She was as ancient as time itself. On the first day, she appeared out of the snow, a crystal statue embracing the freezing bitterness all about her, warming it slightly. After a wave of eons the winters became merciful and mild. Tree by tree a forest closed in on all sides, swelling as the air warmed. Soon the vegetation flourished on humid air that engulfed everything. She felt the wet kisses of the sauntering breeze. The jungle thrived for a time, but thinned to a prairie, revealing a sky above. The sun and moon and stars repeated their play of destiny for her again and again. Not even a god could change the outcome. Soon there was no green left, only the white sands all around, and the blue sky and the eternal woman herself. The arid wind caressed her softly but could not kiss her. Suddenly, in the distance, a section of horizon was quietly immersed by an aquamarine presence. It dilated gradually nearer. Before long it was in reach of her, the sea she had awaited past any human conception of chronology. In one beat of her heart, the entire scale of time slowed. Eons gave way to days. Others came to the sand that now embraced a sea, built fleeting castles, lay on towels, tossed Frisbees. The bikini came into the world and clothed her. A digital camera was in her hands. Now the moment had arrived. She recorded an image of the saline waters, as a souvenir of her age-long experience. By evening the tide would wash over her and she would swim in the sea she had longed for.

Story #79

George was happy now. The aliens were back. He remembered the first time they visited him, how terrified he had been, but deep down, under that scratch proof Teflon surface, they really knew how to fry eggs. Since the first visit he had studied all their recipes, prepared now a smorgasbord of tasty delights for the evening session to begin in a few minutes: Salads of scrambled egg and popcorn, boiled egg-shell crunchy-cakes, and liquid egg slime to wash it down their metallic throats. In good faith the aliens had packaged all the hay of his fields using their matter movers and energy encapsulators. George had attention to detail and wanted to make this visit especially memorable. In addition to the food, he had arranged a cozy evening of entertainment to win over the aliens completely. Videos of My Favorite Martian, Mork and Mindy, and War of the Worlds must show them how interested he was in their culture. If all went well, they would award him the franchise for the McAlien Earthside Saucer Stop and he would never have to work the fields again.

Story #78

It had all been so easy, the innocent favor for Satan in exchange for two boys, but now nothing was working as she expected. Upon materializing in her bed, Marco had struck up a conversation with the dazed Sergio who still could not understand how he had gotten there. It quickly evolved into a discussion of soccer. Marco was an ardent Italy fan, but Sergio argued the virtues of the Brazilian team. "Hey! I'm Italian! My parents are from Brazil!" she interrupted to no avail. Even the most erotic and yearning facial expressions could not penetrate their concentrated colloquy. What did you have to do to get guys to notice you!? Just then Satan walked in, emanating the air of a master maitre'd. "Everything to your liking?" he inquired politely, offering them ice creams he produced from a special cool box hanging from his neck. "No! No! Satan," she wanted to say, as a repulsive intuition flashed through her, but it was too late. The mental image of the girl licking an ice cream cone had given the boys an idea of something to keep her quiet while they continued their perpetual conversation.

Story #77

Note from Indeterminacy:
This is part three of a trilogy. Part one here. Part two here.

You. Yes, you. I want to give you these flowers. Why? I saw you sprawled there next to that sweet sign of yours and it just awed me. Suddenly I knew I had to rush home, put on my nicest gown, and bring you a beautiful bouquet of flowers. Really? Don't be so hard on yourself. So what if you live in a cardboard box? Surely you have a vase. An empty wine bottle will do. Is there room for two in your box? Oh, I'm sorry, I was just wondering. I didn't mean to appear forward or anything. It's just that I saw you and it was so like magic. No, I can't explain. It overwhelmed me. Maybe it's your disheveledness, those torn clothes, that gruff look. Oh I'd give anything to run my hand up and down your beard stubble. I feel we belong together, in a box, in an alley, on the roof of a condemned warehouse, watching the stars. I would go anywhere with you. It doesn't have to be fancy. It's the little things in life that count. I realize that now since I started taking the Prozac.

Story #76

The three girls had never been with a man before in the biblical sense, but very often in the sense of the Harlequin romance, that is to say, had imaginations certainly as depraved as anything they might encounter beyond the theoretical. So it was not surprising that they accepted Satan's intriguing offer to tease one of his victims with their unapproachable purity. First they talked to the man about all the things they would never do with him. Anytime he became excited they laughed and gesticulated with such demeanor as to transform his urges into a feeling like cold, wet spaghetti. If he tried to touch one of them, the nearest other girl rapped his knuckles sharply with the handle of her pitchfork while the remaining girl fired a Satanic blend of pepper spray that burned like brimstone. Innocent virgins could certainly be cruel. Finally they improvised a raucous bra dance for him, singing and jiggling in bras that could not be pierced by the naked eye. This accelerated him past the breaking point. He collapsed to the floor, whimpering at his bitter fate. The girls had done their job well. The entertainment the man received could only be classified as PG-13, which was kind of ironic since he had signed the contract, in blood, with an X.

Story #75

Note from Indeterminacy:
This is part two of a trilogy. Part one here. Part three here.

With great mental effort, the bundle of crisp new currency had willed itself to fall away from the rest of the money meticulously piled and stacked. It hoped to be noticed. "Touch me," it thought, blending in with the whispers of the remaining bundles, forming a collective chorus that must have been worth several million dollars. The amorous, dreaming glances of the onlookers prodded the paper-money-passions to be handled, fondled, folded, turned, and finally passed to someone else who would repeat the whole procedure. They wanted it and knew how to get it, as well. That was in their nature. They merely had to lie there passively, out in the open, with minimal covering. Before long some hand would always grope at them. But it was all a sham, and the bills didn't even know. For they were counterfeit banknotes on a table in a museum in a glassed-off area with a strict "do not touch" policy. They would remain untouched until picked up one day and dumped into the recycling press.

Story #74

It would be difficult recruiting three virgins for the night job but Satan had made a promise. The man wanted virgins and he wanted them every night, so that's what he would have. After all, he'd traded his soul for it. Satan gave a self-satisfied chuckle, well aware of the difficulties in finding virtuous girls. He checked his daily list, complete with half-life likelihoods for each of the entries, rejected outright most of the names before eyeing through the distance three girls who might still meet the criteria. The purity rings on their innocent looking fingers added an especially lovely touch. He clapped his hands together and they appeared before him. Appealing to their comic sense of schadenfreude Satan made his proposition. In return for their night of service, or rather lack of service while physically present with the contract partner, they would each be rewarded the next night with their choice of two boys from the other list. Satan warmed to the sound of the three voices toning their affirmation, and chuckled again at the brilliance of his business model. "Virtue has its rewards," he laughed jovially to the girls, enjoying his mood.

Story #73

Note from Indeterminacy:
This is part one of a trilogy. Part two here. Part three here.

It had been a perilous escape from the book of nursery rhymes but now all the characters stood safe and sound on soothing gray cobblestone. Most notably there was Mr. Poppit the Haberdasher who found he'd married the Boston Slasher. And the much loved Little Girl Red, dreamt of evil things in bed, woke one day with a doll by her head. Next to her stood the Nun from the Abbey of Novgorod whose feet as a horse were to be shod, because she wouldn't believe in God. Children often remembered her in their prayers. The Brothers Snoot with heads of fruit for mother's cupboard they did loot had also made good their flight from the gruesome tome. The others, Ms. Garden the Prison Warden and the horribly abused Mrs. Peyton Wife of Satan had escaped from more or less minor rhymes, even less politically correct, that no one could ever remember. The entire group had just been granted asylum and looked forward now to a life of bliss in the real world where bad things never happened.

Story #72

My name is Fatima. You'll know me soon enough. I'm scheduled to appear in your dream tonight. You just caught me limbering up. Expecting a wild erotic fantasy, aren't you? Well, there's been a change. I read the script this afternoon and went straight to the writers. "I won't do it!" I told them, "I don't even know this guy. Plus I have this recurring thing going on in another guy's sleep." Anyhow, the part of the dream where you're all over me like an octopus, I talked to the writers and asked for extra arms, razor-sharp fingernails and a new ending. I'll be ready for you tonight. And there'll be no escape.

Story #71

- Irene, I love you, let's have our heads sewn together. Right at the cheek. What a symbol of devotion that would be! I'll do it if you will. Don't answer yet. Think of how lovely it would be. Dancing through life, cheek to cheek, always feeling each other's warmth. Or the little things, sharing a cherry flavored Popsicle, watching a sunset together or a romantic movie. Posing for those pictures they put in the Internet, capturing forever the love in our eyes.
- Bill, what about kissing?
- Kissing? Damn! I forgot about that.

Story #70

It was a scorching day on the planet Mercury. The sisters could feel the sizzling slivers of sunlight pierce into them, tanning them under their asbestos skin. "I want to go back," Mila thought to her sibling. It was too hot even for sound to carry. Mira answered with the image of their last visit to Earth, and the boy with the cold hands. Mila sighed. They both longed to shiver in the arms of their Earth boy again. "We will go back. Now!" Mira's mind telegraphed each syllable with dry deliberation. It was, after all, simplicity itself. They had only to imagine themselves with him, and so it would be. Thoughts began their cohesion, swirling ever swifter around the desire. Soon they would be before him. Somewhere on Earth, that sweet Eskimo boy was waiting for them in his igloo, dreaming. And he had lots of ice cubes ready.

Story #69

Boy: Is it working?
Girl: No.
Boy: Don't you feel anything?
Girl: No, I don't.
Boy: But the book said we had to lie on top of each other.
Girl: Hmm. I'll try bouncing up and down a bit. Maybe that helps?
Boy: Hey that hurts! You wanna break my back?
Girl: I thought this was supposed to be fun. I think it's boring.
Boy: Wait a minute. Wait a minute. I think I know what we're doing wrong!
Girl: Tell me?
Boy: You've got to lie so your legs are dangling over my head.
Girl: No way! I couldn't do that on the first date.

Story #68

"Come! Eat us! Eat us!" the Pringles thought in mental waves emanating to fill the room. "They promised us in the factory we'd be eaten. Don't worry about fat. They'll love you when you're fat!" The entire can of Pringles thought this as one. Just as each Pringle looked and tasted alike, so did they think alike. But it ended there. Once inside her body it was every chip for itself. A mad rush would begin to settle the new, wild frontier that she was. Some would congregate in the central regions of her tender midriff, others would savor the choice land of her tanned thighs, as lovely inside as on the surface. The venturous ones dreamed of a life in the warm suburbs of her curvaceous bottom. The Pringles sent out another wave of wishes to direct the lady, "Come on! We're spicy! Just the thing for a hot Cajun mama!"

Story #67

Lisa loved to dance. She never talked. She just danced. Her way to meet someone new was to circle around the person, smiling and dancing. There was no need to give her name. It hung on a tag around her neck. Impossible to read, but at least she didn't appear entirely rude, darting around so close in someone's personal space. Sometimes the befallen ones tried to grab and kiss her, but they never could. She was too nimble and bent swiftly away from their approaching fingers as if she were a computer animation. Sometimes her dances grew daringly wild, stunning the one in the circle she danced. There was a secret way to tame her, but no one had yet found it out. You had to dance with her, even wilder.

Story #66

The volunteers from the Liberty Landmark Church were wholly enthusiastic: men, women and children alike. In a moving sermon their reverend had warned of the nation's lack of intelligence from inside the Islamic terrorist infrastructure. In order to expose the inhuman nature of the enemy the Homeland front needed eyes and ears in the Mosques, in El Quaida caves, on Saudi Arabian street corners. The reverend urged his parishioners to come forward and commit themselves to help. These were the ones who had answered the call. To be successful, they must become inhuman themselves. It had been a gruelling indoctrination, but they finally absorbed the primitive ideology and would now be subjected to a surprise quiz to certify their authenticity. The Homeland Security Grand Inquisitor General posed the questions randomly and directly, indicating with his usually accusing but now somewhat friendlier finger the person who should answer:

"You sir, should young, unmarried women have sex before marriage?"

"Unmarried women of any age must remain pure or they are dirty and worthless in the eyes of Allah."

"Good answer!" He pointed again to someone else, "What about feminism?"

"Allah does not want women to be feminists. The man must be the head of the household. Women must stay in the home and bear children for the glory of Islam."

"Perfect. And what about unbelievers?"

"Those who do not believe the true word of Allah are beneath our respect. We must unite and defeat them in any way possible."

"Excellent. One more," he said, pointing again, "What do you think of homosexuals?"

"They have sinned willfully and abominably in the eyes of Allah. They will burn in Hell."

"Brilliant!" declared the inquisitor after his random inspection, "I think I've heard enough. No one would ever suspect that you were Christians."

Story #65

Something odd was going on in the dressing room. A crazed woman stood there wrapped in her winter coat, telling everyone who might venture past her into one of the booths, "You can't go in there." Her slow and deliberate manner of speaking dripped of impending doom. No one dared challenge her. They called the police, but by the time they arrived she had somehow managed to blend in with the confusion she had caused and vanish completely. None of the witnesses could say exactly when or how. When they entered the booth she had so rabidly guarded they found her coat lying in a heap on the floor. No explanation of the incident was ever found. She might have been a ghost.

Story #64

Note from Indeterminacy: A Happy Halloween to All!

Why do these young people take the bus anyway? Don't they get cars from their parents for birthdays?......I knew I shouldn't take this damned bus, wasn't it like "the journey is the reward," well thank you God! This way it's hell!......We'll see Dolly how well you like it when you're seventy, have gout and rheumatism and some girly takes YOUR seat in the bus......Do they have to push all the time, so I've got the seat, they didn't, bad luck......I hate that when she starts telling me about her grandchildren. How long was the ride suppose to be? Oh, woman, your granddaughter is not bright, she is a little bitch and your grandson is far from gifted, he is just a spoiled punk...... Well! Don't I look just great in my new hair cut! I wonder, why has she fallen asleep? She must have seen me, when she got on the bus......What is this? A senior center excursion or what? I'm trapped in the back of this damned bus, help!...

I am the sun. I give you warmth, energy - I give you life! You have worshipped me. I was your God and Goddess! I am the power your existence depends on, since I can also destroy you! I am your "to be, or not to be!" But these millions of years glowing, exploding and shining were exhausting. I need a break. I am tired - please, let me sleep - that is the least you could do for me. And shut up!

Story #63

Note from Indeterminacy: For this story my muse acted as author and I acted as muse.

Guess what! I can do magic. I've been working on this for a long time. No one suspected a thing. See the doll with the black hair? That's my Mommy. She got mad at me because I wanted to stay up late. Now I put her to bed in my dolly cradle. See the cute little teddy bear in red? That's Daddy. I didn't like to do it but he kept asking about Mommy. The others, they're the ones who keep coming by asking questions, where my parents are. I tell them they're visiting a neighbor. Then I invite them in to wait for them. And here they are, waiting. Oh, there goes the doorbell again. I wonder who it is?

Story #62

Silka had always felt there was someone out there watching, surreptitiously studying her from behind the windows or some hidden peephole. She never felt alone. On the streets she was prone to cast nervous glances behind her in hopes of catching whoever it was stalking her. She never could. Nights, before undressing, she drew the curtains in fear of telescopes and night view binoculars, then searched the room for hidden Webcams. Nightmares of lustful eyes bobbing around her permeated the cold sweat of her sleep. One day, just by accident, Silka unintentionally discovered the first proof that it was all true, and the realization shattered her psyche. A random link had drawn her to the Indeterminacy blog and this very story about her. She clicked it away and turned to run.

Story #61

The two time travelers were on a brief excursion into the early 21st century. After taking in a Disney double matinee of Finding Nemo and The Lost Empire they shared a candlelight dinner at a popular seafood establishment of the day. At an Internet cafe they surfed history sites deep into the night. The subsequent day was devoted to shopping. By sunset, all the money they had received in exchange for their gold was spent. They took a long, last walk along the oceanside, watching the eternal waves engulf the sun and slowly give rise to the living stars. They exchanged a thoughtful glance, glowing gradually with the awareness that it was time to go home. Yes, the 21st century had a lot to offer, but so did their age. Their trip ended with the usual trouble of closing and sealing the coffers filled to bursting, this time with the finest in men's swimwear and the sexiest in ladies bikinis. The yellow-green hues of the time essence flickered as Heronikus and Isyka returned to Atlantis.

Story #60