. She entered my rooms, removed her clothes, stretched herself onto my bed, and slept - with the oblivion of a stone. I followed her upstairs, with my second key, entered the bedroom, and began. To take her.

I know no other word for what I readied myself to do, so I say "to take her" because on a simple level, it is analogous to the taking of a picture. I brought out the gel, a gel of my own making, and began to massage it onto her body, front and back, over her entire form, her neck, her face, the work of art that nature had made of her flesh and her limbs, until she was completely encapsulated. The gel hardens swiftly and can be pulled off with no pain or consequence to the real skin. This I carefully did, giving me the parts of a mold. When I was finished I sponged the traces of my work from her slumbering physique. Next I returned her keys to her purse, and whispered the suggestion that would thaw the sleep into a state of vague wakefulness. She rose, reclothed herself, returned to her apartment, still in a trance, still in a daze, but with no remembrance of what had occurred from the time she first smiled at me. She will have lain down on her bed, sound asleep, while I, at the same moment began the intense work with the molds I had taken, to construct the perfect symmetry of her, lifelike and desirable in every way, down to her ruby smile and trusting eyes, pearls of finest agate. So real. So real. The hair to ornament her head I stitched into the scalp strand by strand, hair selected to match her color and length as if it had come from a twin. I placed the finished model in the corner, shone a light upon it, the likeness so close to perfection that it seemed to possess an aura. Now I am old, and the living girl's beauty and trust have given way to the erosions of time and experience. But her original youth and exuberance are completely, eternally mine.

Story #416

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Consider this a Valentine's Day story, even if it is a little early. Thank you everyone for your patience, and for the stories and comments you made. I will answer them in the next days. For now, I hope you enjoyed this story, and Story #414, in case you haven't noticed, has also been posted a few weeks ago.

------

Mavin gave me and a few other bloggers a nice surprise for Christmas, which post I'll be answering in the next days:


Thanks, Mavin, for the very kind thoughts! And Happy Birthday (Jan. 2nd)!

It was dark. The creature of the night lurked among the shadows cloaking the village. One word permeated every nuance of thought. Blood! BLOOD! He must have blood. But the empty streets yielded no opportunity of fulfillment, no chance encounter to satisfy his hunger. How long had he been this way? Weeks? Months? A hundred years? His thoughts no longer retained the proper order to reflect upon these unclarities. But a feeble awareness seeped into the sea of crimson that was his single obsession. Christmas. Yes. Christmas. That is why the streets were deserted, why the hunt remained fruitless. Everyone was indoors, huddled with friends and family around a warm fire, or a table with candles and a feast, communing with one another, sharing remembrances with one another. Christmas. That was so long ago...

He continued creeping along, the blood lapping anew into his thoughts. With his acute sense of audition he perceived voices in song, a choir, a congregation of a church, no doubt. He turned towards the origin of the sound, and began to move closer. He passed as a shadow through a graveyard, some of the stones marking the final resting place of those whose blood he had taken. Of this he was scarcely aware. The church stood hulled in the thick tar of night. As he approached, it loomed ominously before him, surreal in its proportions. But he did not shy away. Where there is song, there is also blood. BLOOD! He stood before the massive door, pulling it open just a crack. He could not cross into the consecrated bounds of this sacramental location. But he waited, eyes turned downward, and listened. An organ toned the notes of a new melody, drawing a multitude of voices together into a sincere and unpresuming unison: "Silent night, holy night...." the peaceful words flowed to where he stood, and for one moment he forgot the blood.

Story #415

This photo appears by kind permission of Michael Spry. Please feel welcome to browse his flickr gallery (Mickal) and his Website (michaelspry.com).

Previous Christmas stories:
2004: #118
2005: #323
2006: #384

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and a Grand New Year to Everyone! I will post story #414 in the next days - still not satisfied with what I wrote - thanks to all who contributed! Contributions are welcome for this photo too, but I felt I should post first this time. You've all been so patient.

Claus had a rainbow tucked away in his attic. Of course everyone wanted to touch it. "Keep the line moving!" Claus called to his friends on the spiraling stairway. "No crowding! Everyone will get to touch the rainbow!"

But they did crowd. And teased as the line ground along, starting and stopping like traffic at Friday rush hour.

"Stop pulling my scarf!" Sally shouted at Todd. She had donned an ensemble of midnight blue, with a smattering of green and yellow accessories to catch the rainbow's eye.

"Ha! Purple is the Bow's favorite color!" Todd kidded her, "Just like I have on."

"I think he'll like me best," said Karin, pointing to her flaring orange blouse.

Sounds from above silenced the conversation. All heads turned upwards to see the flashes. It was as if someone had whipped roman candles into the Northern Lights, but even that was insufficient to describe the illumination that echoed down to them. Mysterious ohhhhhs and ahhhhhs seeped from the realm beneath the roof and careened down the stairs to the excited ears that waited, tones they had never heard before.

"How'd you ever catch it?" Maggie asked Claus who stood atop the landing, guiding the line of visitors to the final destination. "Left a window open, a dish on the table, sugar cubes dipped in paint," he confessed with a shrug, and winked, causing everyone to believe it wasn't true.

At the stairway's end stood a ladder eight feet up into a gaping hole in the ceiling. All eyes watched the lucky person whose turn it now was to ascend. That was Tim in tie dyed jeans and psychedelic t-shirt, his eyes a yin yang of hazel-green. He was a walking rainbow himself.

Everyone froze as Tim mounted the ladder. They allowed their consciousness to drift into his, to experience firsthand what would unfold. "Eyes are upon me. First rung. Second rung. Higher. Higher. Scurry through the opening into the rainbow's room. A swirling pool of fireworks floats before me. I dive into it..." The thoughts paused. "Ohhhhhhhhh. Ahhhhhhhhh" he said as the glut of colors dissolved him.

Story #414

Thanks to everyone who contributed stories!

Well sir, softball's my game. I admire the shape of a graceful gal dancin' a ball through destiny, runnin', jumpin' and slidin' like a ballet lady doin' square dance. And them postures! Like poetry writin' itself! I been goin' to these games ever Saturday since I been a young'n - before you's born, I suppose. I could tell you stories. See that pitcher down there? Reminds me a Bruna. That was afore all these gals here been born. She was a legend. A marvel in form and skill. I reckon I saw ever one a her games. The stories I could tell you bout her! I seen her hit a ball out a the park with her bare fists. That's how tough she was. And fierce! Used to play baseball. Talk was she'd killed a man in Kansas. With a home run. Ball come down a mile away and beaned him into the Great Beyond. They made her leave the state and promise never to play baseball agin but she started right back up in the next state playin' softball! Ain't nobody could hit one a her pitches no matter what size ball she throwed.

Now a gal got a reputation like that it gits talked around and Bruna's got talked clear outta the galaxy, all the way to Alpha Mango! Them critters out there loved softball. They'd watch her games via asteroid straight on into Mango. They couldn't play softball themselves, mind you. Ironic. Cause the entire planet was like one huge softball field. Red clay dust and sun shinin' gentle like a daylight moon. Well sir, they almost could a played it but their heads was too big to hold a softball cap. And was like to pop if'n a ball'd ever hit 'em. So that was out. They just watched Bruna. But you understand, watchin' games via asteroid ain't the same as bein' there. So these Mangonians, they decides they's gonna take a trip to Earth and right in the middle of a game, while no one is lookin', they's gonna girlnap Bruna, her team and the entire other team they's playing against. Then they's gonna whisk 'em off to Mango and shunt 'em around the planet playin' softball the rest a their lives - to Mangonian masters!

That's a gawd awful thing to happen to a team a fine atheletes like these gals was, but they didn't know it was gonna happen. Not until them Mangonian hyenas come ploppin' down outta the heavens like pigs what couldn't fly. They was 18 a them, one to a gal. At first everone was stunned and silent like, the way they might figurin' out a firecracker gone off in church service. Then everone a them Mangonians lunged towards a gal and there was screamin' and a runnin' and mayhem worse'n dawgs in a cat kennel. Then I saw what I guess I admire most about atheletes. They can look at a situation they done never seen before, size it up, know what they wanna git out a it, and then do what it takes to make that happen. Bruna had the ball and she precisioned up the mightiest pitch I ever seen. I wished I could a seed it in slow motion. That ball left her hand like a atom bomb out a airplane and bing'd right off a Mangonian's head. That head popped like a soap bubble and gook streamed out like butter meltin' off a hotcake. Bruna's coach was a quick thinker too and he started hurdlin' buckets a softballs out onto the field. Bruna caught one and she pitched one after the other a them balls and didn't stop 'til them Mangonians was 18 headless autopsies.

Well sir, after that the umpires come in and restored order and had 'em clean up the field and after the field was all virginned up again, set the gals back to playin'. But nothin' much else happened in that game, ceptin' that Bruna pitched another no-hitter.

Story #413

Thanks very much to Ctoner for donating this photo!

This is an hitonious video of me trying to read the story....



The joke is on me - despite this video being incredibly bad it made #92 in the category comedy - Germany (which may just be the easiest category in the world to break into). If you have a youtube account you can help put me in the top ten :-)

News:
- Cooper has started a fantastic new site called Should Be Famous.
- Western Swing on 78 is a fantastic old-time site with lots of music to explore.
- Last and least: I finally posted Story #408.

Indeterminacies

Thank you everyone for being so patient with me while I try to get started again. I've finally commented the stories for Indeterminacy #410, which was a photograph of my muse. And I reposted all the stories at the companion blog Indeterminacies, along with links to the contributors. They really deserve their own place somewhere.

For those who don't know, Indeterminacies used to be the blog where I reposted visitor stories (when there were fewer of them, and i had more time). Feel free to browse the archives and enjoy the various perspectives arising out of a single source.

- A stitch in time saves nine.
- Time is of the essence.
- Time is wine.
Giggles.
- I made that one up.
- I like the stitch saying best.
- Why?
- Because they couldn't have known.
- True.
- But as a metaphor, it comes quite close to the truth.
- Surprisingly close.
- And if anyone had realized, truly realized, they'd be here now.
- Yes they would.
- So here we are.

It wasn't often that Marcus Meticulum, while making the rounds of the time corridor, chanced upon two Oriental girls sitting before one of the temporal portals, coquetting over the nature of time. Marcus had been Oriental once, but that was a long time ago. Time, to those who'd attained awareness, was so much more than a linear chain of instances, each the cause of the next. No. Every single moment stood in relation to every other moment that ever existed, or ever would exist. These met at intangible intersections woven into the fabric of existence. But once the concept was grasped, to reconcile it with the idea that the chronological second was nothing more than an arbitrary object - that was enough to boggle a Buddhist. What could you expect, when a single second held more infinity than all the other seconds combined? The very measurement of time was a concept that only the gods could comprehend, hovering as they did, above the idea, like clouds over tumbling raindrops.

Marcus halted before the girls, sizing them up. One was elegant in style and apparel, the other had the rough-hewn glance of street-wisdom. They might have been snatched from a rush of early 21st century commuters. Snatched by sudden awareness. It went with the territory of Eastern mentality. He felt an immediate affinity towards them, but could not say why. "How did you arrive here?" he asked, bowing before them.

"You know that already," spoke Street-wise.

"I suppose I do," he answered, a gentle smile imposing itself over the puzzlement he had shown in the first moment. To comprehend was to awaken into the center of time. That is what had enabled them to pass through one of the portals.

"And now?" Elegant intimated.

"We traverse the corridor together," he concluded, not as a demand, but as a statement of the inevitable.

And so they strode along, trading sayings about that inexorable object they had all come to fathom.

- Time heals all wounds.
- Time will tell.
- Time is on our side.
- My, how times flies.
- Third time's a charm.
- Time is relative...

As they vanished around the passageway's bend, their voices faded along with the footsteps, footsteps that sounded oddly like the tickings of a clock.

Story #412

Thank you everyone who wrote stories, and for being so patient with me in posting this one.

News:

Madeleine has a couple of interesting new sites: Limilines about a new type of creativity and The Picture Plain with really cool photography.

Live@theGrouchoClub has a story "Locked Out" appearing in the Feel the Word magazine.

The Reverend Gisher has posted a story for Indeterminacy Photo #411.

Ian at Letters Home has posted something destined to become a classic: A Desiderata For Bloggers

Svetla always got invited to parties, especially to Halloween parties. There she sat, cute in the corner, backed by the flowered wallpaper in style those days, sketching the shapes just as cute as she on a paper she held in her lap. At midnight the squiggles slipped from the paper and slithered along the floor until sensing the warmth of a human body. They inched upwards along the human obelisk, slowly, dissolving like tattoos into the skin. Deeper they went into the blood, and soon the victims saw those very shapes floating before their field of vision, following wherever they turned.

I am a psychiatrist by profession and had treated several persons of this curious malady. All had had to be locked away in a room cushioned with mats, the sound dampened, so as to stifle screams as disturbing to us as the figures obviously were to the sufferers.

I noted the following conversation with one of my patients. She was brought to me fully subdued with the mind-stilling medicines we use. This was an opportunity to satisfy my curiosity about the phenomenon, so I began to question her. She spoke flatly, without emotion, and despite the extreme dosage, there was no relaxed smile.

Doctor: How did it all begin?
Patient: I felt a breeze upon my ankle, a transient touch, a sensation that vanished just as quickly as it was placed. I was not alarmed because the shapes appeared sweet somehow.
Doctor: What happened next?
Patient: They flirted with my skin. Their touch was like warm vapor blown onto a single circle of flesh. I wanted them to continue. It was a new sensation, one that the touch of a hand or a tongue's caress could never create.
Doctor: What made it so?
Patient: The touch pulsated ever deeper into the skin, first the surface, then to the buried nerves, then to the surface again.
Doctor: How long did this continue?
Patient: Not long. I don't know. At last it submerged into me. Strange, I felt the substance of it expanding into my veins, and squirming upwards towards my brain like mindless bits of larvae.
Doctor: What did you feel as it moved closer to your brain?
Patient: It was like a prelude. I knew not of what. But something would happen when it reached my consciousness. It might be wonderful -- or unspeakably horrid. I did not know.
Doctor: This foreboding, can you describe it?
Patient: THEY EAT MY THOUGHTS!!

She shrieked this suddenly, and stood up, taking violent swipes at the empty air before her, a surprising reaction under such sturdy sedation. Finally after about ten minutes I could calm her. She sat down once more, and her emotionless voice resumed.

Doctor: Please continue.
Patient: I cannot go on. They are not sweet anymore.

This was not an easy condition to treat, but after weeks of therapy I finally reached my patients, worked my way into their dreadful fantasies and pulled them out dripping as from a fall into the dead waters of a stagnant lake. Soon after, I could convince them that the figures were harmless. In time the patients could safely return to the perils and stresses of actual life. The special rooms and straitjackets were no longer needed for them.

That was my occupation during the day. But I also had a personal life. On occasion my path led again to one of my former trusts. On a Halloween night of new moon darkness I saw her glance up from where she sat, surveying us, the evening's celebrants, as we stood side-by-side chatting in arbitrary cliques. Most were in rapture from the drink, the company and the mood of the night, but I was also one to observe. I stared at her a moment too long. She noticed and as our eyes met for that one sacreligious second her soft features hardened into severity. The others felt it unconsciously. All around, the conversation coagulated into silence. At that she returned to her task, sketching the figures she had seen. Something inside me began to shudder.

Story #411

Anyone who would like to contribute their own terrifying inspiration to the above photo is very welcome to do so! Thanks everyone for being so patient with me during my absense, and most of all, thanks for coming back.

Past Halloween stories:
2006: #378
2005: #301
2004: #64

Things to do:
1) answer my e-mails of the last weeks
2) answer all your comments
3) write a story to photo 408
4) read and comment the stories to 408
5) read all your blogs

Thank You

Once again I say thank you for all the stories and get well wishes for my wife. She is home now finally. The last weeks were very difficult - and I was sick last week with a severe cold, not unlikely due to the stress of the weeks before. This week and next I'm off work on vacation. Already after the days of this week our lives seem to be returning to normal. My wife has to take it easy in the next months, but has enjoyed a recovery seemingly against all the odds. We have so much to be thankful for.

I feel able to write again, and will start soon, posting the missing story for photo 408.

My Muse.

Story #410

Thank you for all the wishes and stories to the above photo. The stories have been reposted at the long dormant companion blog Indeterminacies.

The photo was taken in Trier in the ruins of the Roman baths, passages that were excavated in 1962.

At Shitkl you can see a video of my son reading some Shtikl cartoons - really sweet because most of the time he will only speak German - and here he is reading English with almost no practice at all.

Also, I have a guest post, written about a month ago, at Mindful Mimi's.

Unfortunately I have bad news to share. My wife was in a car accident today. She is in the hospital under observation. They haven't found anything seriously wrong and she should be home in a few days. Our son was in the car also but not hurt. I will have to postpone writing for now.

About Creativity

Over the course of the years, and based mostly on my experience with the Indeterminacy blog I have developed several ideas about creativity and the creative process. At the very least, they seem to apply to me. This is what I've learned...

1) When you have an idea or inspiration, act on it immediately. Act on it five minutes later, and it will already be too late. Once I find my inspiration, the process of writing the rough draft goes rather quickly. But if I wait, the flair seems to go out of it. Photos have been a wonderful catalyst for immediate inspirations, usually some devious idea that I want to follow through to the end. However the more I do this, the more difficult it becomes to find a photo that stands out in ways that others before it have not. The first 100 or so stories went fairly well in this respect. Examples where the photo delivered strange and powerful associations might be Story #6 and Story #23.

2) Spontaneity plus afterthought is a powerful combination. On rare occasions a story will come out perfect the first time. Of all my stories, there were only a handful that were completely spontaneous. One example is Story #30 written in just about the amount of time it takes to read it. I didn't change one word of how it came out.

But usually, the result needs a little twisting and tweaking to add dimensions that bring it past the ordinary and into the extraordinary. During the period that I posted daily I would write the story on the train home from work (I carried a few potential images around in my head to ponder over during free moments) or at home in the late afternoon or early evening. The next morning I'd take the rough draft with me in the train, read through it again and again, fine tune and polish until I thought it was ready to post. At lunch I'd type in my edits and post. Most of the time my edits made something that I thought was boring into something that I was satisified with.

Story #19 was actually a complete rewrite of the original draft (which you can read in the comment section). Story #385 was one in which the initial version was written rather quickly, but which I polished quite a bit afterwards. The sequence with the "99 Bottles" song was something I put in quite late, as an afterthought.

3) If you write something good, it will seem better to other people than it will to you. You know what is coming, the others don't. They have the pleasure of watching something unknown unfold before them for the first time, whereas you can only read and wonder, will it work the way you intend it to. This is my conclusion from the positive comments I received about stories that to me were fairly ordinary. It's the only way I could explain it. Also I've read stories, posts, etc. by others and been truly impressed, whereas they in turn seemed surprised. I thought my Story #43 was rather simple, but I got some nice feedback from some people I showed it to.

4) If you are true to your art, the process of creating will become more and more difficult, the more you have created. I do not want to write the same stories over and over again, so I find myself discarding ideas because the intended story is too similar to something else I've written before, or is too similar to something I've read elsewhere. I want to create something completely new, but of course I'm aware that this is extremely difficult to do - some claim it's impossible.

To avoid repeating myself, I've allowed the stories to become more and more extravagant. In the beginning my ideal was the one paragraph short story. The first stories were probably more like synopses for what could later be written out in more detail. There was little or no dialogue, just densely packed plot description. Two earlier stories that broke out of this mold were Story #81 and Story #158.

A few other stories were new in the sense that I hadn't read anything like them before, not to say that something similar hasn't already been written and I just didn't know about it: Story #128 (Adam and Evelyn), Story #204 (Solomonic Wisdom) and Story #327 http://indeterminacy.blogspot.com/2006/01/all-of-sudden-it-became-light.html (Extreme Poetic Justice). In any event I strive to be original to the best of my knowledge.

5) Spontaneous creativity vs. planned creativity. Which is better? This could depend on the person. Or maybe it's a matter of taste. I think in general, a spontaneous basis for creativity will win out. In the stories beyond #200 and up to #360, when I stopped posting daily, I found myself having to stay up later and later to find the right idea. The best stories, I think, were written when I was very tired, and unable to reason clearly. Story #377 and Story #359 came into existence when I was half asleep and hardly knew what I was writing.

6) Read great works and allow yourself to be inspired by them. In other words, if you reach for the stars you may not reach them, but you'll reach higher than you might otherwise have been able to. For example, when I was in high school and college I used to read Stephen King. Somehow I got tired of him, but now, in that genre, authors like Edgar Allan Poe and Gustav Meyrink are my idols.

7) If you get stuck, take a break, watch a TV show, do something else, and then return to finish the writing. Many of my stories were written in two parts. I wrote a beginning, got stuck, watched a Dark Shadows episode, then went back to write the conclusion. One of my non-Indeterminacy stories, "A Fairytale for Elves and Clouds" was written over the period of several weeks. I wrote the first two paragraphs, got stuck, then came back later with a sudden idea of how it should continue. I think the break forces one out of the rut one might have been in, and allows a return with a fresh, completely unrelated idea.

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I've probably learned more, but this was all I could put down on one Sunday afternoon. For the interested reader, I point out two pieces I've posted with advice about writing / blogging out of the mouths of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Mark Twain.

Note: My muse has published her own statement about blogging, indepedent of this one, and I really like what she wrote. It's called "I am not a good blogger"

Note 2: Viruswitch has posted a piece "Write in concepts or write in pictures?" and Shtikl writes "You don’t need a plan, you need skills and a problem" - both posts have bearing on the creative process.

Now I remind myself that I still owe you Story #408. It seems I do put myself under pressure to write something that is better and different than anything I've written before. Wish me luck.

Kate looked into the mirror, but the face looking back was not hers. It was one she had ever seen before. As she stared it woke out of a reverie like a match igniting. Then came a nasty grin.

"Not what you expected, is it?" the voice of the face lashed out at her.

"It's impossible! You can't be there! You have to be me!" Kate answered spontaneously. Of course the statement changed nothing. The face continued not to be Kate's.

"I got tired of being you, so I became me!" the face answered, and folded arms asynchronously to Kate's, which hung limply, in stunned immobility.

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall?" Kate tried in desperation.

"Nah, that won't work. I'm prettiest. Men will smash themselves on the glass trying to get to me. You can sweep up the mess though, deary" - the visage grinned meanly.

"This is turning really weird," Kate thought to herself. Out loud she spoke to the mirror: "Wait a moment, please." She stood up, left the room, returned with a cloth and some window cleaner which she sprayed straight onto the face.

"I'm melting!" the voice screamed as Kate wiped the reflective surface. As the thin film of water evaporated Kate saw her own face again, smiling back at her, eyes blinking at just the right moments.

Story #409

Coming next: an introspective post about the experience of writing these stories over the years. I've been putting that off since story #360, which I had intended as the final story.

Thank you everyone who contributed a story for this and for the last photo (#408). I'll also post my #408 story sometime this week - but it's not written yet - and then read and comment all of the contributions.

Mindful Mimi is a new blog that linked to Indeterminacy during vacation. I found her posts to be thought provoking and nice to read. She has a contest going which you can participate in. The prize is a copy of "A short history of tractors in Ukrainian" by Marina Lewycka. It's supposed to be a wonderfully funny book. I've read the reviews.

Important message:Madeleine left a comment about a new literary magazine she is involved with which is looking for submissions. For more information please read the post from August 20th at ragdoll-millenium.blogspot.com.

Other Extremely Important Breaking News: Shtikl is back!

Marla was a girl, but she was also a seed. She had limbs, hair that tossled and flowed, and all the anatomy that boys found so tantalizing. Yet she was also a seed, body enclosed in a bulbous capsule, room only to stand and to sit and to walk in a circle. It was snug. She had a peephole to look through, to watch for the rain or the germinating dew. Thin strands grew from her, thicker than hair, but slight - they pushed their way through the skin of the capsule, bursting it in places - they shot outwards where the sun was known to while. Their one thought was to hurdle into the sky and wrap their tentacles around the warmth of that illuminative body. But their attention was diverted by the boy lying in the meadow, watching the spot in the earth where the plant suddenly appeared. He emanated warmth, as well. The stem advanced, leaves unfolding, and bud appearing at the end of the stilt-like extension which grew at a visible pace. The bud swelled and burst with petals, and in the center of those petals was an eye that sought the depths of his brain.

Story #408

Thoughtful Blogger Award

Originated by Christy at Writer's Reviews:

For those who answer blog comments, emails, and make their visitors feel at home on their blogs. For the people who take others feelings into consideration before speaking out and who are kind and courteous. Also for all of those bloggers who spend so much of their time helping others bloggers design, improve, and fix their sites. This award is for those generous bloggers who think of others.

Seiche was kind enough to award me the Thoughtful Blogger Award, as I've mentioned previously. I can think of enough instances of thoughtlessness to disqualify myself, and I hate memes, unless they're for a good cause, like this one. So here goes...

1) The most thoughtful blogger I know is The Lady at Not Quite Love and Light. You might notice that this blog is fairly new, but The Lady has blogged before, and is the first person to find my blog on her own in its first days, and to encourage, advise and support me in ways too numerous to list. She made me feel at home at my own blog, as well as at hers. The sense of community and sharing at her own site was a shining example to me, and it is she who made the one suggestion for Indeterminacy that so many people tell me they like the most: the open participation. For The Lady, the Thoughtful Blogger Award needs to be the size of a movie marquis.

2) Santiago Nemec of Mundo en Llamas is a blogger I don't know very well yet, but I saw a beautiful comment he left at a blog I adore, a comment that struck me for its thoughtfulness and personability. Santiago is from Argentina, and his site is primarily in Spanish and Engish. I hope to get to know him better in the future.

The Big Three of Creative Blogging: Doug, Mrs. Weirsdo, and Tom (& Icy):

3) Doug has to be the master of building community and making his visitors feel at home. Just look at any one of his posts to see an example of this. Additionally Doug has taken a lot of time to help me with feedback and advice on a number of issues, not all of them blog related, so I say he's a thoughtful blogger.

4) About Mrs. Weirsdo I can say pretty much the same. She's created a blog which is homey and gemütlich all in one, a very pleasant place to visit and stop a while. There used to be some rather thoughtless characters there like Pansi and all her friends, but Mrs. Weirsdo has shipped them off to other bloggers, and now it's even more thoughtful than ever.

5) Tom is a master of putting other people in the spotlight, as you can tell by some of his various blogs, which create something of a meta-universe:
Icy's Playground
Asinine News
Asinine News 2

It's not unusual to find oneself making a cameo appearance in one of his posts. In addition Tom has given me and others valuable advice and feedback about blogging, and as a graphics guru has gone to the trouble of creating icons for all of us. Icy is thoughtful, too.

6) Cooper is another blogger who has done an impeccable job first of all, of posting thought provoking content, and second, of serving as the moderator of the discussion that invariably follows. She takes time to draw attention to other interesting posts she has seen, and has always been there for me with valuable advice on issues I couldn't decide for myself.

7) I've known Mushroom since I began blogging but for a long time he didn't blog, so it's hard to call him a thoughtful blogger. But has been extremely thoughtful and helpful with just about any technical issue I've had. His site, where he does monthly posts of found photos along with his own captions is Laughter is the Spackle of the Soul.

I think I'm only suppose to do five - so I should stop now, but when I think about it, I only seem to know thoughtful bloggers, so where do I stop mentioning them. Just click any one link in my blogroll and the chances are you will find yourself visiting a thoughtful blogger.

Here are the rules, if you'd like to repeat this meme yourself:

1) If you have received an award simply choose either the dark or light background image and save it to your files, then post it proudly on your blog!

2) Pass the award on to five other people, you can choose any of the awards from the series, you do not have to pass out the exact award you received. Choose whichever of the awards below that you'd like to give out. You can give out one of each or five of the same one, whatever you prefer.

3) You can change the size and color of awards to suit your blog, that's up to you, it's your blog, just leave the titles the same.

4) Please link back to this post so that people can read these rules and so that the meanings of the awards will not be lost.

5) If you feel that you or a friend are deserving of an award and no one has given one to you yet then email me at sayhitochristy(at)hotmail.com and tell me about your website.

It was destined to become an urban legend. Maybe it was the matter-of-fact way the two girls invariably crashed even the most secretly held parties, barged their way to the kitchen, where they sliced themselves one piece of cake each, and then, instead of nibbling the tasty dessert, proceeded to rub their faces in it. Afterwards they fled, leaving a fog of bemusement behind. The continued evening of wine and what remained of the cake resulted in the wildest speculations as to what this all could have been about. A Duncan-Heinz publicity stunt? An over-baked post hypnotic suggestion? Last survivors of a flash mob decimated by starvation? The new cult of Marie Antoinette? Some suggested they must be possessed by demons not diabolic but diabetic.

No one knew.

In a related incident which was never connected with the relevant pre-occurring event, an officer in a top secret military installation tested the new satellite night-vision zoom technique. He watched mystified as two ladies in the new moon darkness of a park tenderly licked cake from each other's face.

Story #407

Thanks for the stories! And of course more are welcome! Anyone landing here is invited to leave a story, caption or impressions as a comment...

Postscript: Some random surfing led me to this extremely delicious photo by Donavan

Interlude - Thoughtfulness - Great Blogs

I've finally posted story #406 (post below this one).

Seich has honored me with the Thoughtful Blogger award. I'll work out a post for that in the next days. So stay tuned...

A couple of weeks ago I went through all my comments, and searched in technorati for all the new links, and compiled a list of blogs which I want to stop by and get to know and to incorporate into my links. I wonder how, though, as there are more then 150 urls in that list. But over the last weeks I've noted a few of them, and wanted to mention a few here:

1) My Pseudobackpack
"One Blog. Five Restless Souls. Countless Adventures"

This is a blog by five lovely ladies who just finished grad school and are now traveling the world independently of each other, but using the blog as their meeting point to share with each other and with us. They hope to reunite in some remote island paradise in one year's time, but I am hoping I can convince them to do it Hamburg instead. The concept of the blog grabbed me right away - I think it's turning out very nice.

2) Half Dentist
"Stan Johns' Fictional Blog"

It's a fictional blog about a fictional UK dentist called Stan Johns - probably the name is made up too. The blog follows the adventures of Stan himself, Bessy (his dog), Cookie (his nurse), his friend Felix, his 60ish receptionist George, and the wife Margaret. What the writing lacks in non-fiction it makes up in wit, humor and hilarity. Maybe this is the ghost of Jerome K. Jerome blogging?

3) Madeleine in the Shade

This site has some incredible writing, a style that is intricate, intelligent and compelling. You will find prose and poetry, cultural reviews and some photography - a creative scrapbook. Madeline herself is very mysterious - she has not written much about herself, except that she is in Prague (for the moment) and is a teacher/screenwriter. I suspect she may be a professor of film and have written classic film that we've all seen. Her review of the Czech film "Sedmikrásky" especially impressed me - it went beyond anything I'd ever read about the film (one of my favorites).

4) Lorena's Blogbilingue
"Two languages, two cultures, the door opens. Dos idiomas, dos culturas, la puerta se abre"

This fantastic site features bilingual posts (English and Spanish), short stories with a wonderful fairy-tale like quality about them, poetry, observations, and occasional photography. I haven't explored everything yet but her story about the moon A Story / Un Cuento and her post Faces in the Stones are good starting points.

5) Things Look Like Things
"Blogs and photos as fable, fairytale, fiction and fact."

What can I say about this site except that I'm waiting for God to start commenting here.