The Indeterminacy Girls

Introduction
Women fascinate me. I love women. I love their smiles, their hair, their eyes, the soft parts of the neck that seem to invite a kiss, the curves of their shoulders, and there it only begins. I'm in love with the feminine imagery I find randomly all over the Internet. I have wondered whether this makes me a pervert or a lecher. But I feel that I respect women, and I think I have always been caring towards women. I hope that this shows in the stories I write to the pictures and in my attitude towards these characters I've pulled out of the two-dimensional aesthetic. My esteem for women is not just for the physical, but for the playfully smart glances, for the charming wit that can make a conversation so stimulating and pleasant, for her refreshing intelligence. Women fascinate me.

It is not easy in life for a gender that is dominated in so many fields by the male. This domination is not fair nor is it right or just. I have been outraged over the fate of women in areas where order has broken down, or over the sexual exploitation of women tricked, beaten or sold into submission. It is such a tragic destruction of human potential. Perhaps that is why, in many of my stories, I turn the tables. It is the woman who is the predator and the man who is the victim.

Some of my stories have tried to explore the psychology of the female or ventured into the realm of female sexuality. Others have dived into the concepts of beauty and fashion. Still others have speculated what it would be like if the tables were turned, if women were in charge. Again and again I've written homages to the natural beauty of the women whose images I've found. Perhaps these apply as homages to womanhood itself. Or perhaps they are a mental pursuit of the mother archetype, as Herman Hesse's character Goldmund undertook a carnal pursuit.

I have gone through my stories and tried to make a selection relating to various aspects of femininity and/or masculinity in regard to women. It has become a long list, and sometimes stories could easily fit into many categories. No one, I know, will have time or inclination to follow all of these links. Here they are, just the same, each topic with a short synopsis.


The Psychology of Women
The thoughts and feelings of the women I've been close too were often a mystery to me. But I like the mysterious. I love delving into it, piecing the clues together, and then starting over again with the new mysteries that arise out of the discoveries. So I have as much trouble understanding women as anyone. The stories I selected here are speculatory in that sense. For example, what are the emotions that tear a woman apart? What happens when she is alone or out on the prowl or clowning with a friend? What goes on in her mind when she's deciding which boy to go out with, or how does a guy know whether or not she likes him? I don't know the answer to any of these questions. I'm only guessing. It's easy to make up vignettes to a photo - if it reads well, it is right, no matter how crazy or surreal. But to understand the woman you are with at any given time, is still a mystery to me, albeit a beautiful one. Maybe it all boils down to the wonderful song "Girls Just Want to Have Fun."


Tables Turned
As I mentioned, females suffer much under the hand of male domination. The outrages go on: the struggles of a single mother trying to work and raise a child at the same time, the trafficking of women, the physical abuse by a violent partner, women raped and forced to bear the child, and rape period. There's very much to be upset about. I feel sometimes that I have mentally abandoned my own gender. I feel closer to women. I like them better. For example, I found myself trusting women physicians more than their male colleagues. I respect and admire their achievement in making it in a male-dominated field. When I had that old Ford that kept breaking down I brought it to a woman who ran her own garage after her husband had a stroke and could no longer continue. She was so engaged for her customers, she was so bright and wonderful to talk to, but she eventually had to close the garage because it was so difficult to find mechanics willing to work for a woman. These things get to me.

In some of my stories I've explored situations in which the tables were turned, in which men have fallen victim to women. Many of my male characters have met with horrid fates, and often they are not undeserving of these. One of my more extreme stories involved a duo of man-eaters. Once I imagined a situation in which the female sex has overturned male domination. Another shows how two girls solved the problem of their love triangle. We find out what a woman might do after breaking up with her boyfriend. Two other stories, but there are certainly more, show why it is neither advisable nor clever, to conquer a woman against her will. It might also be that I dislike the majority of my own gender, this writing of stories being my way of working out the aggression.


Standards of Beauty
Everyone has their own concept of beauty, their standard of aesthetic. For me it is a pleasure to the eyes to see a woman with grace and bearing who presents herself naturally. A woman who can smile, show sincerity in her eyes and be herself is always beautiful. Consequently, I don't think much of cosmetic surgery. I have no fondness for extremes in make-up or the arbitrariness of fashion. Some of the stories I've written have satirized standards of beauty. One of my personal favorites shows to what lengths a woman might go to feel beautiful. Another set of stories is involved with having the right face or legs. Two of my stories have solved the age old problem of acne and what to wear. I call these stories satires because they draw some quite exaggerated conclusions.


Sexuality
I'm all for female sexuality. I think there should be more of it. It's an insidious crime how women in some cultures are held in sexual ignorance, taught to believe their pleasures and sensations are a sin, robbed of the decisions that must be theirs to make. Nevertheless, for a man to write about female sexuality, the feelings of sexual awakening, a woman's attraction to the male or the female or herself, is a difficult thing to do. Maybe it can't be done. But I've tried. Five of my attempts might be the following: a story in which girls satisfy their curiosity about boys, a girl discovering her own sensuousness, a girl whose sensuousness is discovered by others and taught to her, the much lauded first time, and a narrative that might be seen as a confrontation with sexual inhibitions. No one, man or woman, should be ashamed of the natural feelings pertaining to one's own body. In fact, one should never be ashamed of feelings. It's what we make of the feelings that counts.


Role Reversal
There's a little known, short-lived German science fiction series called "Raumpatrouille Orion" (Space Patrol Orion) from 1965 - a cool insider's tip today. One of the episodes has Commander McLane journeying to Earth's counterpart on the other side of the sun, a planet where women wield all the power and men are delegated the menial tasks of gardening or science, which suit them best. Trouble is, the women have commanded their scientists to heat up up the sun to provide a more pleasant climate for the gardens to thrive, with the side effect of destroying Earth. McLane is at his wit's end using logic and reason to convince the women to call it off, while they just give him the runaround. It's an entertaining episode and tells much about which gender roles were prominent in 1960's patriarchal Germany.

Several of my stories deal with a reversal of feminine and masculine roles in a similar satirical vein, though the women do not come away as badly as the exaggerated feminists of that TV episode. One story shows how the selection of a suitable mate might be solved if societal norms on women were less restrictive. Another tale explores a woman's choices when she has complete and total control over two men. A future in which men are extinct is a further variation, and two final stories use biblical motifs to explore the idea of a female Goddess of the Universe and a (never tried?) twist to the Adam and Eve theme. I do not think the message of my stories is that women would do things better if they were in charge, but that they would do them differently, and at least no worse than the male has done. Perhaps these stories can also serve to help us reflect over the masculine norms we live with.


Rape
The rape of a woman is a very serious crime and an extremely sensitive subject for a man to talk about, or address in stories. It was not an easy theme for me to write about and all the while I had misgivings about it. I see, in fact, two different concepts: actual physical rape and the fantasy of rape. Rape fantasies, I believe, exist in both sexes to a smaller or greater extent. On the one hand, I think actual rape is an abhorrent crime. On the other hand, I have had, and I think every male has, fantasies of sexual abandon in which he takes a woman he wants by force. I have heard the vehemently stated idea that every man is a potential rapist. The statement is just as impossible to prove as it is to disprove. Because of these fantasies I often wondered about myself, how it would be in a concrete situation where rape was possible - until I was in such a situation and found that I could not do it. I wanted the woman, yes, but I wanted her to want me, too. And that could not be taken by force. The actual act would have been as cheapening and degrading to me morally, as it would have been to her emotionally.

Still, I have encountered in women these fantasies to be taken. Long ago I discussed with a girlfriend what her desires might be, and the spontaneous answer she shot back was, "rape me." As I approached her I saw fear in her face and she stated, "No, I didn't mean it" in a voice betraying a horror that it might have been too late to say no. Years later I had a frank discussion with another woman who told me she had erotic fantasies of being raped, but would be terrified of the real thing.

So I believe these fantasies exist, but that most of us know how to separate fantasy from reality. And the existence of these fantasies in a woman does not weaken the crime that such an act represents. All these thoughts were in my mind as I wrote the following stories. Two of the stories might be seen to demonstrate how titillating these fantasies might be, about a girl at a party and a girl in a bath tub. A final story deals with the real concept, suggesting a fitting retribution for the crime of rape.


Lolita stories
An exploration of femininity must also address the concept of Lolita. I have two such stories. The first of these was meant as an homage to, and perhaps slight continuation of, Nabokov's Lolita, a book which I read and marvelled at for the poetic use of language. That book has been misunderstood as a glorification of paedophilia. I think it is nothing of the kind. The original Humbert Humbert is not to be envied, and neither are the ones I invented.


Homages
As I stated above, women fascinate me. I'm in love with their minds, bodies, hearts and souls. This goes through my mind constantly when I am thinking of stories to write, and makes it no easy task, now, to select three representative homages. The first I share is to a photo showing beauty, pure and natural. The woman in the second picture is more hinted at than seen - that which we cannot see but must fill out with our remaining senses and imagination is often the more erotic. And the final photo is of my own muse, the one who married me, the one I was fortunate enough to marry.


The Male Perspective
Most of the above stories have been presented from the point of view of the feminine characters. A few of my stories have, however, focussed on men. One shows how difficult we men have it, coping with the opposite sex. There's a solution to sex addiction which might not appeal to everyone. Or we see how easy it might be if men had machines to produce their sexual partners. Still another story suggests that deciding between two women is not as easy as it may seem. In a satirical tale we see what might happen if there were ever a man who completely understood women.


Conclusion
I like women, and they are the easiest inspiration for me. A rate of seven stories a week in the beginning, and later five a week, is another explanation as to why pretty, young women are so often represented in my selection of photographs. But I have a trio of stories, a trilogy that may redeem myself among my own sex. In these I show that even women must sometimes pay a price for excesses: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3. After all, if one gender is to get along with the other, there must be some give and take.

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Note from Indeterminacy: Did anyone read this far? Amazing. That has got to be the longest post I've ever had here. I read at Alice's blog about this bi-monthly "Carnival of Feminists" thing going on. If Alice links it, that's good enough for me. They collect the best current feminist posts, and I was curious whether my stories might interest them, so for that reason, and just to do something different for a change, I decided to put together a serious, non-story post. If anyone thinks this (or some other post) should be nominated for the next Carnival, just go here.

My warm thanks go to Viruswitch for her valuable advice and feedback on how to prepare this article. You didn't think a guy could do this by himself?

Most of us have read of the tribes of primitive peoples who were terrified to allow their photography because they feared it signified the capture of their soul. They were right, but only if a special camera were involved. Cameras such equipped are rare, and only the combined magic of a morally lapsing Buddhist monk working with an Initiate in the ways of Gypsy mysticism and a fallen Hindu Brahman could bring together the waves of thought necessary to bless a camera in this way. What favors Ariel applied to garner such a camera is not known. But she wandered the streets, towns and nature in search of souls to collect. When she saw one, a smile and her pleasant please sufficed for permission to capture the light she saw in the eyes of her subject, though they knew not what they granted. Like most collectors, she collected and collected, with never an intention of surrendering one of her finds or ever of stopping. But because Ariel had taste and an eye for beauty, the souls she amassed lived quite happily together in their own private heaven.

Story #339

Thank you to Ariel for contributing today's photo.

Lucy didn't think there would be any harm in signing up as part of the test audience for the new interactive cable system, and perhaps there wasn't. The cute boys in the beach scene popped out of the television and joined her on the couch, including her in their conversation, and - she was not entirely certain of this - the one casting furtive glances at her legs whenever she set eyes on the other. But the boys sat back and became politely silent as the infomercial sprang into the center of the room. It was a pretty witch who turned to Lucy smiling and exuding spells from her fingertips. She spoke in a steady, entrancing voice compelling Lucy to think of Ajax Detergent and how magically it cleansed, the idea billowing into her brain like an expanding soap bubble. She was ready to stand up and dash to the supermarket to buy a year's supply of Ajax when suddenly, without warning, the boys, the witch, and the entire program were preempted by a football game stumbling into the room.

Story #338

Oh yes, the announcement about "Something else is going to happen Monday that could cause me to lose the majority of my readership. So enjoy this quiet weekend before the storm..." The announcement is that I've proven that I can drone on with the best of them, even breaking the five minute barrier! (Yes it's my voice, and yes it's a true story). P.S.: This is a photo contribution from Viruswitch!

All your stories have been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

Fang Jing posed for pictures on the ice. But the photos were an anti-climax. She appeared mild-mannered and completely harmless. Seconds ago she had been a dynamic fury of action, soaring through the air, battling the water-breathing dinosaur hydras from outer space that had come to Earth to make everything wet. It was an opportunity Fang Jing had waited for all her life. She swallowed an ice cube to activate her superpowers, and - in the twinkling of a snowflake - was transformed into Winter Woman! She bombarded the massive beasts with snowballs formed out of thin air. She breathed sub-zero breaths at them, shot icicles clear through their thick hide. Finally the creatures began to slow down, tremble and succumb. They slipped into the river and Fang Jing froze them over with ice. Once again humanity had been saved from a fate worse than self-annihilation. All in a day's work for Winter Woman!

Story #337

A warm thank you to "Forgetful Anita" - the Chinese blogger brave enough to loan me some of her photos to play with. Anita knows English and German well, and posts (in part) Chinese translations of her favorite poems in these languages. She also posts the original text, so anyone knowing English or German and no Chinese, can still find enjoyment there. Unfortunately, she cannot read any of our blogspot blogs, as these are currently blocked in China.

Attention friends of Dushan and Elli of shtikl.com and soulkin.com. The sites are temporarily offline due to a move to a new provider. Also Elli and Dushan will be on vacation for a couple of weeks in Tunisia! Have a safe and pleasant journey!!

The entire art class brushed in their naive paintings of a forest. When they had completed the task the instructor clapped his hands together and stood by as his students vanished into their newly created worlds. It was the only way to teach them art appreciation. Let them live in their simple perspectives and their scenes without detail or depth. Let them spend a fantasy lifetime there and suffer firsthand the banalities they created. Let them return better artists, more thoughtful of affect, more appreciative of nuance, more feeling for form and composition. It worked for everyone. Except Sven. He had taken care to paint a tractor into his canvas. This he drove to the nearest town and lived the high life until it was time to return. The rest of the class went on to jobs as illustrators, portrait painters, decorative designers, and what not. But no one would take Sven. He went on to a life of poverty and non-appreciation and relative obscurity, though he was later recognized as the most brilliant artist of the era.

Story #336

Lillith and Lioma had the glow. They glowed in curious red and turquoise tints. It was tragic. They had gotten too close to reality. Not the filtered impressions one drinks in through the senses, but the absolute actual thing, direct injection into the brain. Once that happened they were changed. They weren't little girls anymore. They had grown up, inheriting a cosmic sense of humor. Just now someone had told them it was a sin to glow the colors they glowed. It violated the absolute morality layed down by ultimate holy law. That's when they lost themselves in laughter. They could see the absolute morality, and it looked nothing like they'd been told.

Story #335

It was Valentine's Day. I brought down the wall-bed and there she was.

"Who are you?" I asked the girl prone on her back wearing a mini skirt and casual black boots.

"I am the ghost of girlfriends past," she moaned at me the way a ghost would.

"How delightful to see you," I told her, showing her my undivided interest - as I was indeed delighted to see her - or all of them, even if the relationships hadn't lasted all that long. I began to recognize Miriam's eyes, Simone's thighs and Katherine's arm resting demurely below the tautly covered breasts that I knew were Tricia's and Tina's respectively.

She offered me Vickie's hand and I grasped it in mine. Instantly we were out on the town, on a conglomerate of first dates. But it went terribly wrong in a faux pas flurry of slurped soup and stepped on feet and overstepped bounds followed by slaps to my face, and the odd kick below the belt. I returned limping to my room, having lost them all in one night. There on the bed lay another girl.

"I am the spirit of girlfriends present," she stated less eerily, because she wasn't dead.

I recognized all three of my current flirts in one body, which was kind of a touchy situation, as they weren't supposed to know about each other. She sprang up and glared at me with Georgia's fiery eyes and clawed at me with Lina's razor-like fingernails and spat at me with Vera's venomous mouth. It was all I could do to toss the three of them back onto the bed and close it into the wall before she could lunge at me again. She would have scratched my eyes out, I'm sure, and swallowed them for breakfast.

After a long quiet I deemed it safe to open the bed again. "I am the imagination of girlfriends yet to be," announced the dark-haired beauty, her suggestive voice melting the icy fear of the previous visitation. I looked into her eyes and saw a collage of girls I'd had my eye on or stalked. She stared a beaconing gaze at me, then curled up on the bed, as if awaiting my advance. But she began to snigger as I approached, then to laugh outright, louder and fiercer. The love in her eyes turned to wicked mirth the nearer I came, and the laugh full of wrath. I pounced onto the bed to claim her kiss but found my mouth full of chicken feathers spurting from the mattress. After my coughing settled I noticed she was gone, and a note left on the pillow: "I'm leaving you, retroactively."

But the day was still young. I went to the store to buy a new set of Valentine cards.

Story #334

Who needs reality, when there's the beauty and creativity and fascination and imagination and savvy and sensuousness of all these lovely blogging ladies I list below. Believe me, I wanted to write all of you into a story as the ultimate archetypal companion, friend, and lover but even some fantasies can never be put into words, which is why I decided on an anti-Valentine's story instead. But without further ado...

A collective hug and kiss and Happy Valentine's Day to all my favorite femmes:

A Woman, Abby Taylor, Actonbell, Alice, Ally, Ana-ng, Angel, Annush, April, Atomicvelvetsigh, Barbara Shaurette, Bio, Carrie, Carrie, Cheesecakeerian, claudBLOG, Colette, Cori, Courtney, Deb, Diamonelle, Encandescente, Enemy of the Republic, Erika & Gabrielle, Frances Bo Bancess, Fring, G.D., Gabriela, Geekgirl, Girl with a Suitcase, GirlieLezz, Helen, Icy, Illyria, Ingrid / Miranda / Mandy / Spork / Wootton (five girls in one), Jamie Dawn, Jane, Jem Lambert, Jennifer, Jess, Jessie, Johanna, Ju, Kathryn, Kristina, Kvitsh, Laura Carter, Lauren, Little Bar of Soap, LiVEwiRe, Livinia, Liz, Lucy, M.P., Malapert Minx, mD, Milamber, Miss Brightside, Miss Jay, Monika, Mrs. Weirsdo, Nyanda, Ophelia Rallek-Porta, Ostrich, Patricia Jenkins, Peppermint Patty, Pia, Princess Dominique, Rhoda, Riss, River, Roachz, Saheli, Saksak Puso, Samai, Sar, Sarsparilla, SeizeTheNite, Sk8-rn, Soulkin, Still Life, Sylphidine, The Gray One, Tiffany, Tina Dupuy, TwistedNoggin, Virus Witch, Young at Heart in San Diego, Zeitghost and Zielonooka.

Even if some of you are married or taken or lesbian, and even if one of you is married to me!

And thank you to my past love, Girl with a Suitcase, whose recent reappearance reminded me of today's photo...

As the darkness reached its midnight crescendo she sauntered over to him, her wants, her needs driving her. He'd stood there in a giddy daze following the creative exertion, spiritually spent, without a single thought of her, but her shuffling feet alerted him, drew him to awareness after the long weeks of tinkering. The sight of her brought memory. He drew the loaded stapler from his pocket and turned to meet her looking up at him. Amazing how inductive she was, that she knew to come to him. Fortunately it was dark and no one would see. What an odd sight to explain, if anyone did happen to catch a glimpse. The stapler neared her lips and she felt - if she could be assumed to feel anything - a metallic ecstasy. That girl he'd made out of paper clips and plasticine had an insatiable appetite for staples.

Story #333

The story contributions have been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com. Thanks for an entertaining weekend!

In 1869 Samuel Clemens (Mark Twain) published something that might be slapped onto the face of blogging. It is a passage from "Innocents Abroad" describing the sea voyage to Europe on the good ship Quaker City:

After prayers the Synagogue shortly took the semblance of a writing school. The like of that picture was never seen in a ship before. Behind the long dining tables on either side of the saloon, and scattered from one end to the other of the latter, some twenty or thirty gentlemen and ladies sat them down under the swaying lamps and for two or three hours wrote diligently in their journals. Alas! that journals so voluminously begun should come to so lame and impotent a conclusion as most of them did! I doubt if there is a single pilgrim of all that host but can show a hundred fair pages of journal concerning the first twenty days' voyaging in the Quaker City, and I am morally certain that not ten of the party can show twenty pages of journal for the succeeding twenty thousand miles of voyaging! At certain periods it becomes the dearest ambition of a man to keep a faithful record of his performances in a book; and he dashes at this work with an enthusiasm that imposes on him the notion that keeping a journal is the veriest pastime in the world, and the pleasantest. But if he only lives twenty-one days, he will find out that only those rare natures that are made up of pluck, endurance, devotion to duty for duty's sake, and invincible determination may hope to venture upon so tremendous an enterprise as the keeping of a journal and not sustain a shameful defeat.

One of our favorite youths, Jack, a splendid young fellow with a head full of good sense, and a pair of legs that were a wonder to look upon in the way of length and straightness and slimness, used to report progress every morning in the most glowing and spirited way, and say:

"Oh, I'm coming along bully!" (he was a little given to slang in his happier moods.) "I wrote ten pages in my journal last night--and you know I wrote nine the night before and twelve the night before that. Why, it's only fun!"

"What do you find to put in it, Jack?"

"Oh, everything. Latitude and longitude, noon every day; and how many miles we made last twenty-four hours; and all the domino games I beat and horse billiards; and whales and sharks and porpoises; and the text of the sermon Sundays (because that'll tell at home, you know); and the ships we saluted and what nation they were; and which way the wind was, and whether there was a heavy sea, and what sail we carried, though we don't ever carry any, principally, going against a head wind always--wonder what is the reason of that?--and how many lies Moult has told--Oh, every thing! I've got everything down. My father told me to keep that journal. Father wouldn't take a thousand dollars for it when I get it done."

"No, Jack; it will be worth more than a thousand dollars--when you get it done."

"Do you?--no, but do you think it will, though?

"Yes, it will be worth at least as much as a thousand dollars--when you get it done. May be more."

"Well, I about half think so, myself. It ain't no slouch of a journal."

But it shortly became a most lamentable "slouch of a journal." One night in Paris, after a hard day's toil in sightseeing, I said:

"Now I'll go and stroll around the cafes awhile, Jack, and give you a chance to write up your journal, old fellow."

His countenance lost its fire. He said:

"Well, no, you needn't mind. I think I won't run that journal anymore. It is awful tedious. Do you know--I reckon I'm as much as four thousand pages behind hand. I haven't got any France in it at all. First I thought I'd leave France out and start fresh. But that wouldn't do, would it? The governor would say, 'Hello, here--didn't see anything in France?' That cat wouldn't fight, you know. First I thought I'd copy France out of the guide-book, like old Badger in the for'rard cabin, who's writing a book, but there's more than three hundred pages of it. Oh, I don't think a journal's any use--do you? They're only a bother, ain't they?"

"Yes, a journal that is incomplete isn't of much use, but a journal properly kept is worth a thousand dollars--when you've got it done."

"A thousand!--well, I should think so. I wouldn't finish it for a million."

His experience was only the experience of the majority of that industrious night school in the cabin. If you wish to inflict a heartless and malignant punishment upon a young person, pledge him to keep a journal a year.

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No, I'm not sick of blogging, even though I've only posted sporadically of late. Work, family and my voluntary Tucholsky translation project have thrown me out of the storywriting equlibrium. I have hopes that the next week will be better. Thank you all for bearing with me. I really do hate to disappoint someone coming here expecting a story and finding none.

I worked on another Tucholsky translation which I'll post next week, and I posted a finished translation at the Tucholsky blog, so I guess I can send you there in lieu of a story here.

Caledonia was one of those girls who made strong demands on her lovers. They had to look nerdy when they pointed those two staring eyes at her. Her body always made eyes stare. She liked their heads to be decorated with a baseball cap, and the back of the neck shaven just the day before, so she could run her fingertips against the prickly fuzz that sprouted there. They must have a timid disposition, for it was her habit to sneak up on them and pounce, usually while their thoughts wandered - she loved the startled reaction. They must be all thumbs and thin-lipped because, honestly, what girl could resist the feel of thumbs all over her? Or thin lips exploring her? The moment she spotted a specimen, the perfection of all her desires, she knew. She held her fingers in the shape of a heart and peered through at him, her way of symbolically declaring him fair game. But it wouldn't last long. After the first few hours the sterility of perfection always began to bore her.

Story #332

Thanks for all the stories you guys/gals wrote. They have been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com. This story is also an answer to River's tag with the perfect lover meme. The first five people who read this are hereby tagged (I've tagged three myself - Bar of Soap, The Devil, and Lula):

1. Come up with 8 different points of my perfect lover.
2. Mention the sex of the target.
3. Tag 8 victims to join this game and leave a comment on their comments saying they’ve been tagged.
4. If tagged the 2nd time, there's no need to post again.

Guess what! The Alien Guy is back again. You have to check this out:

thealienguy.blogspot.com

David Raphael Israel has a story photo flash fiction post up today. I think you all will enjoy it. I've contributed a story, as well.

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.

.
.
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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?