Roger cruised down Route 66 in his 1967 T-Bird. The motor was music of driving days gone by. The wind shaved past him. The sun on the open road seduced him into ever higher speeds. The landscape whizzed by in a frenzied blur. He was free. But something looked wrong: a blockade in the road ahead. As this loomed larger he saw it was a couple prone on the highway, smiling stupidly as he approached. How dare they!? No way would he stop. He accelerated right into them. No one would ever know he'd done it. Seconds later he was too far ahead on the deserted stretch of road to look back. There hadn't even been a bump. "Oh, wow," he thought to himself, marveling at the surreality of it. Then he saw it again, the blockade that resolved itself into the boy and girl directly before his approaching vehicle. All the while they grinned, as if inviting him to rocket into them. He tried to force the gas pedal through the floor, to get that one spurt of acceleration to bring him over the edge - into what? Now they appeared on every horizon the instant he hurdled into them. He rammed them again and again crazy with the thought of ultimate triumph, sending them into a death from which they could not return. But they always returned. Smiling at him. Laughing. The adrenalin soaked into his psyche until the sweat and the tension caused him to tremble. Then the light flashed "Game Over" and everything stopped.

.
.
.

He turned to leave the booth, then walked enthusiastically to the owner of the establishment.

"That was so cool, especially how those ghosts kept popping up. Really cool."

The proprietor looked at him strangely. "Ghosts? There are no ghosts. You just drive."

Story #331

Thanks to all who contributed! Stories have been reposted at indeterminacies. The next story here will be Wednesday. (This story is no author's cut. I went and reposted the additional ending).

Lila went to visit the friend she made in the pub. He was extremely poor and lived in a garbage can. "Is there room for two of us in there," she asked through the open lid. "Oh yes," the answer, "please enter my world." So she entered the ugly underbelly of existence, and found herself in a loft, vastness defined by distant walls all lined with fascinating colors of artwork. They seated themselves in plush arm chairs that nearly engulfed them, and smiled confidently at each other, enjoying the silent moments when nothing had to be said, only the exchange of glances proclaiming that they'd each found the one they were looking for. She was distracted for a moment as the lid of the container opened, and a sack of garbage emptied into the abode. She saw rotten vegetables and other refuse streaming towards her, but as it fell a transformation occurred. Ivory carvings and crystal vases landed on the tables all around, diamonds and emeralds, shining impeccably, pattered onto the floor. Paintings by a master's hand assumed positions in gaps on the wall. "My world is beautiful," he told her, winking slightly. She left him late into the night, wondering just how many hours it had been in his company, but she couldn't work it out. The next day she returned to see him again, to move in with him, as she knew it must be. But only bare walls greeted her expectant gaze into the dwellings. It was Wednesday. Garbage day.

Story #330

Sorry folks, I didn't get to write a story today. But I've posted a new translation at the Tucholsky blog: kurttucholsky.blogspot.com/2006/01/das-publikum.html

Contrary to popular belief the origins of chess are not Indian, Persian or Chinese. The game was devised on the planet Chaos-IV as a means for the two co-rulers to govern the unmanageable planet. After centuries of fierce and brutal warfare between factions of rigid traditionalism and adherents to radical unorthodoxy, wiser councils in the planet's population prevailed with a shrewd concept to bring both sides together, save the planet, and encourage the spirit of competition. The heads of state, the two ablest minds the respective factions had to offer, would play a game of chess to ascertain ruling decision. If the traditionalist won, the decision would be his. If the unorthodox ruler achieved checkmate, he would make the decision. In the event of a stalemate, a synthesis of both points-of-view established policy. This method provided the balance necessary for the planet to not only survive, but held the drawbacks of each approach in check. In practice it proved to have one limitation. Chess games could be excruciatingly long. If an urgent situation required snap judgment the two venerable leaders dispensed with the chess and flipped a coin.

Story #329

All the stories have been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com. And good luck to Viruswitch who's playing against a real grand master of chess in a few days.

Instead of a story, I thought it would be fun to play a little game. Below I've copied in a quotation from Sherlock Holmes in "The Final Problem" (from "Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes" (1893) by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle). In it is hidden what I think is the most brilliant advice for good writing that I've come across. But I'm not sure how obvious it is. Please leave a comment telling me what you see, and I'll reveal my solution Friday.

The quotation:

"Oh yes, it is most necessary. Then these are your instructions, and I beg, my dear Watson, that you will obey them to the letter, for you are now playing a double-handed game with me against the cleverest rogue and the most powerful syndicate of criminals in Europe. Now listen! You will dispatch whatever luggage you intend to take by a trusty messenger unaddressed to Victoria to-night. In the morning you will send for a hansom, desiring your man to take neither the first nor the second which may present itself. Into this hansom you will jump, and you will drive to the Strand end of the Lowther Arcade, handing the address to the cabman upon a slip of paper, with a request that he will not throw it away. Have your fare ready, and the instant that your cab stops, dash through the Arcade, timing yourself to reach the other side at a quarter-past nine. You will find a small brougham waiting close to the curb, driven by a fellow with a heavy black cloak tipped at the collar with red. Into this you will step, and you will reach Victoria in time for the Continental express."


The Solution (posted Friday):

It's hard for me to write the solution when so many of you wrote it in the comments much better than I was going to. You've added insights that I never thought of. I assumed this would be so obtuse that everyone would write something different, projecting their own ideas of writing onto the quotation. But it turned out to be just plain elemantary, a child's play of induction.

It's just like Mrs. Weirsdo wrote. When writing something, and if you wish it to be original, never take the first idea, nor the second. The third may be safe. So much has been written. Maybe everything has been written. And what do people write? The first thing that comes to mind. In order to stand out, you must do more. This was merely an introspection gained by writing the weekend stories. I find those harder to write, because the picture has been determined, and can't be changed, whereas during the week I can just scan through photos until one catches my eye with an instant inspiration.

There's also much to be said for spontaneous writing and spontaneous inspirations. But they have been rare for me. There've only been a handful of photos for which I sat down, saw them, and immediately wrote out the entire story. The other times, I sent away idea after idea until one arrived that I thought was novel. Interesting that many of the writing instructions tell people to write the first thing that comes to mind. Some of my best stories have resulted from the second or third draft. Perhaps great writing is a rare blend of spontaneity and plan.

You are all hereby bestowed with a diploma granting you the status Doctor of Indeterminacy and Synchronicity. I will be preparing those this weekend.

Late at night when the weary sleep off the day's exhaustion the Nutella nymph flits from house to house searching kitchens and pantries for the tasty glass of ebony creme that makes life sweet. Unseen. Unsuspected. A slight lick and a taste she gives to bless each jar, then moves on to the next house. But as the night wanes her day begins, enveloping her in mundanities. It is the joy of the night and the blessings she dispenses that help her forget that day job, profane in its demands. But what can she do? Man must also live by bread. She must work, and the only place that gave her a job was the peanut butter factory.

Story #328

All of a sudden it became light, physically and metaphorically. The light streaming through his pupil caused the iris to squeeze in around the tiny black opening. Also he remembered. So this was reincarnation. It was like in those "Tales from the Crypt" comics he used to read. He and Angie were madly in love, but her husband stood in the way. They schemed in secret to do away with him, the perfect murder. They would lure him into the basement with the sound of their lovemaking. All he had to do was open the door to the romper room and the bowl of sulphuric acid would spill over him, causing his head to dissolve. Unfortunately Angie's husband did not open the door. He crashed in through the cellar window, rushing at them with an axe. Brad and Angie, overwhelmed by the unexpected variation, scurried frantically to the prepared door. It finished them. The husband did get a few splashes of acid in his face, which ruined his eyes, but he was sped to the clinic, and - in a spectacular operation - given new eyes. One glance in the mirror and it became insightfully clear to Brad. He had been reincarnated as the eye of his intended victim. And what's more, as he looked into the mirror before the survivor's face, he could clearly see the other eye. It was Angie.

Story #327

Thanks to all who contributed stories! They will be moved to indeterminacies.blogspot.com in the next days. Any more contributions?

I am Pam

I am Pam
Pam I am

That Pam-she-is !
That Pam-she-is !
I do not like
that Pam-she-is !

Do you like my green friend Liz ?

I do not like her Pam-she-is
I do not like your green friend Liz

Would you like her left or right ?

I would not like her left or right
I would not like her in my sight
I do not like your green friend Liz
I do not like her Pam-she-is

Would you like her in a park ?
Would you like her in the dark ?

I will not meet her in a park
I will not touch her in the dark
I will not have her left or right
I will not have her in my sight
I will not like your green friend Liz
I will not like her Pam-she-is

Would you take her by the hand ?
Would you take her in the sand ?

Not by the hand
Not in the sand
Not at a park
Not in the dark
I do not want her left or right
I do not want her in my sight
I do not like your green friend Liz
I do not like her Pam-she-is

Would you ? Could you ? In a bar ?
Meet her ! Meet her ! She's a star

I would not
could not
in a bar

You may like her
She won't bite
You may like her
late at night !

I would not could not late at night
Not in a bar ! You are not right
I do not like her by the hand
I do not like her in the sand
I do not like her at a park
I do not like her in the dark
I do not like her left or right
I do not like her in my sight
I do not like your green friend Liz
I do not like her Pam-she-is

A bed ! A bed !
A bed ! A bed !
Could you would you
in a bed ?

Not late at night ! Not in a bed !
She's green I tell you ! Toe to head !

Would you kiss her
on the mouth ?

I would not kiss her on the mouth !
I would not kiss her North or South !
I would not could not touch her hand
I could not would not in the sand
I will not see her in the park
I will not see her in the dark
I will not see her left or right
I will not see her in my sight
I do not like your green friend Liz
I do not like her Pam-she-is

You do not like her
So you say
Kiss her ! Kiss her !
Then you may
Kiss her then you may I say

Pam !
If you will make her go
I will kiss her
So you know

[.]
[.]
[.]

Say !
I like your green friend Liz !
I do ! I like her Pam-she-is !

Story #326

Note from Indeterminacy: It has its flaws, but that's the best I could make it. My apologies to Dr. Seuss. For those of you who do not know the original "Green Eggs and Ham," go here, go there, go anywhere. This also happens to be one of my first childhood books.

I think that we can now agree that I should not write poetry.

Postscript: I didn't think of this when I wrote the above post, but there really are gals out there called Liz. One of them is right here.

Meditatory remodeling, a most effective means of expanding your horizons within the capsulized realm of four confining walls, a floor and a ceiling. You concentrate on your dwelling place, and yourself inside it, belly flat on the floor, pressing your abdomen onto the surface with each breath - a symbolic effort to become one with the bosom of the building. The cycle of breathing has its own power of hypnosis - soon you find yourself drifting through the honeycombed path of your memories - intense memories attached to the dwelling. After a time, memories lounging in the spirit of the domicile mingle with the familiar memories you contribute, and ever deeper you drift into a unity with the soul of the architecture. May tried it, but she didn't feel at all different, in fact, she was about to break it off. She did not realize that her home had left its foundation to soar high into the heavens.

Story #325

Sorry, I didn't get to write a story today, but I've posted an introduction to the Tucholsky blog, and a short prose translation.

It was slow that evening so they whipped out their eyetops and began counting blogs. The first one to fall asleep would buy the next round. Usually they all fell asleep at the same time, so nobody bought. Those eyetop thingies were a cool rage. You plopped one up against your face and looked into the Internet at whatever you wanted, then clicked it with a blink of the eyes. If you had that chip accessory planted in your brain you could even blog and surf at the same time. You just imagined your rant, and voila! - it was a post. This saved valuable time for parties and socializing and other real-life events, if you could find them. Real-life events had become pretty scarce since the eyetops came around, and if the girls did find a place to meet boys, none ever showed up, because the boys themselves were too busy surfing and blogging, the new eternal cycle of life.

But then the girls had an idea to liven things up. They shot a meme into the Internet, and gazed expectantly through the viewing devices to see what would happen:

1) List your four favorite memes.
2) Add this meme as your fifth favorite.
3) Send these instructions to ten of your friends.
4) Work through the five memes, following each instruction to the letter.

They watched as the Internet imploded. Blog after blog vanished like a vacuum-filled soap bubble. It was so much fun. They would definitely have to blog about this later.

Story #324

Thanks for all the great posts, to be reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

Hey! Vote for me, and all the other blogs you like!

Special Announcement!

I'll be back writing stories with the weekend photo. Also, this week marks the begin of a new project that I invite you all to follow. David Raphael Israel and I have begun a Kurt Tucholsky project in which I will translate a Tucholsky poem into English, staying as near as possible to the original, while David will work out a further translation or impression based on my version, and the form of the original. In other words, I will translate into English - David will translate into poetry.

Already the German language blogosphere has taken kind notice of our intention, with a report and well-wishes at the Kurt Tucholsky Weblog written by Friedhelm Greis, a member of the board of directors of the official Kurt Tucholsky Society.

I have to do something to get the Christmas post off the top of this blog! I'm still trying to work out a decent story to start with, or indecent, as the case may be. But until that's solved I decided to go with an interlude.

Two significant events occurred in December 2005:
1) Scientists discovered why the Mona Lisa is smiling.
2) The copyright on the German author Kurt Tucholsky expired.

What's the connection? Tucholsky had a poem about Mona Lisa, which I've attempted to translate, with little regard or feeling for poetic form, I'm afraid. But I thought I'd present it here in the hopes that more poetry blogs will link to me:

The Smile of Mona Lisa (1928)
Kurt Tucholsky

I can't turn my eyes from you
the way you hang over your guardian
with softly folded hands,
and grin.

As famous as the Tower of Pisa
your smile stands for irony.
Yes... why is the Mona Lisa smiling?
Is she laughing at us, about us, despite us, with us
against us -
or some other why?

You silently teach us what must be
because your image, Lisa, proves:
one who has seen much of this world
smiles, lays the hands on the abdomen
and is silent.

Tucholsky was a brilliant and prescient satirist of the Weimar Republic era in Germany who saw exactly where the country was going politically and warned against it. He was so on target, to me it's as if he could actually see the future. I'm not the first person to call his work visionary. I intend to translate some of his shorter pieces sometime soon, just to show how accurate they still are. I don't know if I'll present that here, but we'll see.

I hope this poem didn't bore anyone, but I figure if someone gets bored at my blog, it's better if it's not my writing that did it.

Postscript: I originally translated this to send it to David Raphael Israel as it related to his delightful lyric on Mona Lisa. He took my translation and made a real poem out of it, worthy of the original!

"Peace on earth, good-will to men." An astute reader noticed the words in a Christmas poem by one "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow," and notified the authorities. They examined pictures of Wadsworth. Long white beard. Thick moustache. No doubt about it. It was Santa. What's more, the man was a dangerous pacifist and an enemy to the State! Why else would he have all those aliases? Santa Claus, St. Nick, Kris Kringle. Word went out and the man immediately arrested. They kept him in a cell, solitarily confined for weeks. He lost lots of weight, but he never told where the elves were. It was decided finally to make an example of him.

They announced the event, to be held Christmas Eve. Everyone was there. Standing room only. Bigger than the Macy's Day Parade. The door to the field opened and Santa was led in. A hush embraced the entire audience of spectators with tension so thick you could cut it with a cookie cutter. They were throwing him to the reindeer! - wild, raging beasts that streamed onto the field through another door. When they saw his cheeks like roses and that red suit, they went berserk, charging towards him in a pack.

Santa may have been a pacifist, but he wasn't stupid. And that black leather belt meant something. It meant Judo. The first reindeer went down in a heap. The second tripped over the first. More rushed in and more crashed to the ground. Soon Santa was knocking them down faster than they could rise again. Downed, Dasher! Downed, Dancer! Downed, Prancer and Vixen! At last the reindeer could take no more and were away in a blitz, flying up out of the stadium, never to be seen again. It was a Christmas miracle! "Ho! Ho! Ho!" Santa's jolly laugh rang through the stadium. The children went wild and swarmed to the fences to tell him their Christmas wishes.

Story #323

A very Merry Christmas, a Happy Chanukah, and a wonderful Holiday Season to all of you. Indeterminacy will be back in the New Year. Postscript: Last year's Christmas story is here.

Note: Persons of a non-English language cultural heritage may not recognize the references in the story to the classic Christmas poem "The Night Before Christmas." You can read the text of the original version here.

The blog is winding down for the year. I'll try to put up a Christmas story or two before going off for the holidays. Then Indeterminacy will be back in the New Year, hopefully new and improved, but probably same as ever.

The siege continued into countless starweeks. It was becoming desperate. Kirk, Spock, McCoy, and Scotty were locked in the bridge with Uhura, Nurse Chapel and Chekov, cowering in fear of the Alien Cliché roaming the decks of the Enterprise. Cabin fever and delirium had set in. Kirk kept pounding his fist on the console, shouting "This is my ship!" McCoy would blurt out "I'm a doctor, not a mechanic!" seemingly in no connection with anything relevant. Scotty was babbling on about the engines and Spock kept trying to wiggle his ears. Nurse Chapel quivered while Chekov stuttered passages of Tolstoy at her, and Uhuru sang nursery rhymes to Starfleet Command.

This was all preceded by the surprising arrival of the Cliché Alien right in the middle of Kirk's cabin. She had green eyes and olive-green skin, and antennas sprouting from her head. At first Kirk looked forward to some noncommittal kissing and petting, but then she began toning "I love you forever" with her sultry, spaced-out voice. He fled through the ship. Sulu, trying to protect his captain, barred her way, but she threw a kiss, vaporizing him into a green gas which she then inhaled. After 79 episodes of the original series, 178 of The Next Generation, and 98 of Enterprise, not to recall the forgettable Deep Space Nine and Voyager, 348 episodes in all, and ten movies, there were no options left. That's when the officers retreated to the bridge and locked themselves in. The Cliché Alien roamed the decks rattling off dialogue from badly dubbed Bollywood films.

Somewhere the good spirit of Gene Roddenberry observed all this and decided to intervene. He selected two girls from the planet Chaos-IV and beamed them across the galaxy onto the Enterprise. They took up their positions in one of the corridors, biding their time, waiting for the predictable appearance of the Cliché Alien. She approached them, arms outstretched, ready to initiate a tongue kiss. But it didn't come as she expected. In the moment before lips touched lips, the girls whipped out their erasers and rubbed the alien away. In her place stood Sulu, alive again and gracious recipient of their tongue caresses.

Story #322

Original post: This photo for the weekend stories was prompted by Viruswitch's comment, "Beam me up scotty :D." So I dug up the photo that I've had here for a while that always suggested to me a corridor in the Starship Enterprise. So write Star Trek stories, if you can think of any, otherwise write what you can think of. I'll post my story late Monday. Enjoy the weekend. All story contributions have been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com. P.S. I posted Friday's story rather late, so if you missed it, it's right under this post.

Farmer Brown took loving care of his roosters. Quarters should be comfortable and roomy, food was to be the best, no expense was spared. He even set up an Internet Bar in the coop to entertain his poultry in their spare time.

"Hey, quit crowding!" a group of roosters gawked to their friend Hogwaller who tried to force his way through to the monitor.

"Has he updated yet?" the spurned specimen of roosterhood shot back, his red crown flapping and twisting in excitement.

"We're waiting, too!" one of the feathered cocks answered impatiently.

Hogwaller noticed that his coopmates pecked at the screen every few seconds to effect a reload of the Blog they were trying to get. The monitors, in consideration of the animals' physiology, had been made sensitive to the touch. It was especially fun touching the screen when one of those cool Indeterminacy chick-photos was on display. They all took turns pecking well into the night in a tumultuous congregation around the glowing monitor. And the monitor only seemed to glow brighter and hotter as the night progressed.

A sudden commotion interrupted Hogwaller's reveries over past stories. He perceived a flash on the screen and bits and pieces of excited cock-squawk: "It's up!" - "A story!" - "Lemme see!" - "Whazzit about!" And finally, "Damn! I think he's tapped into our Webcam."

Story #321

- Can you bend?
- I beg your pardon?
- Can you bend?
- I wasn't expecting that. Do you mean like this?
- That will do nicely. Now, think a circular thought.
- A what?
- A thought whose end cycles into the beginning.
- Can you give examples?
- Let's see... The rising and setting of the sun. The cycle of life, from birth to death to rebirth. The heavy breaths of primal exertion. The tides.
- A heartbeat? How's a heartbeat?
- Hmmm, has rhythm, movement, unrelenting. Excellent!
- What now?
- Hold that position. Freeze your thoughts. Engineer! Switch on the psychogram captivator! Bottle the essence! This is it! Our new eau de parfum for the ladies: Male Fantasy™.

Story #320

Dave was a glass-smith. With his talents he created kaleidoscopic glasses of prismatic distortion through which he could see good and evil as distinct entities - in a single subject! He could look at a person and see these opposites, hermetically distinct and conveniently capsulized for easy comparison. It was all in the eyes. The viewer peered through the lenses and into the eyes of the person. One eye held all the malevolence, contempt and hatred that a person had to offer. The other eye reflected the entire goodness in that person's soul. Jekyll and Hyde at a glance. The only trouble with the glasses was that one could never tell which eye was which.

Story #319

The nightmare flooded his consciousness and would not leave him. He recalled the two women lying in the bed, pleasantly waiting, exuding temptation with bodies shrouded in the cool whiteness of linen. "Kiss us, kiss us," they spoke through their veiled mouths. And in the dream he could not resist them. There was nothing unpleasant in their attitudes and in the enticing manner their eyes followed him. Decisively, with both hands, he slid the shroud of the first siren just enough to kiss the mouth beneath. As his lips molded onto its fullness, her lips turned to cold, hard stone. The eyes remained fixed in a glassy stare, and he saw as he looked closer that they were glass, and the head papier-mâché and porcelain. When he tore the entire shroud from her body he saw there was nothing beneath but decaying humus intermingled with twisting worms. The other girl began laughing out loud at his folly, and then he'd awaken.

But he was awake now as he approached the two girls, and that's when he remembered the nightmare. Fighting back misgivings he mounted the foot of the bed, and inched up the furrow between the two breathing bodies. The gentle rising and falling of sheets bore witness to natural physiology. He stared at them a long while, poised between them, unsure of what to do. Would they be real to the touch? His lids grew heavy under the ponderances. It became harder to hold them open. His thoughts drifted. The lids fluttered closed. "Go to sleep," the girls whispered to him. "We'll wait for you."

Story #318

I'll post my story in a few hours after I polish it up. Please have a look over at kirwani.blogspot.com where David Raphael Israel has begun a remarkable foray into the 55 Word Story.

Postscript: The entire set of stories are posted at http://kirwani.blogspot.com/2005/12/thirty-pages.html.

Ralph was a drinker. He drank considerable quantities of alcohol. He measured the extent of his intoxication on the basis of his hallucinations. One drink put the people around him into t-shirts and jogging pants. The second drink had them jogging around as they jiggled into swim trunks and bikinis. After the third drink people started arcing into the air and swimming around at eye level with Ralph. Four drinks and Ralph was swimming right along with them in a 60 proof sea of alcoholic splendor. But not today. They wouldn't have let him through the turnstiles in that kind of condition, due to the danger of spontaneous combustion when the lights switched on. What an idea it had been turning the coliseum into a mass tanning studio!

Story #317

Sad news: Robert Sheckley, America's great science fiction satirist passed away on December 9th, 2005.One of his last stories, "Reborn Again" is shared with us online.

The stories posted here in the comments have all been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

One night while enjoying the warmth of their campfire, Tim and Tony decided to go amphibian and take over the world of the mermaids they knew to thrive in the lagoon. To reign over such minions! To be masters over the realm of Aquarian pleasures! The multi-fathomed lagoon was fed on one side by a torrid waterfall whose long tongues suavely licked it into sublimity. Along crept the boys to the shore side of the pool. The half-human creatures huddled anxiously below the surface, considering their defense against the coming attack. Tony struck the water first. The mermaidens, experts in seduction, decorated him with droplets of lake dew, dissolving him into a girl. As Tim perceived the change an entirely new plan of conquest entered his mind.

Story #316

Note from Indeterminacy: I will be off of blogging until Wednesday evening, due to a two day class I'm holding at work. No time to concentrate on stories.

There have been so many work and family fluctuations recently that it wasn't always possible to prepare a story, which is unfortunately the case today. But I want to share with you a few beautiful places I've found out about:

1) River's Blue Elephants - Stunning poetry
2) Cruel Virgin - Keen observations
3) Viruswitch - There's a glass of wine waiting for you!
4) Young at Heart in San Diego - New blog from a nice gal.

And just to show you I don't only notice the ladies, here are two male bloggers:
5) The Chaotic One - Opinions with soul
6) Hantojin - Euian's remarkable Signus drawings

I will think very hard tonight while I'm sleeping and tomorrow, and hope to have a story by the European evening.

The horrible hands wriggled ever closer, dragging their stumps behind them, creepy, bloodless forearms severed at the elbow. How ghastly they looked - entities beginning with those mindlessly clenching fingers and ending in dried, dangling nerves. The fingers balled themselves, dragging their burden forwards, then flexed suddenly, causing the appendage to lurch through the air the length of a thumb. Ciro tensed. He stood stiff as a statue staring at the hands. Perhaps if he remained absolutely still they would thump on by without noticing him. He couldn't bear the thought of those fingers touching him. He'd just as soon shake hands with his roommate after one of the fellow's messy masturbations. Absurd side-thoughts snapped into his brain. The hands had taste. The black color of the fingernails was quite becoming, better certainly than the ghastly color of the vacant veins behind them. And the bracelets decorating the wrists, suggestive of pretty students he'd seen hurrying from building to building at the university. His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a tugging at his pants legs. They were upon him, climbing his pants! First the left hand was closer, then the right. To the waist. At the torso. Climbing his shirt. His terror grew with each inch of proximity to his neck - for he was sure they wanted to strangle him. His roommate burst into the room. "Oh there they are," he said, swooping in and snatching the hands from Ciro's shirt collar, from whence they dangled. "I was putting my build-a-girl robot kit together," he said. "The hands must have crawled away while I was screwing on the breasts."

Story #315

Gaby thrust her head into the thoughts of the boy she liked. She saw metallic permutations of light pulsing off in level planes extending from her point of view. The streaming motion repeated with algorithmic precision, as if driven by the spinning gears of a well-oiled machine. She closed her eyes and basked in the cycle of thought currents whisking past her. Rays of imagination tickled her nose. She longed to tumble through that universe of light, hands outstretched, grasping the thoughts, spinning them backwards, adding a tangent here and a titillation there. "Now for the fun," Gaby thought, as she stuck out her tongue and flashed the camera. In no time at all her face moved in to dominate the resulting disarray.

Story #314

Robbing the cradle! That's what they thought when they saw the two together, pretty girl, fresh as a peach, with that weathered old husk of a man, face wizened and hair grizzled with age. She should have selected someone of a similar vintage. After all, they would be together the rest of their lives, and how long would that be? Five thousand, six thousand years? The immortality serum had introduced new social problems into the midst of the dating and growing-old-along-with-whoever-game. Add to that the complications of the serum itself, which caused the men to gray and bloat with age, while the girls remained as sweet as they ever were at sixteen. Perhaps it was the difference in metabolism, perhaps the fact that the serum was invented by a lady scientist. But love is blind, as they say, and so it wasn't so unusual to see men at the tender age of sixteen hundred going around with girls more than twice their age, in spite of what people said.

Story #313

Note: All your great contributions have been reposted at indeterminacies.

Read about Viruswitch's experience with Indeterminacy!

Now, the exciting conclusion of my "comic" from 1983 (Part 1 is here and part 2 is here). For those unable to read chicken scratch, here is the transcription:

Row 1, Frame 1: UNFAIR TO PILOTS // ON STRIKE
Row 1, Frame 2: DON'T FLY AIR TITANIC // HIGHER WAGES, NOT SCABS // Hey, who's flying the plane?
Row 1, Frame 3: He's got a point. // Let's bail out before we get killed.
Row 1, Frame 4:
Row 1, Frame 5: Stewardess!
Row 1, Frame 6: I want to buy a parachute. // That'll be $79.95.
Row 2, Frame 1: I thought it was $29.95.
Row 2, Frame 2: It was. We had to raise the price because everyone's buying them now.
Row 2, Frame 3: HOLD BREATH // DING
Row 2, Frame 4: Passengers, please hold your breath for about five minutes. We're out of oxygen.
Row 2, Frame 5: Fly me to Miami or I'll set off a bug bomb!
Row 2, Frame 6: But sir, don't you mean Cuba? // What's the difference?
Row 3, Frame 1: Well, I'm sorry sir but no one on board knows how to fly the plane. // OK, sorry to bother you.
Row 3, Frame 2: Please fasten your safety belts, we're about to crash into a mountain.
Row 3, Frame 3: Calling Air Titanic Flight 0, Air Titanic Flight 0, come in please.
Row 3, Frame 4: Oh well, it looks like they lost another one. // KABLAM
Row 3, Frame 5:
Row 3, Frame 6:
Row 4, Frame 1: THE END
Row 4, Frame 2: A typical day on a typical flight...
Row 4, Frame 3: ...was brought to you by Indie...
Row 4, Frame 4: ...a major stockholder in Amtrak.
Row 4, Frame 5: Boy, that's the last time I fly this airline.
Row 4, Frame 6: KABLAMO // (Yeah, it was)

And now, part two of the exciting saga of Air Titanic, one of my early "works" from 1983. Don't worry, there aren't many more of these "works." And anyhow, I have no idea what box they're in. If you missed part one go there first. Happy Thanksgiving! (What a great time to post a turkey!)

To aid the naked eye in reading my scrawls, here is a transcript:

Row 1, Frame 1: Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Air Titanic Flight 0. Please watch es the stewardess nearest you points out the various safety features of the plane...
Row 1, Frame 2: To operate the escape hatch...
Row 1, Frame 3: ...insert 50 cents into the slot...
Row 1, Frame 4: ...turn the handle...
Row 1, Frame 5: ...and exit the plane.
Row 1, Frame 6: In the event of a sudden loss of cabin pressure the "Hold Breath" light will come on...
Row 2, Frame 1: ...and you must hold your breath until the situation returns to normal. There is no smoking while the "Hold Breath" light is on.
Row 2, Frame 2: Coke machines are located at the front and rear of the coach. Parachutes ($29.95), seat belts ($9.95) and airsick bags ($5.00) are available at the sales booth at the front of the plane.
Row 2, Frame 3: On behalf of Captain Hindenburg and Co-pilot Lusitania we wish you a pleasant flight. This flight announcement was brought to you by Agent Orange, the breakfast drink for veterans.
Row 2, Frame 4:
Row 2, Frame 5:
Row 2, Frame 6: This is the co-pilot speaking. The complimentary alcoholic beverage will not be served on this flight as the Capt. drank everything we had. Capt. Hindenburg will be speaking to you as soon as he sobers up.
Row 3, Frame 1: Where are we going anyway? // I don't know. I forgot to check. // Help!
Row 3, Frame 2: Let's head for that air pocket. We'll make a killing on the airsick bags.
Row 3, Frame 3: Hey look, a wing fell off! // Look at the size of that tornado!
Row 3, Frame 4: Hey, we're flying upside down! // There goes our luggage.
Row 3, Frame 5: This is the Captain speaking. I apologize for the sudden turbulence we flew through. The navigator just hanged himself...
Row 3, Frame 6: Also, will any passenger knowing directions from Pittsburgh to Cleveland please step forward to the cockpit area at this time. Thank you.
Row 4, Frame 1: I think I'll read the magazine.
Row 4, Frame 2: THE ICEBERG // August 1962 // AN AIR TITANIC PRODUCTION
Row 4, Frame 3: GREAT AIR MYSTERIES // WHERE ARE AIR TITANIC FLIGHTS 7, 19, and 23?
Row 4, Frame 4: WHY HAVE AIR TITANIC FLIGHTS BEEN BANNED FROM REPUTABLE AIRPORTS? AN FAA INTERVIEW.
Row 4, Frame 5: FAMOUS AIR DISASTERS // AIR TITANIC CONTRIBUTIONS
Row 4, Frame 6: This is your captain speaking. We've just received word that the management of Air Titanic has refused to approve our next contract. Effective immediately, all Air Titanic pilots are on strike. Thank you.

Click here to read the exciting conclusion!

Note to poor Viruswitch, who was thrown into a sudden state of shock by the first page of this cartoon, and began wandering the archives, commenting on ancient posts. I will take up her suggestion to find out the reader favorite. So all of you, please go through the archives and read all 312 of the stories and tell me which one you liked best.

After seeing Dushan's post at shtikl.com I decided to do a little departure myself the rest of this week. What I wrote to Dushan will explain it all:

You inspire me to post something ancient of mine. When I was in high school I did a few comic strip stories. One was a surrealistic Charlie Brown. Another was about Dr. Bubblebrain, a scientist experimenting with bubble gum that turned on him, causing him to go mad and try to take over the world. I think I had Charlie Brown as some kind of superhero wanting to stop him.

And then there's one I scanned in ten years ago and must have on some backup cds somewhere, a three page comic about an everyday guy who makes the mistake of flying Air Titanic.

I wasn't prolific, mainly because I draw at a third grade level, and only did stuff when I had a sudden, compelling inspiration. My son and most other children can draw better than I can.

So today I've posted page one. Tomorrow and Friday I'll post the next installments. By the way, not only can I not draw (it was truly a challenge for me to make the characters look the same from frame to frame), my handwriting is atrocious. This is from 1983.

Important note: To read the cartoon, in Internet Explorer, click the image to get a larger view, then position the cursor on the bottom right corner. You should then get an icon you can click to enlarge the image to its scanned size. Otherwise, just save the jpg and view it with your favorite photo editor. For those who can't read my writing, here is a transcription of the text:
Row 1, Frame 1: Airport
Row 1, Frame 2: Can you direct me to Air Titanic?
Row 1, Frame 3: Air Titanic? I've never heard of them. Just a minute.
Row 1, Frame 4: Boss, do we have an 'Air Titanic' at this airport?
Row 1, Frame 5: Sorry to keep you waiting. Their ticket window is located in a blue van in the rear parking lot.
Row 1, Frame 6: MEANWHILE AT THE AIR TITANIC HANGER..... This plane has had it. // I guess we'll have to give refunds.
Row 2, Frame 1: Wait a minute, let's swipe one of Delta's jets. They've got a dozen in the next hanger.
Row 2, Frame 2: They won't even recognize it once we put our logo on it.
Row 2, Frame 3: Perfect!
Row 2, Frame 4: Is this the Air Titanic ticket desk? // Yes.
Row 2, Frame 5: Can I have my boarding pass? Here's my ticket. // Sure, smoking or non-smoking?
Row 2, Frame 6: Uh... non-smoking. // OK, just a minute.
Row 3, Frame 1: Just wear this sign around you. If that doesn't work, you're on your own.
Row 3, Frame 2: Do you have any baggage to check? // Just the suitcase.
Row 3, Frame 3: It's kind of shoddy but I think we can get a good price for it.
Row 3, Frame 4: CONVEYOR BELT
Row 3, Frame 5:
Row 3, Frame 6:
Row 4, Frame 1:
Row 4, Frame 2: Used luggage for sale
Row 4, Frame 3:
Row 4, Frame 4: Are you in my seat? // No!
Row 4, Frame 5: Stewardess, this man is in my seat!!!
Row 4, Frame 6: Do you have a budget ticket? // Yes. // I'm sorry sir, you'll have to get into the overhead rack.

Click here to go on to part two.

The Fabulous Fabulatio was the most fabulous magician of all times. It said so on his business card. At a recent performance he requested a volunteer from the audience. Beautiful girl hands went up, and he selected the prettiest one he saw. He sealed the hand and the rest of the girl in a solid plywood cabinet large as a phone booth. When he reopened the box, she had vanished, which was what she was supposed to do. What she didn't do was return when he called out the magic words. Nor when he called them out again. Or the dozen magic expletives he used for emphasis. He tried anew with another pretty volunteer, and the same events repeated. Her absence remained as vehement as his claim on the card. Fabulatio declared the magic cabinet wasn't working properly, and fielded another pretty volunteer. This one vanished in a spectacular flash of spinning mirrors. And remained spectacularly gone. The next turned to nothing under a sweep of his velveteen cape. Still another dissolved in a rainbow of confetti fired from a cannon. But none returned. By this time he was running out of props, and pretty volunteers, plus the audience realized that his nervous banter was no longer part of the show. They started to boo and throw tomatoes and walk out. He was ruined. He never worked again. Except in Las Vegas. Meanwhile, the girls, who had collected backstage, decided to head for the rock concert together - with tickets provided by their cousin, uncle, and good friend, The Illustrious Illusio.

Story #312

Note from Indeterminacy: I didn't like my original story so I rewrote it slightly. For the record, I've reposted the original in the comments

I came back and decided to dedicate this story to Lonnie of onemanbandwidth.com, who among other details in his illustrious resumé is a hobby magician!

Tick.... tick.... tick.... The colossal clock hurled its living echoes into the room. Unseen. Unheard. At the first tick of twenty past midnight the professor of mysticism began an impromptu lecture on the meaning of time, clarifying concepts the guests may have sensed, may have tapped along the edge of, but of depths eschewed for fear of losing one's orientation. Tick.... tick.... tick.... The instrument of chronology celebrated the seconds in its steady mechanical way, issuing moments that fell like specks of sand from a point infinitely above to a destination far below - the dunes of eternity. Those with vision might snatch a kernel out of the invisible, synchronized stream, and live it, before its occurrence. The professor expounded the concept of projecting one's mind minutes, days, years into one's future and returning with premonitions retrieved out of a remembrance of the gap between that new time and the past. Tick.... tick.... tick.... The person so projected would perceive only a minute discontinuity as insignificant as the momentary loss of vision when an eye is blinked. Upon return, the sudden presence of a new idea would distract from its origin in the times unborn. Tick.... tick.... tick.... The professor spoke his engrossing lecture extending into hours, if anyone present had made inventory of the ticks of that massive mechanism that is always among us, unseen and unheard. After uttering the final syllable of his thesis, the professor glanced at his listeners and vanished. Tick.... tick.... tick.... It was exactly twenty past midnight.

Story #311

Note from Indeterminacy: Thanks for all your contributions! They have been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

The Goddess created a place with sun, water, land and mountains. She stood in it to savor the feelings they gave Her. This was all so different from the nothingness rushing in upon Her senses - the sunlight warming Her, the water lapping at Her feet, the wind at Her face. She created trees to drink the water and give shelter from the sun, and birds to fly in the wind and give music with their song. It was good. It was very good. But unfinished. It was a huge and kaleidoscopic world, too immense for one Goddess to appreciate all alone. She gave birth to Herself in a multitude of Images, and placed Them in every niche of Her creation so that Each could discover a nuance of Her own choosing. But still She saw that one element was missing. She created Man to appreciate Woman, and rake leaves in the Fall.

Story #310

Note from Indeterminacy: I won't have enough time to prepare stories for tomorrow and Friday, so I'm going to just take a short haitus until Saturday, when I post the weekend photo.

He saw the face peering through the Venetian blinds. Those fierce eyes startled him. But he didn't blame her for studying him so intently. One couldn't be too careful, especially now, during the alien scare. He walked up the creaky porch stairs, balancing the pizza box on his hand. At the door he pressed the button that sounded the chimes inside. He recalled what he'd heard about the aliens. Confused reports, each of them different, but all agreeing on the fiercely intent gaze and the face with no mouth. It was rumored they could cloud one's thoughts with their telepathic concentration, even make it seem as if they'd spoken. Take that woman at the window. He hadn't actually seen her mouth had he? But then he imagined he had and was calm again. He heard footsteps and the door swung open. "Put it on the table," he heard from the shadows behind the door. He entered, and did as he was told. As he turned to leave he saw the door was closed. She stood before it, staring into him with that fierce look. He felt compelled to sit down, to reach for a slice of pizza. He was very, very hungry and had to eat. All the while those eyes were upon him, watching every motion. He felt a deep sense of melancholy. Her feelings in him, complex feelings, slowly illuminated. They were oh so advanced, could talk with their thoughts, could breath nourishment through the pores of their skin, yet this evolution had cost them the simple oral pleasure of eating. He saw a tear roll down her face as she watched him enjoy the last bite of pizza. It crossed the smooth skin where her lips would be. "And now," her thought flowered in his mind, "talk to me."

Story #309

For weeks now I'd had these strange but enticing visions. They'd appear before me, two nymphets, blocking me left and right. I saw in their faces that conspicuous grin of conspiracy. Some spell stalemated my motions. Soft features loomed before me closer and blurrier. Then a mouth was upon mine, and the tongue of a girl began its magic dance. My hands and feet felt numb, nonexistent. The visions took turns while I trembled like a bowl of pudding with tides of desire rippling through it. The harmonic sensation on my tongue and lips spun itself into some sort of cyclone that whipped through my mind. And then they were gone, swept away unseen. This time I heard a giggle in the distance. "We shall return," one of the visions promised between notes of that fading music. But I could not wait for their reoccurrence. I stumbled after them like a marionette, strings tensed in their imagined direction. It's what a fish feels, as the fisherman reels him in. Then I saw them in the distance, at the side of a house. I moved in upon them, wanting to call out to them, tell them I was there, but as they grasped that dummy and began their play that familiar vision furled its thick blanket of silk around me.

Story #308

The purple-reddish mass burped and bubbled in the blender. Bill had planned this for months. Night after night toiling in that basement lab of his had paid off. Now he knew the formula and it would work. It worked on the tomcats he had captured, those horridly noisy creatures outside his window, so it would work on humans. He had a new theory of reverse evolution, and now he would try it on his friends - more specifically, on his female friends. He'd invited all the girls he ever daydreamed about, and they came, but of course with dates. That in itself was not a problem. With a little creative drink-mixing and shell-gaming the superfluous boys would receive harmless strawberry milkshakes, spiced with a strong but tasty liquor. Immediate intoxication would result. But he and the girls will have slurped the degeneration drink. In instants too fast to count, they would melt into an amoebic mass, oozing into each other, until they were one. To be one with so many girls at once! It made his hands tremble slightly as he filled the tumblers. Now the moment had come. They all moved towards him and smiled. A toast! To pleasure! It took Bill three seconds to devolve into his primal state of flowing cells. Unfortunately he miscalculated the feminine metabolism. He'd overlooked that the polarity on women is reversed, overlooked the completely contrary nature of the anima, which has its own ideas when men come around. The drink pushed them the other way. The girls, already halfway there, evolved into goddesses. Their first action as higher beings was to order the men to clean up the slimy mess that Bill had left behind.

Story #307

I need to take off the next couple of days to spend some extra time with my family. I wish I could keep up posting and do everything else belonging to non-blogging life, but sometimes it just doesn't work out. I'll try to be back Friday, OK?

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.