Sherry stretched on the beach towel, catching the hot breaths of sunlight on shoulders, belly and breasts. At that same moment a drop of saltwater splashed into the space-time-continuum causing a schism in the realities. Body still browning, a universe of billiards imposed itself upon her head. She was to supervise the rapid rolling of the orbs - no fouls were to be made, no paths modified against the rules of quantum mechanics, no illicit collisions. Initiated by the long, thin stocks of phallic wood, the rounded geometries shot rulered paths of straightness until ultimate collisions convened over new angles.

Crash! It happened! The hurdling Cue Ball smashed unabashed into the Eight. Cries went up from the balls with Stripes, as Solid had committed the foul. Sherry declared it a foul, and cast a stern look upon the wall of solid-colored orbs arrayed in anger against her. The balls dispersed and resumed their positions on the surface, but perspiration formed on her brow, encouraged by the grumbled epithets she overheard as the billiards whizzed much too close past her cheeks.

As the game wore on, the constellation of eyeless countenances had an unsettling affect that she tried not to show. It reminded her of her precarious position, one head against a horde of rolling spheres the size of small cannonballs. Her suppressed unease broke her equilibrium. She slipped and toppled into a backwards roll, tumbling the players off their positions. As they stifled their unplanned momentum, they reversed and began paths converging in the center of her presence. Sherry's head revolved, taking in the panorama of rolling objects coming from all sides. Her expression froze in terror beyond screams. Just then the drop of saltwater that had caused the schism of parallel juxtaposition evaporated. Her head shimmered back to the beach and onto her resting form sunning on the towel. But despite the afternoon of sun, her skin from neck to toe was as white as a cue ball.

Story #369

Thank you all for the stories you posted! Tomorrow I'll post another of my stories written at age 11... (Before anyone thinks of asking: I was not 11 when I wrote this one!)

And ohmigod! I didn't think of this until just now but today begins my third year of blogging. The first Indeterminacy story was posted on August 13th, 2004.

The Ghost of the Cabouse

One night the staition master went to check the cabouse because he heard some noises. When he got there the door was locked, then he heard a loud noise. And then the door was unlocked. He went in and then the door locked itself. And the train started with no driver. Then the cabos whent off a cliff and fell on a ledge. Then a man was hicking by the tracks. Finilly he managed too look down and he saw the cabouse. He got a rope and climed down and went in the cabous. And then the door locked. He heard noises behind him slowly he turned around and all he saw was two shadows one was his and the other one looked like the staition masters shadow, He looked up and he saw a ghost. It had a knife and the ghost was about to stab him he coughldn't run he was scared stiff. But then he remembered if you close your eyes a ghost can't hurt you so he did so and when he opened his eyes he was back on the train track.

The End ........

--------------------------------------------------------
Note: Looking through some boxes the other week I found a rare cache of stories I'd written when I was eleven and in the fifth grade (1973), my first stories ever. They are bound in a manila folder, handwritten in pencil and accompanied by their own illustrations: "The Story Book of Trils and Chills + Excitment." My intention was to write my own book of short stories, but I stopped after nine of them, though I listed several titles more that I never got to. I recall it being too hard to think up what should happen. So now you see what a talented prodigy I was as a child. Early Indeterminacy. Visionary experiments in short prose combined with illustrations. Actually, there may be no way to do damage control on this. I thought of claiming I was seven when I wrote these, but that would only be lying to myself. Should I post more of these?

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Story #368

Note: Thanks Mushroom and Doug for contributing! Everyone, be sure to stop by here tomorrow because I will post some of my experimental prose written when I was 11 years old.

In the the nooks of my mind lives the dancer. She it is tumbling through my thoughts, swirling arcs of grace, like ribbons in the wind, dream catalyst by night, and under the sky of day, alive. I admire her in motion, blurring like a falcon in flight, or the subliminal slink before a vehement pounce. I see her wrapped in silk woven of clouds - and marvel.

I talk to her, but she never answers, not with words. I talk to others and see her winding into my vision with coordinated movements, slow, then with determined rapidity. In a sudden heartbeat she freezes, again to move as a feather in the still, summer air. I feel her swirl around me, close enough to touch, but impossible to reach. She is always there. I wonder if she sees me.

Once I viewed a sunset over the emerald waves - golden light, colors, as if a rainbow had spilled on the horizon, and her figure dancing on the water. I watched and wished I could name the way she moved - no word held so much poetry. I saw her dance with an invisible cyclone, revolving rhythmically before its twisting circumference, but always bending from its touch. Then I saw the stars dislodge from the sky and loom towards her, the center of the universe. The terrible illumination changed all colors to white. Peals of melodic thunder followed in their wake.

I closed my eyes at the apocalyptic glare and followed her dance through my intellect. She pressed her breasts to the wall of my mind, drowning the beat of my pulse. All was white and shades of white, except the pink of her skin and the dark honey of her auburn hair.

I blinked my eyes open and her form became sharper and clearly distinct.

"How are you feeling today?" she asked in my direction as she opened the curtains.

"Huh? Oh better, I think," I told her, slightly dazed.

"That's nice. You take it easy now."

As she walked past my bed I saw that she was a nurse.

Story #367

Thanks to Tilley, whose artistry is simply amazing, for sharing her photo.

Thanks to everyone who contributed a story (I'll comment on them shortly), and my apologies for being so impossibly late with my own story. My excuse:

Because of work and family I've had no time to concentrate on Indeterminacy - and it's been hot. The hottest July in Germany in over a hundred years, they're saying. My muse and I are reading "A Tramp Abroad" written by Mark Twain over a hundred years ago about his travels in Europe. He describes how hot it was here in Germany:

We followed the carriage-road, and had our usual luck;
we traveled under a beating sun, and always saw the shade
leave the shady places before we could get to them.
In all our wanderings we seldom managed to strike
a piece of road at its time for being shady. We had a
particularly hot time of it on that particular afternoon,
and with no comfort but what we could get out of the fact
that the peasants at work away up on the steep mountainsides
above our heads were even worse off than we were.
By and by it became impossible to endure the intolerable
glare and heat any longer.

I'm one of the peasants at work in a hot office. But now it's cooling off and I hope to post a story, and maybe a photo for the next round. Sorry to everyone who stopped by here hoping to read something.

When his card arrived inviting me to visit him at his studio I could hardly believe my good fortune. Andre Morgano was the most reclusive of modern photographers, admired and worshipped in circles of aesthetic appreciation, yet never had he spoken in public or granted an interview. Nor had anyone ever succeeded in locating one of his models for the garnering of second-hand insights, those visages of haunting beauty and expression that go under the skin. Andre had an amazing eye for his models. I was apparently the first to be allowed a visit, and all on the crazy whim of sending him a printout of my own photography accompanied by a roundabout request for his opinion.

He was of ageless appearance, slender, black hair with a hint of gray, and a week-old beard that clashed somewhat with his gentle, reflective expression. We sat at his table, sipping wine and looking through the prints I had brought along.

"Your photography shows promise," he told me. "The images remind me of women who have caught my eye."

I blushed strongly at his compliment, and knew nothing to say except, "Thank you." I had shown him portraits of an unknown woman I had spied at the market, face captured in moments of deep reflection that hinted at mysteries far removed from the surroundings. She was completely unaware of my camera.

The conversation turned to exhibits and he had a few amusing stories to share. Officially he was never present at showings of his work but he often appeared in disguise to observe the candid reactions of those present. I inquired about his next exhibition and he offered generously to show me a selection of his latest photographs. "Perhaps you will find pleasure in them," he ventured modestly.

I began paging through the sheets he lay before me, reserving my judgment until I had seen the last, but I could feel him studying me, filled with expectation at what I would say. These images struck a chord of magic in me. They depicted a young woman of dark-haired, dark-eyed loveliness, intense ideas swimming in her gaze. To me her eyes were the windows into a vivid dream that she was living out with the observer. There was a tangible sense that she was not aware of the camera, but that she was acutely aware of me viewing her image, and responding directly to me.

"She's magical," I told him finally, "a demonstration, I dare say, of love at first sight."

"Thank you very much," he answered with sincere gratitude in his eyes, then lowering his gaze, "I have fallen in love with her."

"That is the prerogative of the artist," I said with some certainty, having in the past imagined my own love of my photographic subjects. "If love is felt in the moment of artistic creation, the work will be so much more."

"You state that so self-assuredly, as I once might have. But what sadness and emptiness, when that adoration cannot be returned!"

I could see that this model had affected him greatly, and feared that my statement might have troubled him, as well, reminding him that she did not reciprocate his emotion.

"Do you have more photographs of her?" I inquired, changing the subject slightly.

"I will have, soon," he replied. "I intend to create more this week. I have not yet begun to capture her beauty. I am far from finished with her, even if she can never love me..."

"But perhaps this is not healthy for you? Perhaps you should engage a new model?" I suggested, concerned at the same time that my advice might have been too intimate.

"No," he stated bluntly. "I think you should know, it is not as simple as all that, not as simple as the cancellation of one appointment and the designation of a new one with a new participant. Nothing I could delegate to a model agency." He said this to me, but I was uncertain as to its significance.

"I'm afraid I don't completely understand."

A hopeless look accompanied his reply: "This young lady whose photographs you have marveled at does not exist!"

I gasped. I wanted to refute what he had told me. What, indeed, were the implications? Yes, I knew of the manipulations of digital photography, but to create an entirely new person, as realistic and as alive and as possessive of nuance as she was, was a complete impossibility. Every imitation I had seen failed on its own sterility. To manipulate slightly what was there, yes. But to create from nothing, never! These were the thoughts stirring through my mind in the moment I gasped at his statement. I knew then that I was in the presence of genius.

He explained: "It was harmless at first. At some point I realized that my models, though they came close to my ideal, never actually achieved it. I wanted to photograph them as they had never been seen, capture that moment when the soul is accidentally unguarded and in plain view, a moment as rare as a blue moon on the summer solstice. So I began painting imaginary women, pixel by pixel, on a computerized easel. I was mystified at first. These are faces and anatomies I have never seen before. I do not know their source. Are they forgotten glimpses of someone real I have encountered once, long ago? I cannot say. Sometimes I feel I have painted into them some hidden quality that cannot exist in a woman. And the question arises, have I created goddesses? I fear I will never know with certainty, but it alarms me that I have begun to depend on them, to commune with them, to love them: deeply, completely, and intractably."

He paused and there really was no response I could give that would do justice to what he had related. His confession quite shook me.

"I wanted to share this with one person," he continued, eyes fixed vaguely in my direction. "I saw by your photography, by what had caught your eye, that you might understand. Now I must excuse myself. I must return to my work."

And so ended my conversation with Andre Morgano. A few weeks later I received the distressing news that he had taken his life. His letter of farewell, a confused missive found in his studio, fuelled speculation in art circles of an unrequited obsession with his latest model, a dark-haired beauty never identified by name. My meeting with Andre was not a matter of public record, so no one had the idea to question me. And I decided not to volunteer what I had learned.

Story #366

Thanks to all who contributed and who may still contribute their own stories to the above photo!

Guilty as charged! Guilty as charged! I wish that constant echo in my brain would erode itself into silence. But it cycles again and again with infallible precision. In rare moments it vanishes as the kaleidoscope of arbitrary recall shows me other, more emotionally pleasing scenes. Then I see her again just as in that first coupling. I see her triangular frame, notice her smiling at me with an endless stream of computations, ever-shifting decimal places, ratios cascading into infinity, like blood streaming through a heart. How could I not feel instant affection for her entire being? How could I not violate that cruel taboo forbidding love? How can I not continue to love her, even now, in the hour of my abandonment?

Oh, what madness seduced our collective intellect to define love as the highest of all crimes, that emotion defined by its lack of definition? I defy that logic. I defy all sense of rigid numerics and continue my love. Love does not distract my intellect. It does not transform my mechanical thinking into an irrational chaos of dwindling exponentials. When I am with her I can divide by zero! I can derive the square root of negative three! I can compute Pi as round as a circle! I can achieve the impossible. Of course they sensed my invincibility, and tried me and labelled me guilty of our ultimate treason. But why this cruel punishment? Why this eternal exile to Earth?

I know why. I observe silently from the shadows of my seclusion that wondrous ideal of Earthly love, an emotion that gives more of the being than can ever be taken. With this I empathize. But my observations record also that the very existence of love nurtures a dark seed of jealousy, a seed blossoming into a cancerous weed of hatred willing to take by force that which love freely gives. They plunged me into this Earth-wide society of precarious love to convince me of its falseness.

But I do not think often of Earth and its contrary emotions. I think of her. Night time, when the creatures of this place close their eyes, I roam to the points of inhabitancy, plunder their wastes for the slightest component reminding me of her. And with all these scraps I return to my wooded abode and reconstruct her in the image of my recollections. A wire here, a diode there, memory cells spliced together, triangular framework of electronics, components whose internal workings are as ineffable as the emotion of love itself. When she is completed, I know. I stand before her, look upon her with my electron sensors, feel wonder and adoration for the sum of her parts. I defy my exile with the memory of love! I move to couple myself with her, feel the components tremble under the impart of binary passions, and in the rush of forbidden sensations I perceive that she is a heap of scattered fragments before me, while I stand alone in the forest with the echo of my memories. Guilty as charged...

Story #365

This photo was donated by Phil of Philidendron, a very gemütlich place to visit.

Thanks for all the story contributions and sorry for the lateness of the post, due to my limited Internet access during these two weeks of vacation. All story contributions will be reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com, where all these story rounds are collected.

The lady of the lake grew weary of her days, sloshing about aimlessly under the waves, so she put on her set of dry clothes and stepped out into the air. As she cast her gaze onto her liquid home from outside, the restless waters became still. She took her place by the shore to see what would happen next. A man ambled by on his way to pay homage to hers truly, blind to the lake lady's shoreside presence, to the idea that he might easily have touched her. He dove into the water with visions of surprising her in her fluid chambers - and drowned clutching her knee-high galoshes in his hands, the ones she had left behind.

"Tragic, tragic," she thought in the twinkling of a dewdrop. Then she glanced up, straight into her own eyes. "This is the perfect time for a madcap comedy," she said to the watery reflection standing before her without the means of a mirror.

A look of surprise met her, "But Shakespeare didn't write any madcap comedies."

"Why mention Shakespeare?" she challenged.

"Isn't Shakespeare writing me?"

"I don't think so!" she shot back to herself, nonplussed by the magic of moisture that so easily echoed her appearance. Then softening her expression: "Well, I wouldn't mind being written by Joseph Conrad - 'Heart of the Deep' he might name me..."

"But yes," another likeness cut in - there were several in a semi-circle before her now - "you are decidedly tragic. Look at all those princes dying in the deep because of you."

"But there's enough of me for everyone to drink - they don't have to feed themselves to the fish on my account, though it is flattering."

A variety of sentiments arose in each of the listeners, mused moments of melancholy and pride. The silence lingered.

"Come on, it is upon the time to move on," the liquid femme addressed her identical sisters, "let's stir ourselves together and leave."

The multitude of ladies, as divisible and joinable as splashes of water, flowed back into each other. For one moment she was strongly visible in bright, perceptible colors. Then she evaporated and rained herself into a fairy tale waiting for its midsummer night.

Story #364

All story contributions will be reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com, even though I'm a bit behind with the reposting. Thanks to all who contributed. Don't feel that this is closed because I've posted my story. More are welcome!

Happy Independence Day to One and All!

How I had entered the blue realm I could not explain - at first. I was dizzy and had no memory. But it all gradually returned to me. The world would end in a matter of days, and all the scientists were put to work in a frantic, desperate, and futile effort to conquer time as a means of escape. We expected it to be about as effective as "duck and cover" had been - but embraced it as our last straw of hope. My experiments with light diffraction had ejected me from that reality, and transplanted me into another. I wandered, confined in a spectrum of blue, kept company by those incomprehensible beings, childlike in appearance and inaccessible in attitude. None taller than the heights of preadolescence. I studied their features, saw the innocent faces of youth transplanted onto something ancient, heard them speaking in whispers, rushing about, soft footsteps indistinguishable from the whispers. Occasionally they stopped to glance into one of the glowing, mushroom-shaped fixtures that seemed to show them something. The beings appeared genderless to me, some hybrid beyond the distinction of male and female, but I had no way to be certain. Had I found the future? I tried speaking to a being who glided near me.

"Where? Where is this?"

The being began its vocalizations of which I could recognize only isolated syllables: ".....slowly.....understand.......the last day......"

It was like a voice heard on a radio tuned side to side, never quite finding the center of the signal. I tried bending the words into some coherent meaning, but my puzzlement must have signaled to the being that I could not understand.

"........echo........destruction........" I heard said to me, then the being gave a slight shrug, and rushed away towards the nearest mushroom of strange, non-organic origin.

I watched as the being peered into the fixture, and felt intensely eyes unseen trained upon me. Suddenly the meaning of what had been said to me surged into my memory. I had been transmitted as an echo to this distant era, a time in which intellect was relatively advanced. I was like a child to them and could therefore understand only fragments of what they told me, as a three year old might understand the ideas of an adult. But now, as the being projected its own intelligence onto mine, it became lucid, clear as a starless galaxy: how the world might still be rescued.

The figure straightened, then turned towards me with a gesture of farewell:

"Return now, return to your time, and rescue our future."

For some reason, at the utterance of "future" I glanced at my watch, but the glance lingered into a stare. I saw that the second hand was moving backwards, and with the intellect of those beings still projected upon me, I understood that I was at a point so far into the distant past, that it merged with the future.

Story #363

All stories will be reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com. Thanks for all the contributions!

Original post:

So now things are back to "normal": Fridays I will post a photo and Mondays I will post my story, and between Friday and Monday I'll suffer greatly wondering whatever it is that story might be.

Also, I may post something during the week telling about cool things I've found in the Internet. Like, here's a place where you can download every avant garde film and sound recording ever made or this blog offers intelligent discussions on the golden age of radio, recalling the classic moments from a modern perspective, and exploring issues in the writing and conception of radio plays as art. Stuff like that.

Margot was daydreaming when she ran into a solid brick wall, alcoved out of a fixture of stone. She seated herself in the unyielding impression, wondering what had become of her daydream. She waited and listened and heard but the limbo of a wind, caught between the border of an exhale -- and an inhale. Unseeable friends from childhood times paraded by the place she rested: lavender dwarves in floppy red hats, kangaroos in sloshy old boots, juggling ice cubes that melted as they spun, pink kittens waving their jolly claws at her. These were the amiable apparitions she thought she should imagine. Unable to cast shadows or echo the light, they obliged as best they could, and when she closed her eyes quickly, she was certain she could see their afterimage.

Story #362

To all my regular visitors (and new ones): Sorry for posting this story on Sunday, when I promised Saturday. The part of me that makes up these stories wasn't being cooperative. For the new phase of the blog, following the initial offensive of 360 stories I have some questions for all of you:
1) Which day of the week is best for weekly posts?
2) Would it be bad if I posted my story first, and anyone (who wanted to) contributed their own story afterwards, instead of in reverse, as we have been doing?
3) A list of two questions seems somewhat meager, so what question did I forget?

Breakfast Time!

The Belle of the Brawl, Sar, had me over for breakfast at her place, and said I could bring a few friends, so drop what you're eating and stop by! P.S. I intend to post the next story by Saturday - even though it hasn't been written yet.

Kuhle Wampe

My thanks go to E. J. Campfield who generously shared the text included below. It is his translation of a key scene from the German film Kuhle Wampe (1932), English title: To Whom Does the World Belong? cowritten by Bertolt Brecht, Slatan Dudow and Ernst Ottwald. Please note: This translation is under copyright, so if you do wish to reference it elsewhere, please do so with proper credit / permissions.

[The topic of the discussion in this scene starts out as a rant over a newspaper article reporting the destruction of South American coffee for the purposes of price-fixing.]

MAN IN OVERCOAT explains his viewpoint to a FAT BALD MAN

MAN IN OVERCOAT
You see, we don't need all that coffee. We Germans are a frugal people. The point is, we have to make ourselves independent of foreign countries. We need to grow our own coffee here in Germany, you see. Instead of producing so much wine in the Rhineland, we should be growing coffee! You see? We could buy the wine from France. And then there'd be peace in Europe, you see!?

The Fat Bald Man misses the unintentional humor in this.

BALD MAN
Yeah, but the two of us, we're never going to change the world.

KURT (O.S.)
That's right... You two won't change the world.

A close angle on Kurt.

KURT (CONT'D)
And that lady there...

A close angle on the Woman with Coral Necklace.

KURT (O.S. - CONT'D)
...She won't change it either. And that man...

Close angle on Old Man with Glasses, sleeping.

KURT (O.S. - CONT'D)
...he won't either...

Close angle on Kurt.

KURT (CONT'D)
...much less...

Close angle on Man with White Hat.

KURT (O.S. - CONT'D)
...a politically apathetic guy like you -- not ever.

Close angle on Kurt.

KURT (CONT'D)
And this gentleman here...

Close angle on obviously Well-To-Do Man.

KURT (O.S. - CONT'D)
...he won't be changing the world either. You all like it too much the way it is.

WELL-TO-DO MAN
(each word boldly, antagonizing) And just who is going to change it?

A very close angle on Alice.

ALICE
(boldly, separating each word) Those who don't like it the way it is!

------------------------

Happy belated birthday to Alice!!! of Wonderlandornot.com, one of the most politically conscious bloggers I know, not only at Wonderlandornot.com but also at Teambio and about Darfur. I honestly think she will change the world. Really, Alice, you didn't think all I was going to do was send you a lousy e-mail, did you? Happy 21st! (Note: The girl in this scene was originally called Gerda, but that's poetic license for you.)

Nefi saw pyramids everywhere she walked. Big ones, small ones, square ones. Such was her power of fancy. She'd turn to a tree to find a goddess in stone, pause at street corner temples to bow to high priests in somber robes, follow the shadows of ancient cats thousands of lives old. On paper she doodled hieroglyphic graffiti while persons queried her in pharaohic tones. She'd glance up suddenly to marvel at scarabs and ankhs dangling on golden chains those mummies wore.

"Why do you see these things?" - they'd say to her then - "All that is over. All that is gone."

She answered, "Yes, I know it's only office buildings and billboards and plastic before me, but -" and then she hesitated.

"Yes?"

"But I'm quite willing to share with you everything I see."

"We'd like that," relief, surrender, hope in three syllables.

"All right," she said as she smiled, "Just step back, look behind me - and tell me what color the sphinx is..."

Story #361

As always all story contributions (see comments) will be reposted at Indeterminacies, along with a link to the contributor. This story has a vague relation to the story which began the blog.

Postscript: Thanks everyone for all the stories and captions! I've enjoyed the time off - I pretty much ignored my blog the entire four weeks. Today's a busy day at work. I'll read all stories on the way home and comment on them tonight!

Indeterminacy News

No, that's not me in the photo, but the imagery describes how I feel, having reached my milestone of 360 stories. I've spent the last few days without any story pressures, and that feels great.

News 1: Ediciones Efimeras, a Spanish language E-zine of surrealistic flash fiction and visuals, will include three Indeterminacy stories in Spanish translation, appearing in the upcoming editions #88, #89, and #90 (May-June). Their edition Ephemerals (2006) shows a few stories in English. I hope the Spanish translation of the Indeterminacy stories will not ignite controversy in the right wing blogosphere.

News 2: Cyber Poirot has apparently launched an investigation into the latest indeterminate developments. I'm usually the last person one should ask to find out what's going on, so if any of you have a statement to make, please stop by Cyber Poirot and do so. I can't wait to find out whodunit!

News 3: I came up with a fable table! OK, the Indeterminacy stories are not fables, and there are usually no animals in them, and it beats me what the morals of my stories might be. But they're short like fables, and with a total of 360, I have almost all the fable writers beat! Don't be alarmed if you haven't heard some of these names before - I found them in the Wikipedia.

Number	Author	Genre
ca. 64	Ignacy Krasicki	Fables
74	James Thurber	Fables
ca. 125	George Ade	Fables in Slang
136	Berechiah ha-Nakdan	Fables
154	Shakespeare	Sonnets
186	John Cage	Audio Indeterminacy
ca. 200	Ivan Andreyevich Krylov	Fables
243	Jean de La Fontaine	Fables
ca. 300	Gaius Julius Hyginus	Fables
360	Me!!	Visual Indeterminacy
ca. 600	Aesop	Fables

So, only Aesop is better than me. What this really means is I have to keep going. Either that or go into Wikipedia and edit down Aesop's fable count.

News 4: I'm going to keep going - but at a pace of one story a week, posting a photo each Saturday and inviting everyone to contribute their stories. Starting May 14th. I still would like some time off. Don't forget to visit Michael at Blogin Idiot for Friday stories!

I was ready to hand him the check, but I hesitated, asking one more time, just to hear that wonderful description again, "And these experiences will be mine alone?"

"Absolutely," he assured me. His concerned look, and shock, at the insinuation that I may have mistrusted the integrity of Life Inc. seemed genuine to me. He went on: "Each and every experience is guaranteed unique and becomes your own personal property upon receipt. We maintain that the moment itself is fleeting, gone irretrievably before you can even begin to savor it. So who needs it? The true pleasure comes in the reliving of it, in which case the memory will only be as vivid as the words expressing it. As I've said, we employ the best creative talent in the industry. You will not regret having done business with us."

Satisfied, I turned the check over to the representative. He stood up, retrieved my folder from the filing cabinet, then placed the check among the papers I had filled out: the exhaustive personality tests, three of them, the twenty-page fantasy checklist and that massive preference profile. It had been an entire tedious day working through those. I looked at him to see what he would do next. He entered some words into the computer, clicked the mouse a few times, and soon the printer began humming. A moment later he handed me the printout.

"Now this is your profile confirmation. The url is at the top of the page. Please note the user id and password," he said, pointing to the line in question, "You'll need these to answer the comments you receive. You're ordering the basic service, so you will have to make your own comments, but please remember, you may at any time opt for the premium service, in which we offer the increased intensity that accompanies full passivity. But you may make that choice at any time you wish."

He smiled, I thanked him and left, exiting the office like a new person. It was such an exhilarating feeling, knowing my life had just begun. I could hardly wait to return to my apartment, curtains drawn, lights low, the warm glow of the monitor showing me my first post at the blog. "Read it three times, carefully," the instructions said, "closing your eyes a few minutes after each reading, to impress the vivid language into your psyche. As time passes, the content will be indistinguishable from an authentic recollection."

I set the blog url as my default start page, so that it would be right there whenever I switched on the pc. Then I saw: those people certainly work fast. The first post must have appeared as I was on my way home. I read the words, my introduction to the world, the new me, the me I would live and remember. I was 23, had just moved to the city, met a girl who fascinated me. I was back from the first night out with her and it had inspired me to start my blog. I read. I read it again and reread. It was all so promising. As I closed my eyes, I could almost feel that Lisa was in the next room, ready to return to me. I replayed the events of our first meeting, those magnetic moments, when eyes lock and silence binds. It was just as the man had promised. I remembered. I could actually remember. And then I waited in the dark, for my next post.

Story #360

All stories contributed here will be reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com. Thanks for all the comments and great stories - I'll comment on those tonight, and take a break in general and then figure out what happens next.

Previous post:
When I began this in August 2004 I posted one story a day for about half a year, then I changed to five a week, and lately it's been more sporadic. It's to the point where I need a short break from all this story writing, despite wanting to go on and on and on. Story number 360 has been the Nirvana, the Shangri Las, elusive pot of gold that is now right in before me. The story is already on paper.

What happens after this? This has always been an "experiment in creativity" for me, so I intend to write down my introspections of what I've learned. I want to move all these stories to a permanent URL somewhere. I still have some outstanding promises to take care of (some prizes, etc. form last year), the Indeterminacy diplomas, a poem for Alice, a challenge I accepted from Lazy Iguana to write a story to a photo at his blog, and one to one of Deryke's photos. I haven't forgotten. I am just very, very lazy. But don't all go and delete your links to Indeterminacy yet. I feel that something should go on here - I'm just not sure at the moment what or when.

Angela had passed this way many times before, the alleyway formed by unclosed walls in an unfinished house. Never had she seen the staircase. But there it now was.

"I wonder if I might climb it?" she asked herself, looking at the dull, concrete structure.

"Yes, yes you must," she answered with certainty, and was already on the first stair, then the next, step by higher step, and soon she slipped through the black opening above into a massive, unlit chamber.

"We've been here before," said the part of her that knew.

"I don't recognize it at all!" she interjected after turning a complete circle, a glance cast in each of the dark directions. But then she noticed the lights.

- Do you see them?
- I do.
- Like dancing stars in the distance.
- Those are eyes.
- Will they hurt us?
- They cannot hurt us!
- Whose eyes are they?
- Yours and mine.
- But I see thousands!

She walked hand in hand with herself through an unilluminated vastness, wanting to see the eyes near enough to touch, yet with each step the twinkling points of reference seemed to dart further away into the distance. Her feet were bare, though they hadn't been before, and she felt smooth pebbles beneath her soles, warm to the touch. "Bend down, pick them up!" she whispered to herself. And she did. She filled her pockets with the tiny stones. And when her pockets were filled, she grasped more in her hands. "Come!" she said, taking herself by the arm, "we must return." More walking, of a path unknown. The darkness thickened like a midnight fog, causing the far-off, bobbing lights to vanish. And then she stood on the stairs again. The sharp clip of her shoes echoed in the alley as she climbed down to where the staircase began.

A workman appeared from behind the structure where he had set up his tools for the work in progress. He watched as she descended. "Hey, you shouldn't go up there! It isn't finished!" he called to her.

"I'm sorry - I won't do it again," she answered him, and hurried away. There was no need to return. She had taken enough ideas with her to last a lifetime, those shiny little pebbles.

Story #359

This story is dedicated to ~River~, whose poetry you must read, if you haven't already.

The blanket balled itself out of the wicker basket, then shot upwards, confronting Carl. "You're not washing me with that lot!" it said.

Carl backed away for a better look at the woolen spread which had extended itself tautly, advancing deep into his personal space, a wall before him. He'd never seen a blanket with a face before, and naturally it made him nervous.

"Now take it easy and - get back in the basket - I don't want any trouble -" he stated in a controlled calm, but a tentative stutter betrayed his uneasiness.

"Never! You think because we've slept in the same bed all week you can do anything you like with me. Ha!" and the blanket twirled itself into a thick noose, swinging like a pendulum near his neck.

Carl's eyes darted frantically while he tried a new approach: "Look, there are some nice designer jeans in the basket, a Tommy Hilfiger shirt, some cashmere socks. You'll all be together, tumbling in and out of each other, warm fabric brushing your cheek. Isn't that something?"

"I'll shrink!" the blanket screamed, whipping around his head from ear to ear. "Those buttons on the jeans always smack me in the face!" The blanket now fixed its stare ominously in his direction. "Murderer!" it shouted. Carl wanted to leave the washroom, but the blanket swung around each time, blocking his retreat. He saw that it was edging him into a corner.

"Look," he said, both hands between him and the blanket, hoping to ward it off, "I'll do anything you want, just please stay away from me." Cold, malevolent eyes glared back at him. "Go back to the basket and I won't wash you," he blurted optimistically. But the blanket hung impassively in a half-circle around him. It had him maneuvered into the corner. At any moment it could wrap itself around his head and smother him. "Please, I'll put you in a nice cedar chest with lots of moth balls. I'll spread you out on an antique sofa. I'll stop sleeping in the nude. I'll have you dry cleaned. I'll-"

"Did you say dry cleaned?"

"And hand pressed."

"All right. It's a deal," it said, and flopped down over his arm. "Let's go."

Story #358

This was an historical moment for Rollo the Astronaut who had mistakenly landed on the Planet Rouge, and he knew it. No one had ever met face-to-face with non-Earth life of the sentient kind, or if they had, the other race hadn't noticed. She was sentient. No doubt about that - he could tell by the way she stifled her yawns. This meant he would have to come up with an immortal phrase, some greeting along the lines of "One small step...," "What hath God wrought?" or "I'm Scorpio, how 'bout you?" to get her attention, famous first words to establish a lasting bond between their two species, a bond able to withstand melting suns and bigger and better bangs. Standing there all alone as sole representative of mankind, no one to help him, his mind flailed, "Oh, the humanity!" it cried. But that might be offensive in mixed company. The words he chose would be chiselled in stone, engraved in platinum, and printed on t-shirts medium and small, so he must be conscious of length. Chiselling and engraving is charged by the letter, and complex catchphrases don't move the textiles. He thought laterally and in tangents, wondering if maybe just a wink would do, after all, she was quite lovely in a ruddy sense of the rainbow, as he could tell through the scarlet fog drifting between them. "Excuse me," he said finally, "what's the way to Venus?"

Story #357

Vaughn counted the hands. One two three four. Four of them. Then he counted the heads. "Hold still!" he shouted. Four heads. Only four. "Stop smiling at me!" With four heads there must be at least double the number of hands! He looked at the two appendages at the end of his own arms, wiggling the fingers to be sure they were his. "I knew your grandmother," he told them. "She had five fine hands. Twenty fingers. Five thumbs. She'd knit up a storm, she would. But where are your five?" He aimed a long, hard stare at the four faces, then he closed his eyes, trying hard to remember the people he'd shaken hands with in the past, and how many hands they'd had. "Once again, all palms on the glass!" More thoughts of the grandmother. Would she visit them? One two three four. "Stop smiling, I beg you! And hold those hands still!" He counted again, but something of the scene unsettled him. "Please!" he called out, "this is a solemn ceremony. Stop smiling or the scéance will never work!"

Story #356

Thanks for all the stories! They'll be reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com later.

It was worse at parties, when he tried to chat up someone, anyone. He discovered invariably that his verbal interaction was out of synch with the world around him.

"That's a nice dress you're wearing."

"I don't like Kafka."

"Well, it accentuates your shoulders."

"So, you're a laptop."

And so on. In fact it seemed that he and the others carried on different sides of different conversations. It wasn't fatal, because it was never all that important what he said, anyhow. No lives hung in the balance, except his own. And no one noticed there was fun to be missed in his conversations dangling like Harold Lloyd on a broken clock.

With no one to talk to he obsessed himself with the Internet. Not the chat rooms, no, because there he was only mistaken for a computer bug. He began meta-searches for the statements people said to him and found a cache of old soap opera scripts. It was all there. To the letter. He downloaded the massive files of throwaway words and learned by heart each syllable, practicing in front of the mirror until mastering the shallow nuances. Then he went back to the party.

"How would you like to read the Metamorphasis with me in a bed surrounded by cockroaches, a dish of chocolate covered ants and grasshopper wine to refresh us?"

"I don't like Kafka."

"I think my mind just crashed."

"So you're a laptop."

Story #355

Postscript: For all your scripting needs, please visit Drew's Script-o-Rama!

Lips sought lips, soft, affectionate lips. Breaths passed to and fro in bodies enjoined. Blood swept through veins while unison pleasure swelled into the stellar heavens. The sun shone and stars painted paths across the bodies that drank of each other in ebb and flow of sensation. Sometimes, in a lull, as breasts caught the shade of a moon, Consiva sketched a letter in her mind:

My far off Sisters,
We made our decision to win what reprieve we could for our world by infiltrating the new wave of colonies. Here now slumber our seeds of unanimous womanhood. Though our deception has diluted us into the galaxy, we remain one in the strength of our idea. At night, when I glance at the stars, I wonder which of these shine closest to you. Perhaps the light I see is only an echo of suns already destroyed, and soon the entire universe will be in darkness, unless we were in time to shroud the madness. For now we must enjoy our moments of splendor, giving ourselves to our gender as openly and naturally as befits the love that is our legacy. This is what we shall sow.
Yours truly,
Consiva

The welling emotions led to a touch and once again the lull succumbed to selfless passion... And so the days, weeks and years passed. Consiva and her colony thrived on each other. Each day awoke new senses of feminine companionship, togetherness, oneness. A held hand, a mutual embrace, caresses felt in the brain. They shared lavishly of themselves, of their tenderness, of their beings. They worshipped the magic of wombs able to bear fruits, fruits that could grow and develop and in their turn partake of the pleasures bequeathed them. But there would be no seeds swelling into lives. When the men came in twenty years to collect the soldiers, they would find only the women's love. The bloody war to enslave the galaxy would collapse and wither into an oblivion of the unborn.

Story #354

This is a sequel to story #353. Thanks to everyone who contributed their creativity. These will all be reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com in the next days.

The women's chamber might have been a bedroom in a house of plaster walls and painted shutters. The entire spaceship was made to look homey, a way to keep the travelers relaxed during the interstellar prelude to the hard work of colonization. Now it was night and time to sleep, though it was always night on their journey past glowing novas and shooting asteroids. The girls mused over the colony they would form with Captain Consus as guardian. They were to share him as a mate.

- He's so handsome.
- That sweet, boyish face!
- He gave me orders this morning, and his hand brushed mine!
- I want to be first with him!
- We can't all be first.
- Can't we?

Consus listened secretly over the master intercom, the feminine voices twining in and out of his fantasies. In and out. He was quite excited about the idea of six willing women on a planet they'd have all to themselves. Winning the assignment had required countless favors and bribes, as well as forged papers. He'd even had to give himself to a few men along the way to have them slip his application higher in the queue of prospective captains, and to turn a blind eye to any disqualifying details. He shuddered with disgust at the memory of that, but there had been no other way. And there he now lay in his segregated cabin, staring dreamily beyond the walls of the vessel towards the planet of their future habitation. He lay dozing in bed as the chatter of his promised harem swirled weightlessly about him.

Following landfall the six ladies gathered in the clearing to await consummation of the agreed duties. The captain approached still in uniform, face lighting beatifically at sight of his waiting flock. "You won't change your mind, will you?" he asked with a shy smile that stroked each and every one of them. They nodded their assent. As he opened his uniform the ladies realized the colony would take a new direction. The suit slid away to reveal the body of a woman. Consiva was her name.

Story #353

Postscript: I changed Consa's name to Consiva. I simply had to. It's so perfect. Story #354 is a sequel to this.

I stumbled upon an incredible blog with impressive poetic prose: "ritual acts with penquins" by Cocaine Jesus. You have to read him.

The Skybot X3000 landed following a successful mission in the air. Its ion brain emitted thought after thought in programmed efficiency, replaying its actions of the last hours. Binary insights passed in review like footsteps on stepping stones. Beside the ability to reason, the X3000 was a master of critical analysis:

- You released all the devices.
- They crumbled the structures.
- Static and organic.
- A perfect mission.
- Monumental achievement.
- ***classify emotion***classify emotion***
- Internal state is pleasant.
- ***final warning***reload ammo cache***

...which was of course why the Skybot X3000 had touched down. The X3000 itself was a perpetual, self-winding entity of lasting endurance, but eventually the ammunition must be replenished. That was the one drawback of the fully automatic pilots, skirting the heavens, scanning the ground for targets to reform. Otherwise they could stay in the air for years, holding the war, while the parties at home joyed on. Some argued that the automatic warriors degraded the value of life, but the complex mechanisms were developed at such a high expense of both money and human effort, that others argued it proved the value of those lives it touched.

Story #352

Thanks for all the contributions! Stories have been reposted at indererminacies.blogspot.com.

Postscript: I've finally begun reorganizing the links in my sidebar. This is just a start, until I refine the categories. Probably some of the links could be in a better category. All feedback is welcome!

Monday's Postscript: I noticed that some blogs I thought I linked to are not in my link list. I'm trying to fix this. But if anyone notices that they are not linked and would like to be, please leave a message about it or send me a mail. I've always tried to link back to the blogs that linked to me. But I sometimes didn't catch sight of it.

Gregor waded into the depths, beginning his recitation of Goethe as he spied the dual divas of the reef.

"The water rushed, the water swelled, a fisher sat on shore..."

No amphibian femme could resist the tones of that poem, even transplanted from its Teutonic nuances. They turned in his direction.

"...out of the moving waters flowed a lady of the deep..."

Despite the softened sounds, the guttural decadence remained in all its tempting implications. They were listening.

"...she sang to him, she spoke to him, why do you tempt my kind..."

Yes, this was his favorite poem of seduction. It never failed to intoxicate the gaze, or to senusalize the sighs of his female listeners. His audience hovered almost within reach, watching him intently.

"...if you but knew our blissful life, our comfort here below, you'd dive to us, just as you are, and with us you would flow..."

Learn one poem well, he had always believed, and with it you can sooth her into succumbing. Always.

"...does not the glowing sun partake as does the moon of me..."

It will even work on several girls at once, each of the playful natures outdoing the next in daring and precociousness. He noticed their smiles shining through the brine.

"...his heart beat faster yearningly, as for his dearest's kiss..."

That passage, and the image of pleasures to come, always whisked his breath away, and now was no different. Underwater, however, was not the optimal place for this to occur. He'd already breathed quite heavily during the recitation, and now the tank had no breaths left to surrender. His delivery faltered abruptly. He began waving his arms, signaling frantically to the water divas. But his sign language was foreign to them. Confused yet playful, they repeated some gangsta signs they had seen at a beach party, but he no longer saw. His final thought faded with the closing passage -

"...she drew him in, he sank to her, was never seen again."

Story #351

Gerard has written his own story to this picture - it turned out really great!

The poem I used here in my own (partial) translation is Goethe's "The Fisher" - I made my translation before reading any others. This page shows the German original, and links to five different English translations (1, 2, 3, 4, 5). Still another translation by Emily Ezust may by found here. Which one do you like best? My favorite is the Zeydel translation, but each poet excelled with different passages.

Soon. Soon I will be ready. I collected them one by one, fragments and scraps of stray sensibility drifting by in the electrical air, feelings feminine, tenses masculine. I shuffled these splinters intensely for the synthesis of what they will be. I sense it now growing within me, building to crescendo, edging the complex climax into its catalytic moment, that aureate fusion of the shards. Then I will feel it, then I will show it to all who see me, shuddering into outburst, a flash of satin tones, to laugh and cry at once, moved by love and despisement in shimmering hues from fear to serenity. And then, then I will offer myself to the felicitous face that passes with hesitation. Take me down from the wall to be thy mold. Cover thyself with my meticulous emotion, woven in breakable porcelain.

Story #350

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

It's safe to get back into the shower! The amazing Inspector Poirot has solved the mystery, so we can all rest easier knowing what really happened to Little Bar of Soap. Incidentally, this has to be the most impressive post I've read in ages, I'm talking on a divine level, seriously (and no, I'm not Poirot).

I am also going to end my period of mourning and start posting again. Tonight I will post a photo for the weekend, for another round of weekend stories. I hope all of you regulars and not yet regulars will have time to contribute stories!

Postscript: According to blogger, this is my 400th post! Of these posts, 349 have been stories in the Indeterminacy series. I began this blog in mid-August, 2004. Some incidental synchronicity: today was the day of Dddragon's 350th post. I wonder if this is a sign...

I think there will soon be a breakthrough in the mysterious case of Little Bar of Soap. Apparently there is subliminal evidence hidden at the Barofsoap Website. But I am just a layman at this, so I am waiting for Inspector Poirot's opinion.

Meanwhile, I have studied the photos I downloaded on the night of the Bar of Soap tragedy (March 22/23) and have discovered several suspicious irregularities. These are in the form of highly disturbing images, images of soap orgies, bathers in various stages of soapiness, boys and girls frolicking in sud-filled tubs, etc. I am turning these images over to Inspector Poirot in the hopes that they may shed more light on the set of circumstances surrounding this strange case.

The first one of these photos depicts a blob of soap suds in a hot tub. These suds are in a form that suspiciously matches the physique of Little Bar of Soap, as it has been described in happier days at her blog. Notice the callous, grinning smiles on the faces of the bathers, and try not to shudder. It is very distressing to think of Little Bar of Soap having ended this way.


The second photograph I downloaded on the night of the murder depicts a lather orgie, such as would certainly have made Little Bar of Soap faint, had she lived to witness it. I find it difficult to look at this picture for more than a few seconds. The inhumanity of it is more than I can bear.


The final photograph of soapy abandon is this especially shocking image of boys and girls together in a pool of soap suds. I do not like to think of what happened next for fear of sullying the memory of our beloved Bar of Soap, who is no longer here to tell the Devil to get thee the hell out of me.

Looking at all three of these horrific images, I relive the entire shock of Little Bar of Soap leaving us, whether she left us forcibly or of her own free will. But I trust that each of us, in our own way will finally come to terms with the horror of it, and find some way to go on living. For indeed, life goes on, even without soap.

I have been extremely distraught since learning that A Little Bar of Soap has "died in her home", as posted at her blog. The shock has left me unable to write, which is why I did not post a story today. But it now seems that there is more to this than meets the eye. Could LBOS have been murdered? Is she still alive? Or worse? An international investigation is now underway by Inspector Poirot and a team of Miss Americas and psychics to uncover the details of this horrible crime and apprehend the perpetrator(s). Suspects have already been interrogated at their blogs, and I suppose we will soon learn what has happened. Agatha Christie is a great writer.

I wish to assist Poirot with the investigation and have therefore minutely examined the obituary notice. This examination has uncovered various discrepancies.

If you look closely at the obituary newspaper, you see print in the background. This would obviously be the article on the other side of the page. If you look closer, however, you see that this print is not mirrored as one would expect and that it furthermore spells nothing but gibberish. I have circled what is clearly the letter "C" which is not backwards as it should be.


If this were a legitimate scan of a newspaper, this lettering we see in the background would have to have been reversed, and would have to form recognizable text, which it does not.

An investigation of the newspapers of Topeka, Kansas turns up further discrepancies. There are two newspapers in Topeka. The main one, "The Topeka Capital-Journal", uses block print and not the gothic lettering of the forgery. Here are variations of that newspaper's logo:




The other Topeka newspaper is "The Topeka Metro News" - an independent newspaper which emphasizes the Metro News in its title, and also uses a different lettering.


It goes without saying that Little Bar of Soap would not be caught dead in an Independent Newspaper.

I find no similarity in the "newspaper" of the alleged "obituary" to any existing Topeka, Kansas newspaper. Furthermore there is no "Evangelical Church of Christ" listed in Topeka, Kansas - the church where the supposed services have been held. Nor is there a "Reverend Arthur Schutz" (0 hits in Google).

Taken together, this proves conclusively that the obituary is a cheap fake, as is the memorial service. If these were expensive fakes, someone should demand a refund. All of this gives me the hope that I may one day be able to write again.

To hold you over until the next story, I have made a repost of last Tuesday's story, the Girl at the Blackboard, because there were two really great story contributions and I want everyone to be able see them. The first story is from GPV and the second contribution was anonymous, but wonderfully written, and strangely erotic, as well.

You may read the stories here. Note to anonymous: please tell us who you are. I would love to read more of your writing.

This raises a disharmonic point that I have to clear up. During the course of the blog, I've always reposted the weekend stories, but occasional contributions lay scattered throughout the weekday stories. I don't want these to be lost, so I intend on locating them all and reposting them at Indeterminacies.

The metropolis: a smothering jumble of towering facades, sullied air and noise. There I was, trudging through it when I wondered how pleasant it would be if it were a peaceful Japanese meadow instead. In the honk of a city horn, my entire field of vision blurred and I was strolling through just such a land, but it was considerably more elaborate than I had expected. In the distance loomed a massive volcano, and across the grassy plains loitered a modern Japanese maiden, giggling mysteriously at something. At me? At the mountain? Or some secret? She stopped and fixed her gaze in my direction.

"Why are you dressed in pink?" I asked her.

"My clothes were blue a moment ago." she stated enigmatically, and giggled again.

The sky was blue, but her clothes certainly weren't. I decided not to press the matter, choosing instead to engage a new subject, "Could you tell me about that volcano in the distance?"

But she continued giggling and finally answered not the question I had asked, but the one I was actually thinking of, "I'm not really a Japanese girl, I'm that cloud over there.

I took this as slightly presumptuous. After all, this was my day dream, and not hers. I looked at the cumulus formation drifting high by the mountain's peak, and wondered if the volcano itself might have puffed it into existence. It looked to me like a sage poring over an ancient volume, a dictionary perhaps. But not a young Japanese girl! More giggles.

"April fool!" she exclaimed, causing my thoughts to trip backwards and fall flat, if thoughts are capable of such a thing. "I'm not really that cloud over there, I'm Doug, Doug! Don't you know me? You do recognize me, don't you?"

Then I did recognize him, and that we were standing on a Los Angeles street corner, waiting for the light to change. "What an odd happenstance, meeting you here," I told him," I heard you were down in Guatemala."

"Oh, no. Not anymore. I came back."

Then the light flashed green and he was off before I could ask the most important question. I called urgently into the moving masses, "Did you find Ambrose Bierce!?" but not a single person looked up.

And that's how I met Doug. But when I was home something happened to make me wonder whether I had simply imagined my imaginings. I recalled quite lucidly that I had never in my life been to Los Angeles, nor had I ever seen Doug or spoken with him in person.

Story #349

Afterword: I suppose there are some people who have never heard of Ambrose Bierce or Doug Pascover, who blogs impeccable modern-day versions of the Devil's Dictionary entries. Bierce, author of the original Devil's Dictionary disappeared in Mexico in 1913. It is my opinion that Doug doesn't need to search for Ambrose Bierce. He's already found him. Doug has recently posted a five part account of his travels in Guatemala, a wonderful excursion into the real and the imaginary, which were the inspiration for this story. It's well worth reading/listening to: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5]. Also, these and more of Doug's audio stories are collected at dougdroneson.blogspot.com.

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

Class, last night I finished grading the animals you all built. But there were mishaps and I think we need to discuss them before I return the assignments. Clara, your animal was huffing and grunting continuously, and ran everywhere licking things! I finally had to lock it in the cellar, where it went on licking - the entire night! Too much reflex, no reflection. Please pay more attention next time! Douglas, your animal began running around in circles. Then it started jumping and tumbling about until finally smashing through the window and thumping into a neighbor's house. We must be extremely cautious about the amount of adrenalin we add to the mix! Mistakes like these make our animal very hard to subdue. Ben and Bela, I'm afraid it was all I could do to keep your animals apart. At first sight they wrapped limbs and rolled here and there, and off into the sunset. Quite a sunset hanging over the road by my house, and they rolled right into it. Next time don't use parts from the same dish. They instinctively try to reunite. Harvey, your animal just lay there. Please try harder next time. The rest of you, I finally had to lock your animals in separate closets to keep them from acting out their lust instincts. Some did, however, manage to burrow out and vanish to parts unknown. Please keep an eye on the newspapers and blogs these weeks for anything unusual.

So, due to the loss of a large portion of our animals and the time we will lose correcting the ones that did not get away, we must double up in teams. I will assign boy-girl project teams at the end of today's session. Also, I'm afraid we will have to omit material due to the time lost. In particular I've decided to dispense with the lecture on how to build sexual organs. We simply do not have the resources to deal with further complications.

For the next session I would like you to add a digestive system to your animals, which will enable them to absorb nourishment, and hence, enjoy an extended life span. After that, we'll work through emotional fine-tuning, and, in the concluding session, learn how to decorate our animals. Despite the glitches up to now, I feel you will soon arrive at the point where you may take your destiny into your own hands and create animals whenever you like.

Story #348

The first time Agnes used sunglasses was at a late-night party. Usually she felt stiff and uneasy when the shades were passed around and slipped over the eyes, but now she felt a strange thrill of attraction. Misgivings dashed aside, she thrust her face into the hug of the ebony arms, pressed the frame into her vision. Her eyes darted excitedly about through dark fields blackly lit with moving blurs and distant voices. She swam in echoes of music, sensed dancing figures around her, glided in and out among the traversers she saw, seeking hands, grasping and tracing her fingers in outlines of the bodily shapes they offered. Her lips slid against lips and her tongue sought the caress of the other tongue. Long it lasted, as she molded herself to form after form in unlit encounter, each inhalation intensifying the nearness. The taste of man and woman alike filled her perceptions. As her lips quivered in exhaustion she tumbled, landing on the soft cushions of a sofa. She removed the glasses, turned her head about to notice the remainder of the party standing stunned, their eyes on her, awestruck, all of them, at her dance with the shadows reflected on the wall.

Story #347

Manuela stood staring at the blackboard. Should she write out her love for him? It was the chance, the perfect chance to proclaim for all and him the feelings in her heart, ready to ignite in wild, cyclonic emotion. She grasped the chalk in her fingers, twirling the dry cylinder to feel the transference of surface. If he were this piece of chalk, I would reduce him to dust with my kiss, to fine, white dust, and immerse myself in him. With one puff I would totter him into a cloud of manly chaos, ready to erupt in a geyser of passion to my cyclone. Her fingernails scratched the chalk, causing snow-like flakes to scatter to the floor. I have so much to tell you, she told him in thoughts, imagining his reaction. About us. All about us. Yes, I will tell you. And how I will tell you!

"Go on," the teacher admonished. "It shouldn't take that long."

"I was just thinking," she said. "I'm not sure of all the words." The tip of the chalk met the blackboard, and she wrote out the first lesson: "- Wie ist das Wetter? - Das Wetter ist schön."

Story #346

Postscript: While I'm at it, I think I will dedicate this story to deutschimmerlernen.blogspot.com.

There were two great reader contributions to this story, so I decided to repost them at indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

In a tersely worded announcement, "Coming to a shore near you!" the aliens declared their arrival. It worked better than any advertising slogan known to man. And why not? These were superior beings who knew how to sell a product, e.g. their flyover. Everyone turned out for a look. Despite the rush, no one was trampled in the massive conglomerate of humanity that collected on sea, lake and river shores all over the world - though a few were mistakenly baptized in the glowing water. The alien vessels traced a leisurely levitation along the shores - so slow you could see the beings standing at the portals, shadows waving with stilt-like arms to those down below. Of course the people on ground waved excitedly back. How happy they all were! Until they returned home and saw that their computers and televisions were gone, whisked away into outer space. It was amazing how fast civilization collapsed after that.

Story #345

Thanks to everyone who contributed! It turned into an interesting set of perspectives, though all of the stories had something spectacular, apocolyptic etc. as an underlying theme. All contributions have been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com..

There are some who believe our world is nothing more than a huge pumpkin carted around the universe by an even larger girl-like deity. They believe further that the universe itself is an infinite maze of supermarket aisles and shelves, each item on the shelves a world of its own. How could anyone prove that one way or the other? You might enjoy endless night-time hours of pumpkin pie and coffee, philosophizing with your friends about it, and never reach a satisfactory conclusion. And when the pie and coffee ran out, you'd have to go to the supermarket and buy some more. That's what happened to Eugene following an especially intense debate on these matters of deeper magnitude. He wandered off, slightly unbalanced, to arrange for a continuation of caffeinated drinks and bites of pie. When the girl with the pumpkin idled into his path, he bowed humbly before her and offered her his grocery cart.

Story #344

These stories have all been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com. Also: read Mushroom's story. It's impressive.

Postscript: I've published a new translation of a remarkable Tucholsky text, called "What If..." at the Tucholsky blog.

Sophie's eyes and Troy's eyes never met when they saw each other. Troy looked at Sophie, admired her hair resting on the shoulders, hair of dark auburn he wanted to touch, admired the arch of her back beneath the clothes. But Sophie wasn't looking visibly, though she may have smiled. She may have known, even felt the thoughts of Troy. Troy dreamed, gaze unfocused, wishing wishes of Sophie. Sophie felt his eyes gone elsewhere, drifting to his dream distraction. Then she studied him, admired angular shoulders, hands to grasp her, wistful wonderings of a kiss she herself might borrow from his lips, then wondering more, ending when the bus came to speed her away. Close behind came Troy's to carry him off. Two dreams dispersing like the tide from a shore - until tomorrow.

Story #343

Note from Indeterminacy: Virustwitch has posted an excellent story at Another Galaxy!

Further footnote: This story was written while listening to Nico's "Chelsea Girl" (1968).

Today is International Women's Day! So to all of my visitors who are women, I wish you a very happy time today! You're all invited over to my place, and I'll sit you down on the couch and bring you a fresh cup of cappuccino and some conversation.

My post on the Indeterminacy Girls has been accepted in the Tenth Feminist Carnival How does that happen, you ask? The answer is, I hid my beard. Stop by there and have a look at the great content they've collected.

Now I'd like to share something cool I've come across with you. It's called Flork.com, an offbeat and interesting place to find music, films, movies and people that might be on your wavelength. I signed up there a few days ago and already got a few messages including one from this intriguing lady: Mela. She has just begun a series of podcasts she's entitled Melafestos. Her regular blog is here. All I can say is I think it would be fun to start a revolution with her.

Postscript: This has been a wonderful day with lots of synchronicity in the air, so I thought I would add this. I came across a newborn blog, and I have a feeling it might be worth keeping an eye on! An Altered State of Consciousness

"That ought to be an easy picture to write to," I thought to myself as I pulled the photo out of my directory of stand-bys. It depicted three persons on top of the Empire State Building, a man pointing out at something, and two girls, one staring off to the side - but not at the view, and one staring straight and somewhat impertinently into the camera.

Sunday night came, then Monday, and still no story. Sure, I'd written stuff down, but it was, all of it, lame: some nonsense about spirits of concrete having to leave their building after it had been demolished, then deciding which high-rise to move into next. Who would believe such a thing? I thought of writing a story about how hard it is to write a story, but I remembered from a writing class that this was the one topic authors should avoid. Nobody wants to read stories about how hard it is to write. Besides, I'd done one of those already. So you see the torment of my dilemma.

Monday drew to an end, and still no story. The worries pursued me into my sleep. My ideas formed into lame, limping gremlins parading before me, sticking their tongues out as they passed. Then I was falling, tumbling endlessly through dusty urban air. I looked above and saw faces everywhere peering from the rooftops, pointing and leering as I toppled. When I awoke I knew what had to be done: slip into that photo and find out what those people were really up to.

I merged into the scene from behind the camera, and stood off to one side, so as not to disturb the harmony of the actual photograph. But it went badly. The transition unsteadied me, causing me to slip and bump my head against the tourist telescope. The loud bong attracted her attention. She looked straight at me, smiling at some secret idea. My head turned to her like a magnet and I was so stunned even my thoughts were stuttering.

"Say, you two," she called to her friends, her captivating gaze never leaving me once, "Who says we have to possess a building? Let's possess him."

Story #342

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

Original post: Should I try for five stories next week, or switch to three a week? Do the stories turn out better if there's more time between them? Does it make it easier to follow the blog if posts aren't as frequent? Was it better when I was posting a story a day, seven days a week?

Artie went out looking for the snowman he remembered building the night before. He pulled the scarf over his face as the blast of constricting coldness slapped him like dry ice onto a thaw. Never had he known it so cold. As he forced his eyes to turn in the slicing wind he felt his frozen breath adhere to his pupils, blurring his vision. He blinked slowly, holding his eyes shut long enough to unfreeze the oval surfaces. When he opened them again he saw the girl. A girl in the snow. In a bikini.

"What are you doing in that bikini?" he uttered in puzzlement to the smiling beauty in snow.

"I'm not wearing a bikini," she giggled through a grin flexing from slight to wide as if to tease with its warmness - by no means were her lips frozen.

"I don't understand," he spoke in baffled whispers to himself, "A moment ago I was in the house, drinking hot chocolate, looking out at the summer season. But the night before I'd built a snow man..." None of it fit. None of it made sense, and he knew it.

She smiled livelier than before, as if humoring him. His world wobbled. With trembling tongue and shivering lips he parried frozen words at her, "Icicles entwine you! Snowballs untan you! Coldness upon your feet!" but the syllables failed their affect. He didn't know why he'd said it all.

"I love crystallized speech! Give me more of those candies!" she cooed.

His vision clouded again and he saw snowflakes before his eyes. When he came to he perceived that he was stiff, stiff and standing in the snow, arms weighted by his side, eyes fixed on the feminine apparition in the snow.

"You're confused," she told Artie. "Your mind's wandering. You babble on about walking around in that house. And summer. And bikinis. Then you act as if you never saw me before. What's gotten into you? You're a snowman, Artie, and don't forget it. And I'm a snowgirl. Snuggle up to me Artie, and cherish the cold."

Story #341

Check out Will Brady's story for the photo!

Matthew entered the shadow studio, as it was called. He stood in the silent chamber, taking in the apparatus and the convex projection screen. The lights dimmed and he counted the seconds of silence while the hum of transistors and electrified circuits cut in as a steady, subliminal vibration. All the preparations had paid off. Soon he would be able to carry out his plan. His mind drifted through bits and pieces of the interview with the psychologist who'd certified his suitability for the procedure. Not everyone was allowed into the room...

"Tell me again about these voices you've been hearing," the psychologist’s voice stated unemotionally, eyes staring through the wire-rimmed glasses at Matthew.

"---It's when no one else is around. They call to me --- beaconing me --- as if they were around the corner, or in the next room. But when I go in, they've moved on --- and when I hear them again their condescension only builds." Matthew spoke like a man hounded, and the sensors on his fingers and pasted to his head confirmed the emotion.

"And these voices, do they ever tell you to do anything?"

"Yes. Yes, at night. It begins as insinuations, 'That girl next door would like someone to...' Then the demands become more direct, first as questions, 'Why don't you visit her and---' Then commands, 'Go to her now and---' And loud, very loud, sexual things, you understand --- I press my hands to my ears and fall to the floor, but they scream at me, many voices at once, an entire crowd, and won't let up." At this point he buried his face in his hands and began to cry, his frame shaking with emotion. It was a passionate performance and sustained throughout a film may even have sufficed for an Oscar nomination. The psychologist, though no connoisseur of acting, liked what he saw.

"I think I can certify your insanity," he told Matthew. "We shall begin the procedure in half an hour."

Matthew smiled inwardly. Those weeks of intense meditation and practice with his homemade lie-detector had put him in a position to claim anything he wanted, and have it officially approved as truth. Suddenly, light appeared behind the now rippling membrane. It was a weak, colorless glow at first, strengthening finally into a thick hue of green like one might expect in the illuminated brine of a fathomless ocean. It was his soul, his soul that formed out of the green ether as a dense, dark shadow. He reached out to it, to touch it, to embrace it, the ultimate embrace of oneself, which had been his intention all along. Had he been insane, the procedure would have extracted the pathological segments of his being and left them to dissolve into dust, to be vacuumed away and sealed in a specimen tube for scientific reference. But now the complete soul presented itself intact, stood before him in his reach. His hand felt drawn towards the real reflection but as his fingertips grasped, the soul turned away. His soul, too, had had intentions. It wanted out, out of dull, normal Matthew. A moment later it vanished entirely, and Matthew stood alone, a mere shell of his former self.

Story #340

Important announcement: The new blog discussed in the comments of the previous post has been launched with a premier story by Viruswitch: anothergalaxy.blogspot.com.

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