Nora confronted the neon cloud that followed her home from her walk. "What do you want from me?" she asked the hovering blue gaseousness.

"I long to be your aura," it hissed at Nora, who backed away into the corner. There was something cold about its color.

"I-I don't know," she spoke through the shiver spasming down her spine.

"Oh, but you don't know my powers. With me in your eyes, men will be at your feet. They will marvel for hours at the mysteries of your smile. They'll thrill at the surge of feeling when you look their way."

Nora listened.

"And when your lips touch another's I'll make sure it's felt."

"Men will be at my feet?" Nora inquired tentatively.

"Absolutely. Artists will see you and form masterpieces out of the impressions. You'll linger in the minds of poets weaving new words together in your wake."

"That all sounds good," Nora said, softening her front of resistance, "But what about the aura I have now?"

The neon cloud blushed blue. "Your aura is kind of cute," it said, "I was hoping to get to know it."

Story #306

Once upon a time of loveliness, in the days when even the magic mirrors couldn't agree who was fairest, there lived three little sisters. The first little sister built herself a house of hanging silks, which did not go unnoticed by the Wind. The curtains billowed boisterously in his breath, awarding that airy observer tasty glimpses of intimate skin. Finally the Wind huffed and puffed so out of control that the silks fluttered away towards the Sun. As the girl perceived the lack of walls she bolted shivering to her sister who lived in a house of matchsticks, tiny wooden bundles woven together, phosphorous tips lending a ruddy red appearance to the walls and roof.

The Sun, brushing the silks from his face, caught with his last rays the two sisters hugging hello. The sibling beauties chatted deep into the night, until their eyes grew weary and the soft fabric of the satin sheets beaconed them to sprawl in the bed. The next morning the Sun awoke after a night of fiery dreams. Especially attracted to the sight of sisters in satin, he peered down intensely at the hut, trying to see through the window. Poof! The entire house combusted into a big smoky cloud drifting away in the Wind. There the two sisters stood, all alone, huge sunny eye on them. At least they weren't shivering. But the sudden attention brought forth beads of nervous perspiration, which the Wind licked from their faces. The two little sisters had a third sister who lived in a plastic house on the edge of the forest, and there they fled, Sun and Wind at their backs.

In the forest resided a Big Bad Voyeur, who hid in treetops, spying with his binoculars on whatever sights as might delight him. The girls put on the radio and danced unknowingly for him, giving him ideas for the night. He plucked a basket of apples from the tree in which he hid, prepared them with a sleeping substance, then wandered over to the hut, to offer his present of welcome to his lovely new neighbors. -- "No! I can't read this to you children," the swine mother grunted to her set of pink triplets. These fairy tales about people are always so depraved.

Story #305

Stories have been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

Once upon a time in the future it was decided that dreams were the greatest threat to the status quo ever known. The State scientists went to work, discovered, tested and announced the new practicality, the No-Dream Cloth. It was a light-colored, square-shaped, velvety cloth with maximum porosity. You put it over your face while you slept, and it soaked all those bothersome dreams out of you before they could lead to a state of dissatisfaction or even - heaven forbid - awareness that the ordained reality was not perfection. For a while it worked wonderfully. Restless spirits reposed with a slight smile formed and frozen on the lips. Perceptive natures no longer tossed and turned themselves into an abyss. By day everyone went around like happy zombies on ritalin. The nightmare ended in moonlight coup when it was discovered, by flipping the cloth to its other side, dreams could be made to come true.

Story #304

Note: This past week Indeterminacy has been the featured blog at Successful-Blog. The individual posts may be read at these links:
post 1 (Introductions)
post 2 (Purpose)
post 3 (Audience)
post 4 (Statistics)
post 5 (Advice)
post 6 (Thanks)

If you're coming here from Successful-blog.com, welcome! I hope you find something that will bring you back in the days and weeks to come.

Sorry, but I'm going to skip posting today and instead direct you to a story in the archives, which is one of my favorites. It's one of those devious inspirations that I enjoyed writing, and something I'd wanted to write for a long time, a story incorporating verse, something like James Thurber did in "The Wonderful O," and also a parody of Shakespeare, which is hard to do if you are only familiar with a few of his works. Anyhow, this is what I came up with. This particular photo was used for the weekend stories, and you'll see the contributions in the comments section. They have also been reposted at the companion blog indeterminacies.blogspot.com. Please do have a look at them, if you haven't seen them already.

I am sorry if you came expecting a new story. This is one day my time got out of control. But if you want to go somewhere after you've stopped here, I highly recommend saddlesorereview.blogspot.com.

Craig did not believe the rumors about his girlfriend. It was said that she was a spider lady, that she had lived in the forest, woven webs from tree to tree and frightened children who had stumbled upon her tangled abode. In fact, it was ludicrous. A girl, she was a girl. But when she sauntered along with her controlled, steady flow of motion, there was something of the calculated steps of that eight-limbed creature, wasn't there? He drove the doubt from his mind and laughed at himself. Reality, reality. Just a girl. He had felt her skin upon his and never in those moments did spiders crawl in his imagination. A girl. When he looked into her dark eyes, eyes that grew larger with the depth of each breath he took until they loomed before him like black suns, he recalled the silk weavings of a web embracing him, wrapping him, nestling on his warmth, and tensing around him. It was effort, great effort that recalled him, head shaking the morbid thoughts from it. No! She was the flesh and blood of a girl. But again his eyes traced the red pattern of the nets adorning her arms. The fabric a spider weaves is not red! Never is it red! He laughed to himself, but was already dizzy. His eyes rested on the black-beaded armlets, concentric bands hugging the sweet skin above her wrists. They hugged her as he had wanted to hug her, with the eternal poetry of never-ending symmetric rings. He was holding her now. A kiss from her mouth on his stunned him, paralyzed him. He watched as her offspring hatched from the pretty black beads that were her jewelry. His eyes could not blink - his vision blurred. He sensed as they swarmed over him, as his consciousness sank into a deep oblivion of no return.

Story #303

Special Note: This week Indeterminacy is the featured blog at successful-blog.com. Here are links to post 1, post 2, post 3 post 4 and post 5. I couldn't have been any kind of success, if that's what I am, without you who take the time to read these stories and help me with your feedback. Thanks a million!

"Vive les hommes!" shouted Chérie from her window over the chaussée, as the Parade of Perfect Men marched by, a regular feature of November's first day, the Day of the Saints. The crowd of watching women emitted "Oooohs" and "Ahhhhs" at the meaty masculinity they saw. The men were clean cut and clean shaven, bathed and clothed in fresh underwear. They were empathic and macho in just the needed blend, musculous but not over-hormonized, perfect pets for playful ladies. The women observed, ciphered, decided, and pulled their choices from the synchronized columns of movement. The latter day sexual revolution had made this the norm for dating, but unfortunately the sanitized synthesis of Superman and Mr. Clean lacked desire for what it called the strength-sapping suicides of carnal intimacy. It took at least three specimens to leave a woman satisfied, and that never worked because once three of these men got together, they invariably began a good, clean game of poker.

Story #302

That Eve of All Saints, Halloween, was the worst time of the year for George. It was then that he was reminded of just how alone he was, nothing but bones without that magical element that translates will into motion. He was forced to sit propped in his little stone niche in the wall, watching impassively as the living strolled by. No one decorated any pumpkins with him. No one invited him to the costume balls. And saddest of all, no one offered to have him along on their trick or treating romps. That was bitter. They'd whisk on by, winsome witches, ghastly ghosts and gruesome ghouls, eating the candy they'd collected, and tossing the empty wrappers straight into his rib cage. How awful and cruel life had been. How awful and cruel was death.

Story #301

Happy Halloween everyone!

Original Post:
It's Halloween, and time for some Halloween stories. As always, I ask my visitors to contribute their instant or not-so-instant stories, and I will follow up with mine on Monday. Now I'm going to go and watch my Dark Shadows dvds and get in the mood. Also, have a look at Lula's poem, if you need some mood-setting help.

For those of you stopping by here the first time, I post story-photo combinations on Monday through Friday, and on weekends turn the storywriting over to the visitors. All story contributions are reposted later at indeterminacies.blogspot.com along with a link to the contributor.

What was I going to do? My story was already late. If I didn't write one soon, my readers would be disappointed, perhaps even abandon me for more interesting bloggers, and I don't know if I could ever come to terms with that happening. That's why I decided to consult that little known bureaucracy, the Ministry of Imagination. They're there to help, or they say they are. From outside the architecture looks elegant, yes, even inviting. Inside, my footsteps echoed eerily in the empty, impersonal halls, causing my unease to build. Finally I came to a heavy wooden door. It opened by itself. Inside the antechamber it was awful! It was crowded with characters sitting or milling about, empty stares and blank expressions on invisible faces. They looked like stereotypes out of a b-movie or dime novel that never get life breathed into them. They murmured clichés under their breath, and the collective sound of it would have been bad enough, if not for the laconic female voice droning from the speakers, calling out random numbers every few seconds. Numbers that no one apparently held, for none of the stereotypes reacted. I took a slip of paper from the take-a-number machine. It bore the digits 00. The haggard, unshaven schematization of a drunkard swooped in close to me, too close, and smelling of cheap liquor. He began a high-pitched, screechy laugh. "Every one draws zero!" he declared between phrases of the horrid sound.

I couldn't stay in that room. I would suffocate. I quickly scrawled the letter N in front of the double null and added two exclamation points - "NOO!!" it now read - then crumbled it up and threw it onto the floor - my protest to bureaucracy. I exited the anteroom through the same door I entered yet found myself standing not in the hall from whence I had arrived, but in the office of a ministry official. It was the Chief Imaginator. He appeared indifferent at seeing me. Except for the bored "state-your-business" glance he cast in my direction, he seemed hardly to notice me at all.

"I have to know about my application!" I exclaimed, aware that I must have sounded a little too apprehensive, too desperate. That could ruin my chances. I tried again calmly: "I applied for an idea two days ago but haven't yet received an inspiration."

"How do you intend to use this idea?" the Imaginator inquired while stifling a yawn.

"A story. I want to write a story, a special story. A masterpiece, perhaps. The world needs more masterpieces."

"The world needs more masterpieces," he repeated copying my intonation, but only to taunt me. It didn't sound as if he agreed. "From you?" he added rhetorically, after an effectful pause. The Imaginator drew a folder from a tower of documents on his desk, thumbed silently through the papers, then spread the entire sheaf out flat for me to see.

"Why, they're all blank!" I told him, so shocked I even forgot what I'd come for.

"Regrettably, I must disappoint you," the Imaginator stated with a subtle smirk, "but as you can see, we're all out of ideas. They've all been used up. I couldn't even tell you what color they were. Good day."

"But you have to help me!" I implored, leaning forward over the top of his desk, "I have no idea what I'm going to do otherwise." The futility of what I'd said dawned on me like the sun going down. He was waiting for me to leave.

"Here," the Imaginator said, moving suddenly to retrieve something from his desk, which he then tossed into my hands, "have a light bulb."

Story #300

The 300th story is the hardest to write, and I don't think it's turning out the way it should. So I want to sleep on it. I can at least direct you to a cool site I found yesterday making lots of wicked points: http://deadguylives.blogspot.com. Have a look!

This was where they came to her, those fantasy friends she lured out of her imagination. A 50 mile drive from the crowd and concrete-metal of the city brought her to her place where sky and horizon lulled her to dream. A man from Venus met her there once and swept her away in blue arms to Saturn for a night of gyrations on the ever-spinning rings. Once, in a summer shower, a cloud creature dropped down out of the heavens, to wrap himself around her, engulfing her in a fog of total sensation. Another time a tree man sauntered along, dragging his roots behind him, and invited her to climb all over him. She fell asleep, cradled gently in his soft branches. There were grass gnomes that grew up to her size, and lanky-limbed colossi folding down to meet her. They were fun, all of her fantastical trysts. Now she heard footsteps in the meadow behind. She turned and saw a man, masculine aesthetic the twin of her ideal. He smiled and she beaconed. She wondered vaguely, as his kiss began, "Is this one reality?"

Story #299

I'm just not going to have time to put up a reasonable story today :-( Please forgive me. I'll be back tomorrow. Life has been just a little too hectic.

It was boring at the bottom of the sea so when Chris Crab spied the deep sea diver offering card lessons he raised both claws and snapped them excitedly. Chris Crab and Diver Dan return to shore, where a small card table awaited propped in the sand, the deck already shuffled and ready to deal. For practical reasons they decided against Poker, when it turned out that Chris could never hold more than five cards at once. They'd drop down and drift away in the sea water lapping the shore. That wasn't regulation. They decided finally on Black Jack, and despite the crab's apparent denseness in grasping the rules he could at least grasp the cards. What laughs they had as Chris mistook the Nine of Spades for the Jack of Clubs! Of course Diver Dan wasn't doing this for his health. He knew there were sunken treasures out there, and what better way to get them than duping unsuspecting sea creatures in a friendly game of cards. But the waves did not flow as Diver Dan expected. With a click of the claws, Chris Crab cleaned him out. Diver Dan lost several thousand dollars, the deed to his houseboat, and his waterproof watch. Chris had had lessons before. The sailors of the downed treasure ship, lonely for a mascot, christened him Crabby Card Shark and taught him all their tricks.

Story #298

Thanks for all the stories! They have been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com!

Lula gave online kissing lessons. And it didn't cost much either. Just one bus token per lesson. The traffic to Lula's blog increased exponentially. Soon you could enter words like kiss, pretty, and bus token in Google and Lula was number one. Everyone lived happily ever after. The boys, because of the great kisses. Lula, because she didn't really have to kiss them. They just pressed their lips to the monitor, while she looked back at them saying, "Is that the best you can do?" And the bus drivers lived happily ever after because the buses were no longer so crowded.

Story #297

Note from Indeterminacy: This post is dedicated to the very lovely Lula, who asks the question "Am I Worth A Bus Token?" How many bus tokens am I bid for a kiss from Lula?

P.S. Lula's photo post is a sly response to Story #296 (page down or click here).

Come, gather round my picture. Let me tell you a story. You're attracted to me, aren't you? The seconds go by and you're still studying my features and imagining the body hidden from sight. You little devils! You don't have to admit to anything. It will be our personal secret. But I wanted to tell you a story. A story of the destiny of one who found my photo in the vast labyrythal synapses of the Internet. He looked into my static eyes - yes - I know I'm a digital photo and that my eyes and all the rest of me are static, unchanging. I can live with that. If I am not evolving, at least everything around me is. And that is fascinating. When the collective pixels of my gaze met the searching eyes of my finder, something happened to him. It would be a cliché to say he fell in love with me at first sight, but he seems to be the clichéd type, and that's exactly what his passions forced upon him. Before that moment ended he stood up, began pacing nervously up and down his room, then pushed against the door and stepped into the world in search of me. He boarded a bus, gambling that the increased mobility would necessarily assist our paths in intersecting. It won't. Maybe it will? But first his face will have grown gaunt and haggard from this tedious turning from face to face, wherever he encounters the features of a girl, a hope ending each time in disappointment. His eyes are darting about right now from side to side desperate for the brief respite of someone potentially me. Where he is? He's already drifted further from his point of origin than he could ever hope to recover in a week's journey by the same buses. That's really it - the story, I mean. It will end eventually in some tragedy, when his money runs out, when his credit cards cease to function, when he no longer remembers who he is. I can already see clouds of panic forming in his eyes at this very moment. How do I know that when I'm here with you? He printed me out on a scrap of paper, and looks at me when no one else is around.

Story #296

Again I have to say I'm sorry, because I don't have anything I feel is good enough to post today. But I would like to share a few links with you like last week. First off, just now I found some photos which turned out to be sketches, aesthetically rendered fantasy drawings. They were labelled with the Web address www.ellione.it. Perhaps finding this place was a coincidence, perhaps synchronicity. I went there to look around and found linked at the page photography, cute artwork, even a few small films. The site(s) are in Italian and English. Tip: There are some very pretty girls waiting under "Noches de Verano"

I may not have a story to post today, but someone else did. This is at the blog "Life Inspires" which I mentioned last week. Sylphdine's story "The Dread" really surprised me and I recommend it to all of you. It's something like Kafka meets Ionesco. Wow.

P.S. How about stopping by Lula's brand new blog called "Growing up Lula". She just left a sweet comment at my last story, which is how I found out about her. I think her first post is great.

Hal was surprised to see the girl next to him showing her tongue. "Yes," he thought to himself, "girls' tongues are very useful." "Excuse me," he imagined saying to her, "I brought some letters with me to mail. Could I trouble you to lick the stamps for me?" And the quick lilt in her voice answering "Sure!" He thought of the aural art of operas, and the tones of an aria shaped by a woman's tongue. How delightful those trills are to the ears. Invite her home! To close my eyes and dream while she marvels at my stamp collection... I could lay a bowl of microwaved milk before her on the table, and she would incline her head to it, lapping up the warm white liquid with the short, swift motions of a cat. Or to take her by the hand, lead her along with me to that unpleasant biddy who meets all smiles with lips frozen in frown. "There she is. That's the woman. Now! Stick out your tongue at her!" And afterwards, as a reward, share with her an ice cream cone bursting with scoops of lemon-vanilla. The thrill of our tongues accidentally brushing! But then his thoughts were the once still waters of a pond in the aftermath of a meteor slammed into its center. His hands shook and his mouth began to foam as he collapsed in an epileptic trance of oral fantasy. The therapy for curing tongue fetishes had not yet reached perfection.

Story #295

Bill had a strange dream, bursts of red and yellow light flashing all around him. When he awoke he was a mushroom in a pleasant patch of soil, near a tree and a running brook. Two lady mushrooms sprang up beside him, beginning a conversation.

"You can be very proud," they told him in unison.

"But why? But what?" he answered, naturally disorientated by the transformation.

"You're bright and brilliant and happy birthday," their voices came, almost a song.

"It's my birthday," he repeated slowly, to see if it might mean anything to him.

"You've just joined us in the Bohemian forest." Their voices again, reciting, as a classroom of children might with one voice tell their teacher, "One plus one is two."

"I've always wanted to have a Slavic soul."

"And now you're part of the collective."

"I'll have ideas! I'll be inspired!"

"If you don't and you aren't, we'll assist!"

He closed his eyes and mused. Under the congenial auspices of the femmes a la fungi he felt inspired. He had ideas. Fairy tales flashed before him. Bouncing and spinning notions swirled into imagery unimagined in his usual trains of thought. Ideas couldn't rush in fast enough before other ideas pounced upon them, merging into a new, ever-evolving inspiration.

"Eureka!" he cried in a sort of mental orgasm of aesthetic certainty. The girl mushrooms applauded. The idea, the forest, and his existence as a Slavic mushroom were the thoughts immortalized in his mind as the Czech mycologist harvested him for his fungi stew, over which he was certain to dream up some great new work of art.

Story #294

All contributions have been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

Original post: This will be the big mushrom madness weekend, and is of course dedicated to one of my most faithful visitors, Mushroom. So let's all write some great stories for this picture! I'll post mine on Monday.

Merv the mechanic had recurring hallucinations, but he lived with the condition because his visions depicted a beauty of tender age, flitting and dancing about. He labored his years repairing motors that had lost their youth, glancing up with middle-aged eyes to breath a glimpse of his transient companion. She assisted him often, guiding his hand to a tool he might need to loosen some rusting piece of metal. Sometimes, even, his eyes followed her instead of his work, but his masterful hands performed on their own, without visual direction. Screwdrivers, clamps, hammers and wrenches were pleasant to hold in the presence of her grease-stained allures. And when she joined him during lunch break on the back seat of a car he felt oh so youthful again. Merv returned home each night to his corpulent spouse, his blood afire for her undesirability. His passioned inclination to satisfy her never waned, and her responding smile was the same smile she had given him in the years of her girlhood, once again the twin of his daily vision.

Story #293

Due to time constraints this week I'll have to skip posting a story today. It always makes me feel guilty when I don't post a story, because I know there are so many of you who stop by regularly. Today I don't feel as guilty because I found three new blogs I'd like to share with you.

Blog 1: AriaFritta - Immagini (sur)reali da qui e da altrove
It's in Italian and English and features some wonderful abstract-surrealistic photography, with descriptions in the aforementioned languages. I do so love what they're doing. There's lots of creativity going on there.

Blog 2: Life Inspires - Impressions on the Way to Nowhere
This is a brand new blog I found at Blog Advance, and it promises to be good. It's written by a Sylphidine who lives among us, observing us as we travel from point A to point B, in the busses and trains. Little vignettes out of complete lives. I'm eagerly looking forward to the next story, and wonder if I will be the observed one, as I ride the train to and from work each morning.

Blog 3: Stems of a Coffee Stained Canvas
Last but no way least: This blog paid me the compliment of linking to me, which is how I found it. And what I found was a world of counterculture cool, photography, painting, drawings, poetry and poetic prose that weave a web. There are strokes of eroticism living here and there in the archives, and lots of feeling, not always pretty, but honest emotions.

Maeva and Myrna raced to the 50 cent store for a pleasant afternoon romp, looking for trinkets to make themselves pretty. The Caribbean happy music playing over the speakers and the smiles of the friendly Jamaican at the register accompanied their romp through the shop. They rhythmed right past the usual fashion trash, hair pins and plastic jewels, and freestyled over to the kitchen selection. "But kitchens are for girls!" balked Maeva to Myrna who slyly raved "Ah, but kitchens are for grrrls!" Now the grrrl-minds grooved. They giggled at visions of night-long dances wrapped in aluminum foil and dish cloth headbands, and whistled out loud at the whim of tie-dyed aprons and unadorned backs. "Wouldn't we be delicious?" they seemed to wink at each other as devious ideas directed their fingers from item to item of conventional utensils that might be applied towards fun. They left in glee with pots on their heads. "I'm General Maeva of the grrrl army," Maeva saluted to Myrna, while Myrna licked her lips at the thought of how lethal a pot could be if needed. At home they modeled their new acquisitions and prepared to meet the boys. "Don't forget your spatula!" Myrna exclaimed, licking that half-smile again.

Story #292

Arnold's abode was haunted by a specter. She was a pretty one, too. As he puttered about his dwelling his eyes glimpsed flashes of attraction she seemed to present for his benefit - the tender outline of a hand, a bare shoulder, or the tempting impressions of loosely-covered breasts. Despite the visual suggestions, the entirety of her form remained shrouded in delightful mystery. He lay for her, feigning sleep in an unlit corner of his rooms, hoping she might hover in range of his touch, and - in the right moment - be drawn upon him. It never came to pass. And would he boldly charge the silhouette she presented him, he found an intangible nothingness where she had ineffably stood. Day and night she obsessed his imagination. He tried to meet her eyes, but obtained not even this slightest of satisfactions. It was as though she saw right through him. That in itself should not have surprised him, had his awareness encompassed the detail that he was the spirit, and she the flesh. True, she sensed a presence, but that was where it ended. No one ever told her about the old man who had lived in the apartment before her, and died of loneliness.

Story #291

Tina Dupuy (one of the funniest ladies in the world) contributed this photo. Thanks Tina!

The new reality sitcom was one of those brilliant ideas Tina thought up in her sleep. She dangled dozens of miniature Webcams from a fleet of helium-filed balloons that followed her around wherever she went. She brought her boyfriend Brian along as a living laugh track so that the comically-challenged would know when to laugh. Her dog Clyde played straight man, though he was quite a sit-up comedian in his private life. He sometimes disappeared for days on end, doing shows at pounds and other benefits, and occasionally rescuing cats trapped in trees, just like his hero Lassi would have done. Apart from being funny, the show had everything that an artfully lived real life could offer: drama, love, poignancy and great sex. It won dozens of Emmys, which Clyde invariably buried in Tina's back yard. The series was cancelled 11 seasons into its run, after global warming popped all the balloons. That's 77 in dog years.

Story #290

Thanks to everyone who contributed stories. They will be reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com. (I'm two months behind in selecting the monthly prizes - sorry. Will do that shortly). Incidentally, time picked up again. Just had to wind my watch.

Original post:
In case you haven't followed my last posts, time has been slowing down steadily at my side of the blog since sometime last week. Post showed up later and later, although to me it seemed like they were on time. According to my watch it just turned Saturday, so I decided to post the photo for the weekend story. However my calculations show that it should be Sunday at this time. Something strange has definitely transpired with the space-time continuum. It could be the Indeterminacy Nebula Tom & Icy mentioned in their comment. Or maybe it's that curse Mr. Bananas over at Pansifiles put on me. At this point I'd even believe that the ghost of Ambrose Bierce is involved.

P.S. For more story fun, go visit Michael at Ripple Me This and participate in the Friday Photo Fun.

Frank stole a glance at Alice in the looking glass. He had just been out with Alice's sister, the Alice on his side of the glass. He was devoted to both of them, but couldn't decide which one enflamed his passions more. The Alice in the reflection was intriguing in her way. She could be impetuous, in just the dose that turned him on. She'd grab him by the shirt and pull him onto her, then kiss him roughly. But she had not the sensitivity to know when to cease. The other Alice was passive, and let herself be kissed, but he never knew: was that her desire, or was he kissing the fear that could not announce the absence of passion. In her he loved the mysterious smile leaving him to ponder what was in her heart. While Frank stood distracted, glancing in the mirror, the two Alices stood communicating with each other in a code of silent gestures. In a few seconds passive Alice would give the signal, and they would both overpower Frank. By morning he would know that he needed them both.

Story #289

Note from Indeterminacy: Something is wrong with the time fluctuations. By all appearances, time is simply slowing down at my side of the blog. It's still Friday here, while I understand that most of you are already enjoying the weekend. I estimate by the time it turns weekend here and I post the weekend story photo, it will already be late Saturday night in non-fluctuated time. This is the Friday story.
----
Added Saturday?: I'm uncertain that I wrote the story above. I vaguely recall doing it, but the ending doesn't seem like it could be from me. Something seems to be wrong with the Indeterminacy. The story should have ended: By morning he realized he would have to go out and buy a new mirror.

The ploy had worked. It had worked like a charm. They were his now, and they gazed in awe at his nakedness. They'd come to feed him, drawn by his corporal symmetry and those spell-casting eyes. They could hardly tear themselves from the eyes. Eyes that saw, eyes that yearned, eyes that commanded, one fixed on each of them. The saline fluid reacted with the electrical currents coursing through neural fibers, causing an eerie glow to emanate from the epicenter that he now was, a brain floating in a fish tank, the two visual organs still attached. The experience had left him more philosophical than he previously had been, in bodily form, when he reacted to those girls with the will to touch, the will to have, a will he suppressed for fear of alarming the watchful eye of their father, the professor he had lunched with daily in discussion of the latter's untested theories of cerebral perseverance. In the corner of his mind he'd been lucidly aware of the adolescents spying from the stairs, trying to catch a glimpse of him, the tall, mysterious stranger. He didn't give a damn about the professor's theories. When he donated his brain to the crazed scientist it was for the sole cause of getting close to the daughters - of stilling that physical want. Now that it was done the desire shifted to a desire of their company, of their proximity. The pleasant physical reactions he was a slave to before were all just brain processes now. The physical side had become completely foreign, a fading memory in what was now all memory and intellect. He tried a new trick he had mastered, flashing varied hues of glowing light. The girls moved in closer, to see.

Story #288

Note from Indeterminacy: Something happened to disrupt my flow through time this week. It might have been the last story I wrote, I don't know. All I know is my time seems somehow out of synch with that of the people around me. What day are you reading this?

A note about this story: This was written after listening to a broadcast of a brilliant project by the sound artist Felix Kubin. Maybe it's just me, but I think it's the most significant and remarkable radio broadcast made since "War of the Worlds." It was about broadcasting DNA through space. There was an interview with a mad lady scientist that had all the madness of genius driven by pure science, like Gene Wilder in "Young Frankenstein". I hope the program is made available to download at the station that broadcast it (Resonance FM). If it is I'll let you all know.

P.S. I couldn't find any online downloads of Felix Kubin's music, but this link is to a video collaboration with the Finnish band Aavikko. The song is called "Super Lake Beat", a cool catchy number.

It began several years ago, years that I fear to count for chance of disturbing the distance lying between then and now. I stood at a street corner waiting for the light to change, turned my eyes upward to glance at a face in a window high above, when everything around me began to waver and collapse, as if the entire reality were painted on cellophane rippling violently in a forceful gale. It was terrifying , and I closed my eyes tightly, but I wondered also how it had been done. When I dared to look again, reality was as it had always been. I took the episode as an imploring omen to leave behind my job and home and move into a monastery, which I did. But that did not settle matters. Reality wavered there, too. The monks of the order told me this was a problem of transition to be solved by fervent meditation. As a novice to the ways of spirituality I had not yet conquered the reflex of looking back.

Story #287

It wasn't at all easy to get into the seminar on creative writing held by the widely respected Professor Thomann. Most people waited years, even decades for their acceptance by the honorable academic body. Only a few succeeded before their 50th birthday - as was generally known - through special relations with the dean's advisory board. A not uncommon requirement of would-be ladies of letters - as the advisory board was of a generally male constellation - was the demonstration of certain physical talents as a prerequisite for the privilege of applying their intellectual-creative talents in the seminar. All this lent a somewhat stifling atmosphere to the seminar itself. Most of the participants had writer's block in the first hour, and those who finally overcame their handicap after month-long sessions of psychotherapy gushed their experiences to each other. Nobody seemed aware that Professor Thomann had not appeared a single time in the seminar. Nobody was surprised to find that none of them had ever seen Professor Thomann face-to-face, or even read any of his works. And so it was that none of them drew the conclusion that Professor Thomann was a fictional creation of the honorable board of advisors, one of whose members happened to be a great admirer of Thomas Mann. This was one of those meaningless job-training measures of the new administration, towards the goal of keeping over-the-hill intellectuals and unemployed female writers off the streets.

Story #286

Note from Indeterminacy: Today my muse wrote the story, and I translated it into English.

I struggled my way through a suffocating swamp wide as an ocean and ridden with hostile creatures of amphibian physiology whose forte seemed the strangulation of all thought. This was the path to the house where she lived. I had been there many times before, but each time the way was different and I had to divine it anew. Invariably the journey was perilous and taxing. A previous time I stumbled my way through the crass outline of a city, erring through an eternal crescendo of traffic and noise and anonymity to find my way to her. But despite the physical ambiance of the journey, she was always there in her abode, waiting with exactly the words, some spoken, some held in her eyes, woven like a net, to catch and draw out the idea slumbering unseen inside me, visible only to her. It was so light there, so airy, in contrast to what I knew, and I always found her dancing to a music only she could hear. But as I undertook the journey of return, the idea clutched in my hands, I could almost hear the melody following me with the breeze, and I felt like skipping along whatever path it was that held me.

Story #285

Note from Indeterminacy: The photo is one I took in 1996 of my muse. Thanks to everyone who contributed a story. They have been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com

Nat went after the night monster, wielding the patio chair he kept by his bed for defense during his deep sleep times. He slipped out of the side door of his own dream and into another's nightmare, lurking in wait of the invincible figure meaning to torment the actual sleeper. He saw the fiend, dressed darkly so as to blend into the stuff of dreams, but hands and head glowed in the twilight shining in the sleeping imagination. Strange how the figure he stalked might even have been himself, a thought sparked through his mind as he raised the chair against the nightmare tormentor, who seemed unable to run. He crashed the plastic frame down hard into the head - and never woke up.

Story #284

Bad breakups, sudden inexplicable psychoses, menstruation. One out of ten men have extreme difficulty coping with these phenomena of the female gender. They are gripped by a sudden debilitating condition known as femiphobia. To them a day at the beach sunning among bikinied beauties with bare skin and semi-exposed breasts is worse than a nightmare of pursuit by knife-wielding nurses at a castration clinic. What can you do to help? If you're a girl: walk up to him, softly caress his cheek, take his hand, wrap your arms around him, search for his lips with yours and plant a gentle kiss on them. After a few repetitions the fear will have magically vanished. If you're a guy: walk up to him, softly caress his cheek, and so on. After a few repetitions there will be no more fears...

Story #283

Gaby, Gabi, Gabbie, and Gabriella had similar names and tastes, so no one gasped when they arrived at the party in identical attire. For them it wasn't a nightmare, as with other women who might have buried their face in their hands, edging slowly into the most distant corner, an emotion of dismayed shame guiding their flight. The quartet of Gabys stayed and had a great time. Soon it was noticed that they were hitting on the same men in some kind of regular rotation. The men, whose intoxication increased by the minute, hadn't the discernment necessary to register the discontinuity in conversation and feminine presence. And the women, it was further noticed, had only touched the lemonade. They left together, all eight of them, but no one ever found out what happened afterwards. The men had complete and total blackouts, caused presumably by the quantities of alcohol they had consumed. The Gaby variations were seen the next day sitting on a bench near the park, smiling quite harmlessly.

Story #282

Tara spent her vacation reclining on a rainbow. The sun glowed perfectly all day long, and replaced the moon and stars at night. She marveled at the clouds in the sky dissolving into dew as they approached her. The metamorphosis stimulated her eyes in a manner to make the Northern Lights seem like a monochrome sunset. She swam in a fog of colors she'd never been aware of. They soaked into her skin, tanning her brightly and with fine-toned nuances, as if she were a canvas for a master to paint. Suddenly she perceived the moon hovering towards her, visible despite the solar rays straining futilely to drown it out. Thick tears dripped from the moon's countenance, landing near her, on her, the warm drops of a summer shower. She sat up with surprise, fixing her questioning gaze on the lunar disc. "Why are you so sad?" she asked it. "I am sad," the moon sniffed, "because I have never seen a rainbow."

Story #281

Jersey the lone percussionist banged away on the tensed surface of the drum barrels, crashing a cymbal at occasions when the beat required. Her band mates were gone now, moved to other neighborhoods, going to other schools, making new friends. They'd known each other since nursery school - that early, and so it wasn't hard to understand how their musical sense had become so intertwined with each other's sensibilities. Now, separated from Jersey, the tones were without their familiar heartbeat, and the heartbeat began to wither for loneliness. Jersey sat at the drums and recalled the music of her friends as she beat out the accompaniment, music for the spirit, that only she could hear.

Story #280

I didn't expect the girl of my dreams to suddenly walk through the door, although I had actually expected it to happen. Some people spend their entire lives, search the entire world hoping to find the man or woman they've waited for since they were born. Maybe these people are running to meet their destiny, or unintentionally running away from it. Who can know for sure? But I knew that for me such a search would be ridiculous. The girl of my dreams would just as well walk into this certain bar at this late hour at some point in her life. I merely had to wait there each night at that same hour. And so, here I had been for years every night at ten o'clock.

The waiting would have to pay off sometime. Now it actually had paid off and I was completely stunned, had never thought about what I would do in the actual situation. There she was. Besides not leaving she began to look indescribable, though everything about her was just as I had imagined it would be. Her hair fell magically across her face as a blind painter could only have captured imperfectly in a masterpiece. Eyes, nose, mouth: all were there, perfectly constellated, as a coincidental constellation of stars fits together.

What would I say to her? What could I say to her? And what if I did say something? True, it was her I'd always waited for. But how would it be if I no longer had the thrill of waiting? And what, really, should I say, "Uh, you come here often, don't you?" or "Hi, do you have a sign?" or... But then she started walking towards me! Oh God, now I had to say something. Yes! and I knew exactly, yes!, the most beautiful words to say to this most beautiful of all women.

I opened my mouth, heard myself asking her, "Do you know what time it is?"

"Five past nine," she answered back, and I sat there speechless.

"But it can't be nine o'clock! I...I've never been here before ten. I mean, I always come here at ten because... I..."

She laughed, "Relax! The clocks were turned back yesterday. Didn't you know that?"

No, I hadn't known that, but felt then suddenly at ease and a little embarrassed because I had made such a fool of myself and because it had now become completely unimportant, saying the right words to her.

"Did anything like that ever happen to you?" I asked her, noticing that it brought a pleasant tingle of excitement, trading the few trivial sentences with her.

"Yes," she replied and smiled, "what's your name?"

Story #279

To everyone who stopped by today expecting a story, I'm terribly sorry but I will have to pause until next week. We have company, we're working on the Polish language version of the blog, I'm spending time in the dark room, finally turning out the photos I've promised everyone, and tomorrow night, best of all, I'm going to finally see Lederhosen Lucil in concert. She's one of my favorite musicians, from Canada, and I've wanted to see a concert of hers for more than a year. Check out my story about her, and check out her Website. And if you're in Europe, check out her concert schedule. I fell in love with her music immediately. I think everybody will.

Hell was a bar and grill presided over by three women. They chuckled at the misconception that a figure like Mephistopheles could be thought in charge. Mephisto worked for them, to be sure: washing dishes. But he had no supernatural powers whatsoever. His reputation was based on frequent sightings in cafes and restaurants, always an extravagant and generous tipper. But he hadn't the imagination to make hell hot. The three sisters of sadism, however, were mistresses of the subtle art of torture, applicable on male and female alike, with slight variations as to gender. Males were teased by titillation, suggestive flashes of skin unsuccessfully covered by meager scraps of skirt, and their skill of looking right through a man as if he were of no interest whatsoever. The men would beg to be served a drink or meal, or an attentive smile, but they were ignored. Women, on the other hand, were treated with piercing, dirty looks that throttled self-esteem, achieving belittlement that no amount of male thoughtlessness could ever cause.

That was the nature of hell. Apart from the myth of Mephisto's powers, the conditions of entry had also been clouded by inaccuracy, as introduced by centuries of oral tradition. Good intentions wouldn't get you there, neither would evil actions. If, however, you forgot to tip a waitress, a special table would be reserved for you.

Story #278

Stories have been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

I just read a great story in which Satan appears: "Enoch Soames" written by Max Beerbohm. It should be fun reading for the likes of the Devil and Mrs. Weirsdo (as it deals with literature). (P.S. Wouldn't "The Devil and Mrs. Weirsdo" make a great title for a movie?)

Steve lay quietly on the floor, pressed hard against the carpet. He inhaled and exhaled as inconspicuously as a conscious person is able. Perhaps fifteen minutes went by, perhaps an hour, when he noticed the mirror girls creeping up to the surface of the glass. He threw his entire concentration into the pretense of sleep. Squinting through quivering eyelids, he noticed them at play, tumbling over and under each other like impish squirrels, and with his ear discretely turned in their direction he heard their secretive whispers to one another. They were spying on him, waiting for him to reach that deep phase of sleep where dreams overwhelm the organism. Then they would roll through the mirror, surround him and whisk him away with them, back into the reflection. Now he waited, not daring to move, not daring to squint, for fear of fluttering an eyelid. Without a breath of warning he felt their fingers touching in synchronized choreography. He twisted away and lunged at the girls, hoping to capture at least one of them in a subduing embrace. But each of the nimble nymphs darted out of his reach and back into the other world. Overcome by the lost opportunity, Steve tried to follow them, face pressed against the cold glass, fists pounding on the unresponsive surface. But it was too late. He moaned his lament into the mirror while tears streamed down his cheeks: "You fiends," he cried, "give me back my brother!"

Story #277

For one moment the music faltered. The soul hesitated, ears straining to pick up the vibrations that had guided the heartbeat. Souls have ears. And souls have hearts. This soul shuffled to the syncopations sounding in its world, the riffs blending one into the other, seamlessly, like waves of a gentle sea: Louis Armstrong's trumpet, notes swirling by so fast they left no time for breaths, the roundabout loll of Jack Teegarden's trombone, sounding like a friendly old dog coming up to lick your face, the tinkling of Jelly Roll Morton's fingers on the piano keys, tasting to the ears indeed like jelly on a roll, King Olver directing it all from out of the shadows. But now it was silent...

With footsteps echoing the way they never did while the music played, the soul strolled over to the center of its universe, cranked the gramophone handle, and smiled satisfaction as the primal sound of jazz filled the realm again.

Story #276

This story is dedicated to the wonderful city of New Orleans.

Out of respect for the situation in New Orleans, I'm going to skip the weekend story. I don't feel like writing a story, and I'm sure no one else does, either.

Karla stood by the water's edge, watching the sun set for the last time ever. Most people had remained indoors, indifferent to the last goodbye of the light they had known. But Karla came to pay her farewell respects, to feel a final ray of warmth in a world growing colder by the moment. She squinted her eyes and stared into the glare, but there was no face to be seen, no eyes conveying an emotion of tragedy or elation in the countenance that had once shone on her, tanning and kissing her skin. Soon it would be over. She showed her profile to the vanishing body in the sky, wondering what it would be like in the dark. Though she did not notice, a parting ray streamed into her, to wait, aslumber, for the moment it would reappear in a fleeting smile that Karla would give.

Story #275

Announcement: Due to time constraints I will have to switch to three posts per week over the next three weeks. I'll post stories on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and the weekend story thing. After September 18th things should be back to normal. Sorry to have to do this.

"Did you know 'Antlitz' was the German word for face?" Clara clicked with her segmented tongue while testing with skin-covered fingers the feel of her flesh.

"How would I know that!?" Frank fired forth while completing the inner transformation into a creature with fins. The thin webs forming between his toes began to tickle, causing his countenance to twist instinctively into a fish laugh.

Bob stopped strumming the guitar, looking up with the hunted look of Kafka's ape in "Report to an Academy" about to be captured and caged and taught the ways of civilization. In a moment, thick, grimy fur would sprout from the pores of his chest.

Vanessa had no time to answer. She hurriedly placed a pillow over her body to hide the debilitating change into a gelatinous blob of amoebic substance. The lips on what remained of her human formations were fixed in an embarrassed grin.

"Don't worry," Bill's exuberant voice rang out, "In a moment I'll touch my fingers together and we'll all be ants again!"

Story #274

The story contributions have been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

Original post: I'm leaving for a long weekend and tried to post the weekend photo, but the blogger photo bot is down, which means I can't post. So we can try out Elveshat's idea now (see comments of last post), though not the way she meant it.

I'll describe the photo I was going to post, and you all can try to write something. How's that? There's a cute girl sitting on the floor with her back to a couch. She's wearing a beage colored insect mask, big black eyes on each side. It looks like she has an ant's head or may even be an alien! Photo left is a guy without a shirt holding an acoustic guitar. He looks kind of startled or concerned about something going on off camera. To the antgirl's left is another cute girl, also on the floor, leaning against the couch. Seems relaxed and is smiling. She holds a pillow in her lap. Next to her, photo right is a smiling guy in a yellow t-shirt, making something that looks like a peace sign with both hands, one hand high up in the air, the other down by the floor, peace signs pointed at each other (though they don't really look like peace signs). On the couch is a guy lying on his stomache, looking up into the camera and making a fish face.

Until that morning Lilly had been one of the rose maidens, a fine, majestic princess of a rose. The morning dew coated her from stem to petals, causing a transformation to take place. She tumbled, tearing herself from the branch that held her. When she came to her senses she saw that she was human. She knelt in the soil before the bush of roses she had left behind, embracing it despite the thorns pressing into her. Suddenly an emotion of sadness overcame her, and she ascertained a different kind of dew welling into her eyes, moving in rivulets across the beauty of her countenance. She tried to recall her name, but it seemed to her that she had never known it. She looked at her hands and saw that her skin had begun to shrivel. She was growing old. She returned to the bush, and removed her most cherished companion from his place among the thorns. She brought him to her lips and brushed a kiss onto his tender red skin. Her wrinkles vanished. She was young again. But only for the fleeting measure of a summer breeze.

Story #273

I bought these new building blocks for my son. They're supposed to be educational, challenge the child's imagination, and all. So I was sure they would be good. I left my son alone in his room to play with them and went myself to watch TV. Usually my kid meanders into the living room and joins me on the sofa to watch whatever I'm watching, but after the movie was over I noticed I was alone. "Those blocks must really be good," I thought to myself. Curious as to what he'd made of them, I got up and went to his room. I pulled open the door and stumbled into a whole other universe. Before me at the end of a winding path was a magnificent castle he must have built with the blocks. It looked real. I spied my son down in the valley, dressed like a prince, on a stallion, driving off black knights who were trying to set up a television antenna.

Story #272

This is a repost (and slight rewrite) of a story I posted at Michael's Blogin_Idiot blog. Go there now! There's still time to write a story for his Friday story game.

The party in OP had everyone in stitches. The nurse shed her sterilized whites and began dancing on the instrument counter. Dr. Indigo injected 300 CCs of adrenaline into the stupefied patient and hooked up the heart monitor to the intercom, flooding the clinic with a wickedly cool techno beat. Someone broke into the medicine cabinet and started passing around the stimulants, while someone else set the x-ray projector on strobe. Everyone who wasn't unconscious moved to the beat. Nurses popped into the waiting room to lure fresh blood into the party. Dr. DJ stepped up and played the latest tunes of the dance genre "medical" which he carried around on his iPod and listened to during surgery. Between midnight and morning couples drifted off to secluded corners of the facility for intensive care consisting of mutual sponge baths and massages. It was good, healthy fun. The next day was spent in ciphering the expenses into convincing labels like "Left-Dorsal G-Scan" or "Protein-X Supplementation" and slipping them into the various bills.

Story #271

I dedicate this to all the brave nurses out there who have to look at us when we're sick. And especially to Sk8-rn.

Sonja was a sensitive girl. She hosted sensations of hate in her body for the man who'd seduced her with vodka and pills, taking her finally against her will in the moment when her defenses succumbed to the potent embrace of the chemicals. Each movement of his was a soul-rupturing death she felt acutely with astral awareness, though her physical faculties would not permit her to move. In the midst of her martyrdom she planned each motion of her revenge, a choreography of purposeful movement in a rigid rhythm of time. He must feel the vitiating deaths that he had lavished upon her. There must be reciprocity...

She knocked on his door. He answered. The cold metal of the weapon and the frigid stare of her eyes forced him back as she entered and pressed him by sheer will onto the couch where it had happened. She allowed him some moments of fear, waited for beads of sweat to form, waited for him to tremble and whimper for his life. And then she ended his existence. The first shot emasculated him. The second scrambled his brain into an ugly stew. It always took less than five minutes, as her internal clock perceived. Finally, with the power of her sensitivity, she threw herself back in time ten minutes previous, to appear at his door again, and repeat what from her perspective had just happened. She had counted each of her deaths, and would return them to him in equal proportion.

Story #270

Note from Indeterminacy: A big thank you to the strange and beautiful Argimpasa, for kind permission to use her photo.

The Great War of 2015 left little behind in its wake. No books, no flags, no photographs. Of course there were human survivors, there always are, because even the most thorough of annihilatory practices leaves unexpected havens somewhere, just as a tornado passing through a street levels one house and leaves the next house unscathed. Those crawling out from under the rubble had other concerns than rescuing the trappings of the failed civilization. An occasional preservation of objects reminiscent of the old times did however occur, and was attributed to a feeling of nostalgia that has always been a part of humanity, the melancholy cousin of the dream for a better day. These objects were placed in a museum in displays without commentary. The photograph of the boy pledging his allegiance was part of a trinity, found in the abandoned ruins of a stone cellar, the owner perhaps dust. The photograph had been used as a bookmark in the Bible, the Bible itself wrapped in a flag.

Story #269

Thanks to Aral Peppermint Patty Pez who suggested I use this photo for the weekend stories. I wouldn't have thought of it myself. This begins the second year of indeterminacy. The stories posted in the comments section have been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com

I'm going to pass you around to some stand-up comics today, to some posts that caused me to break down laughing.

First there's Tina Dupuy's "No one ever went broke" at her Sardonic Sideshow site.

Then I'd like to show you Tony Calabrese's classic classic "Miracle of Bookstar" at his Fuggettaboutit blog.

It will be a miracle if you can visit these two sites and not laugh. I will be back next week posting stories. We'll see what I post tomorrow ;-)

P.S. Would any of you be upset if I got one of these google ad things at my blog? I don't expect to make any money, but I'm thinking it could be hilarious the way the adbot software selects ads based on keywords in the stories. What do you all think?

I wanted to share a new blog with you that I found through BE. It's called Geschwallemachen: Daily blogging by a German-wannabe, almost-college-grad, mennonite living in the midwest. The combination just sounds so cool to me. And in a way the blogger (Phil) reminds me of me, before I moved to Germany, during my college years and my first years out of college. Maybe that's why I stuck around. Anyhow, his posts are interesting, well constructed, imaginative, and I think it will turn into a fun place to hang out. The post I wanted to direct you to is called "A trip down Gender Road". It has a Seinfeldian flare to it.

Today I'm guest-blogging at Waking Ambrose defining expatriate, so I guess I can send you there. The photo you'll see is me, taken during the late sixties, when I was seven or so. Should I take that as my profile image? The one I'm using now seems to frighten people.

Oh, I promised to send you someplace brilliant each day, didn't I? Not that Doug isn't brilliant, but he should be more particular about his guests. How about this post at Hauptwege und Nebenwege (Highways and Byways), the blog of Portuguese composer César de Oliveira, in which we discover the secret of one expat's road to success, fame, fortune and happiness. *Organ music up*

I feel like a marathon runner who's just completed a 365 mile marathon. Now I need a breather, to recharge my brain cells, spend time with my family, watch TV, read my favorite blogs, answer my e-mails, sort through the photo backlog, sleep, etc. I'll be back next week with regular stories. For those who are used to stopping by here regularly I will post a daily link to something I saw at another blog that I thought was brilliant. Today I'd like to point you to an amazing short piece I read at a relatively new blog: You @ Soulkin.com.

The vicious pirates Peg Head Jones and his offspring Baby Face Barnacle were terrors from Costa Rica to the Caribbee and as far north as Cincinnati. In '98 they jumped the early-morning line at an inland Toys R' Us, making off with a swag of first edition Barbie dolls just ready to hit the shelves, worth more by this time than the combined income of the top ten supermodels. Their daring escape down the Ohio, Missouri and Mississippi on a leaky raft dazzled the media, and their subsequent daylight disappearance into the Gulf was legend. Now they roamed the rain forest path in search of their stash, ears attuned to the myriad patterns of sound indigenous to South Sea islands: the tinkling waterfall, the exotic song of unseen birds, the hushed murmur of natives far off in the distance.

"Matey, be ya sure this were the spot?" Baby Face Barnacle looked up at the taller pirate.

"I'd swear on a keg o' potato rum!" Peg Head swaggered, rubbing the back of his head with a piece of sandpaper. "I lefts a sign by th' tree what says 'Schefflera actinophylla' and thar it be." He pointed to the inconspicuous, white marker in front of the tropical trunk.

"But we dug an' dug' an' nuthin' but a duster it were. I says we's goin' 'round in circles. I got more deja vooze than a skippin' gramophone." Baby Face shook his head, more puzzled than a parrot in Pittsburg.

"Har, me lad! Somethin' be wrong, but I'll be a pied Peter Pan if I kin get me 'ook in it," Peg Head answered, and glanced about from side to side, hoping to catch sight of something definitive.

"Ay, we be wanderin' for hours and ain't got nowheres. I says we--" The sound of footfalls on the path interrupted Baby Face. He looked up suddenly. "Argh! It be that crazed dog of an islander again. Let's you an' me scar him off!"

Baby Face Barnacle put on his mean look and Peg Head Jones snarled, but the approaching native seemed unconcerned. "Look here," he said, "you two are beginning to frighten the guests. I've told you already, no digging, and now you're making faces at everyone. This is your last warning. Remember that you're in a conservatory!"

Story #268

Note from Indeterminacy: Thanks for all the stories! They have been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com. This is the anniversary post of Indeterminacy. I've been writing the stories now for exactly one year, the first story was on Friday, August 13th, 2004. And in case anyone hasn't guessed, that's me in the above photo, with my son.

Someone invited a car seat to the beach party. No one was sure who was responsible. It hopped around, flirting with the ladies, brushing up against them with its soft upholstery, inviting them to recline in its splendor. "I'm adjustable," it told them. "You can mold right into me." But the ladies declined the offers to flop onto the seat. Not that they were prudes. This type of experimental interaction was one they would have preferred to the privacy of a locked bedroom, where no other eyes could see them. "Please!" the seat persisted. "Let me wrap my seat belt around you." Firm no's rained down upon it. As the party progressed and more and more guests spilled beers onto the cushioned piece, it became bolder, finally pinning one woman against a tree, pressing its back onto her. "This feels so good," the seat said. "From now on, I will never let anyone sit on me in the conventional way."

Story #267

Lady Sleek kept the peace in Utopia. She bided her time, watching the stars through sunglasses, until the vibes of a dissonance rippled ultrasonically upwards to her perch at the peak of the metropolis. At the slightest cue she curved up and over the lookout's railing, swooping down faster than Superman could have, because of being so sleek. She'd land on her feet and rip off her glasses, staring her karma into the contrary eyes of the person who'd strayed. There'd be calm smiles, relieved sighs and brotherly-sisterly hugs all around. And then she'd return to her platform high over it all, focusing her nirvana eyes upward on the brightest star on the dark carpet of night, causing peace to reign briefly in the far off worlds of elsewhere.

Story #266

The New Delhi office was kept dark to save electricity and increase productivity. There were to be no distractions of extraneous light, although the darkness did sometimes facilitate a certain lack of discipline. Ravi began his day of work by looking through his bookmarks. He commenced surfing blogs, reading the capsulized perspectives presented in the posts, clicking his way through the no man's land of monthly and weekly archives. He ranted, raved and praised, in guestbooks, shoutboxes and comment fields, changing identities faster than a chameleon in a kaleidoscope. At some blogs he was the entire audience, so engaged was his enthusiasm for the pleasures of surfing. It was a kind of high that raced through his veins at the speed of a DSL download. An e-mail arrived sending him more links, and he surfed those, too. By mid-afternoon he hadn't done anything but look at blogs. Someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was his supervisor and he had something to say. "Ravi, we've chosen you as employee of the month. Our management and our customers are extremely satisfied with your work. Nobody here generates as much Website traffic as you."

Story #265

George was methodical. He unpacked the grocery bag, item by item, and stacked the wares on the table. The cappuccino, the green beans, the mineral water, and everything else. It looked OK. His eyes darted back and forth running inventory on the products he was about to put away. He always performed this check, comparing his shopping list with the receipt and with the wares, to ascertain the sterling symmetry of his trip to the supermarket. That's when it struck him. A lady's head mingled among the items he'd purchased. It had eyes, a nose, supple red lips, and the pupils were trained right on him, tracking him as he paced nervously up and down the before the table. This threw his entire ordered system out the window. Wherever did the head come from? Once again he compared his documentation with the actual items. The paprika, the apricot jam, the milk, and everything else belonged. But not the head. No matter how he crunched the numbers, the head was always left over. He was in a state of immense agitation at the breakdown of his meticulousness, as he spied the suggestion of delicate, skin-colored fingers wiggling around below the head's chin. He let out a sudden shriek, jumping slightly in the air. He'd heard about ladyfingers, those sweet, finger-sized sponge cakes you served with coffee. He had selected a pastry to go with the cappuccino. Might they have been ladyfingers? He hurriedly packed his shopping into the cupboard. The head was relegated to the refrigerator, behind a melon, face turned inwards, away from the door. He did not want to see the eyes staring at him when he searched for a snack. George returned to the supermarket to post a notice on their bulletin board about a missing head. But he never went shopping there again.

Story #264

Special announcement: Sorry to take so long selecting the winners for June and July. There were so many story contributions in June, I decided to select two names (at random): Alix (again!) and Ariel. For July the winner is Jamie Dawn! Prize is one of my b+w prints in paper or digital form. I'll write to the respective winners tomorrow, but now it's late and I'm going to bed. Good night.

Alice, nymphal in size and litheness, was candy for connoisseurs of the lean. During her Sunday stroll in the park a dapper, doll-sized Teddy Bear darted across her path and into a clump of trees, bobbing left and right past slanting trunks.

"I'm bait!" his voice drifted back to her. She took off after him, hoping to catch and cuddle him. Her pursuit brought her into a dense sameness of shadowy green where she no longer saw any motion. She wandered along for a while, unsure in which direction the Teddy had vanished, until she came upon a clearing. In the clearing was a tree, and around the tree was dancing the Teddy, apparently waiting to be caught. "He's all mine!" she thought as she dashed under the hanging foliage, towards the hopping and skipping bundle of fluff.

"Eat me," said a cookie dangling seductively from one of the branches above her.

"Go ahead," said the Teddy, looking up at her, "It's a cookie tree." The aroma of freshly baked cookies drifted down to her nose. She took the cookie and began nibbling at it with increasing excitement. It was still warm!

"Why, these cookies are exquisite!" she exclaimed, enraptured by the taste.

"Thank you," said the tree. Meanwhile the Teddy bided his time, leaning against the tree trunk, glancing at his pocket watch.

"Eat me," said another cookie. And another. An entire chorus. The more cookies she ate, the fatter she got, until finally the tree was out of cookies.

"Dear me, I'm going to need new clothes," she said to herself, perceiving that her old blouse and skirt had burst into tatters under the stress of her new ampleness.

"You came to just the right place," the Teddy tossed in, "I'm a designer, specializing in costumes for fairy tales. But business has been bad of late. No more fairy tales." He shrugged and handed her his calling card, which she turned over in her chubby hands, studying the sleek, stylized lettering on the small rectangle: "Fashions of Theodore - Have Cookie - Will Crumble."

Story #263

Note from Indeterminacy: Isn't this the worst story I've posted yet? I feel I have to apologize for it. ;-)

I wanted to double dedicate this to Alix in Wunderland and to Alice in Wonderland or Not but it doesn't make sense to dedicate a story about an overweight Alice to an Alice and an Alix who appear in my fantasies as the slender nymphs of the before cookie Alice. (OK, I'll do it tentatively - but if there's any offense, let me know and I'll take it back).

All your stories will be reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com and tonight I will announce all the winners of the June and July contributions.

Erotian women were rumored to possess extraordinary beauty, but no one from the outside world had ever seen one of their faces. The tiny republic with ancient roots lay hidden in the Arabian peninsula, owing to an incredible labyrinth of coincidental sand dunes so elaborate that anyone venturing unawares towards the kingdom must surely have perished. The walled city was accidentally discovered by archaeologists excavating a series of antique statues in the region.

When King Asudem opened his land to tourism, men flocked over the border in droves to see the heralded beauties Erotia had to offer. But the King issued a decree that no woman of the Erotian lands should ever show her face to a non-Erotian. Feet were OK, legs and shoulders were also on the white list, even the midsection with its delicate navel and incurving lines. But not the head. It was a fair compromise, especially on the Erotian beaches, plus the King distracted the tourists with other sites of interests, the Museum of Sculptured Art, for example, where guests marveled at ancient relics of past millennia.

Regarding the quest for beauty, most visitors went home happy with the memory of smooth legs and huggable waists presented by the native females. It had been a stroke of genius of the Information Minister, spreading those rumors. No one would have come had they known the women were all descendants of Medusa.

Story #262

Note from Indeterminacy: Tomorrow I'll post a storyless photo for one and all to write their own stories to. For now, how about visiting Michael at blogin_idiot.blogspot.com who does the same thing on Fridays.

Suzanne was lying in her bathtub when they came, the alien soap beings from outer space. They smashed through the front door with tremendous force, those beings of solid, rock-hard, sun-baked soap. She put on a towel, while running out to see what had happened, saw them spreading out through the entire house. Stationed at windows. Blocking the doors. There was no way to get past them. Though small, the rectangular cakes of lye were a formidable group in centurial magnitude. "We take your planet house by house," they told her as they closed in, forcing her back into the bathroom. "This is house one," she heard continued. They rushed her, but she was able to slam and bolt the door in time. It held for as long as a bubble in a grease vat. With a collective whomp they splintered a hole through the door and in they streamed. She backed away until finally she was in the bathtub again, in a daze as they filled the room. When she looked out, the tub was surrounded by the ivory-white animate objects, cold, soapy countenances staring at her: "So this is human being," they said, "so this is girl." Initially the smooth marble sides of the tub seemed unscalable to them, but they swarmed and forced some of their number higher until their lathery mouths became visible over the rim. The first ones up pulled with them a towel for the rest to climb. Suzanne tensed. One by one they plopped into the water, were on her, trying to subdue her. She felt the slippery things touching her skin, all over her, sliding around in wild circles. It felt good, though she knew this might well be her last feeling. The soap beings reacted swiftly with the water. Suds formed, more and more, covering her. It felt so relaxing. Was this how one succumbed to them, as to a sweet poison bearing a final, pleasant sleep without dreams? She closed her eyes, brought her hands to her side and waited for the end. As the last bar of soap had completely dissolved, a still solitude prevailed. Suzanne was as surprised as the soap creatures must have been, considering they came from a planet with six suns and absolutely no water.

Story #261

I have no choice but to dedicate this to Little Bar of Soap.

It was like this, you see -- What? -- For the deposition? -- OK, my name is Matthew Lovings and I work as the security guard at the Young Fashions Boutique. That's how I first met her. She didn't have a head like other mannequins, but I believed in her. There was something special about the way she modeled those t-shirts. -- What it was? The body language, I suppose. She just seemed so inviting the way she stood there, arms hanging by her side and all. After noticing her, I started going to her during my daily lunch break. I'd sweep aside that stack of t-shirts at her feet, sit down, and work through my lunch box. -- No, I never heard her talking to me. She's shy like that, being headless and all, but I started reading to her, inspirational works, something to build her up, like "The Little Engine that Could" or Dale Carnegie. She's a great listener. -- Yes, I'm sorry, I'll get to the point. -- Yes! Of course I know how to use a gun. -- Why I didn't? When the gangsters rushed into the store I sensed instinctively that she needed me. Those guns pointing and those voices shouting not to move terrified her. The emotions inside her were tearing her apart, and without a head to think it all through she started trembling on that platform and wobbling from side to side. I had to go to her. To calm her down. Those gangsters told nobody to move. They would have harmed her. I don't remember much more. I guess that's where you must have found me, on the floor with her, embracing her tightly, whispering words to her I can't recall now. So, what did the doctor say? Are they going to let me go home soon? -- I see. But it's awfully decent of you to put her in the same room with me. We need each other.

Story #260

"No! I can't let you through here," the shadow of a border agent shouted to the lady with the rouge scarf and dark tunic drawn around bare skin. Borders formed where the brushstrokes of the oil painting ended, scarlet barricades, flanked by shadowy guards one dared not defy. She ran the blind, panicked run known to recur in nightmares, deep into the sanguine darkness, weaving past shadows that felt like presences, but vanishing when touched. And stood again at a border. The same one or maybe a different place, as all were identical. "This border is closed!" the guard declared emotionlessly, twirling an extended umbrella. "The exit, I must find the exit," she told herself in desperation, and sensed that it was hidden in the center of the city, among the multitude of unlabeled buildings. She covered her eyes with one hand, extended the other before her, then bolted off in an unknown direction. Harsh whispers showered down upon her, growing louder the closer she came to the door, wanting to confuse and disorient her, to make her forget. They did not want her leaving. She dashed through unlighted streets, looking inwards to see, stumbling finally upon the hidden destination as the whispers reached a crescendo. With one last surge of adrenalin she leaped through the vacant door frame into the room with the red sofa and the painting she had poured hours of her fantasy and imagination into. She sloped onto the cushioned softness and closed her eyes in sleep. Refreshed by the transitory interlude of an instant, she sat up in wakefulness to a scene unchanged, swimming constant on the threshold between the real and the irreal. Still lingering in her memory was the nuanced knowledge of how to complete her masterpiece. Orange. More orange.

Story #259

Madame Bonair, great grandmother of the gypsies, wandered around her apartment berating her dearly departed spouse. There was no escape for him, not even in death. The idea! Thinking he could simply pass away and spend the rest of eternity haunting a strip bar or hovering around street corners, peering down women's tops. If he was going to see any skin in the afterlife, it would be hers, or her name wasn't Madame Bonair, which it was. So that settled it. The poor disembodied spirit had to accompany his sharp-tongued wife everywhere, even to the tedious séances she held. If only some visitors from beyond would pop in to hang out with him. But that never happened. Her spiritist sittings were such a sham it made his protoplasmic blood boil, all the while wishing vehemently that he could evaporate. He observed his wife at the hocus pocus, the crystal ball she stroked so mysteriously, seeing nothing but a distortion of her own gnarly reflection; and that annoying, nasally-pitched voice spewing forth in her phony trance, the same voice that had nagged him all those years of his life and past his deceasement. Enough was enough! It made him so furious he'd lift up the table and hurl it across the room. But even in death he couldn't win. All that he achieved was a generous tip for Madame Bonair and an increase in her reputation as a mistress of mysticism.

Story #258

Thanks everyone for your story contributions for this photo, all reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

Stella and Starla paused and posed for the shoplifting camera. They had nothing to hide. They'd just come from the men's department, an innovative idea the store was trying out, where women could pick out a man most to their liking, complete with booths for quick kisses and sample layaways. The conditions were competitive: no money down, heterosexuality guarantee and if you applied for the store's credit card, twenty percent less fat. After trying nearly all the men on the racks, they wandered off to the ladies trinkets department. Not that they weren't satisfied with the men. These were girls who knew just what they wanted when they entered a shop, and never allowed themselves to be seduced by all the flashy offers one usually encountered while shopping. Stella selected a scarf and Starla took a cute headband. They planned on returning to the store next weekend, though they hadn't yet decided what it was they would buy. "I think I'll get a tie for my boyfriend," Stella speculated. "Oh yeah, me too," echoed Starla, "that's as good as anything."

Story #257