"It's your fault!" shouted Marge.
"No, it's your fault!" Mitch shouted back.
"No, it's your damn fault!" Marge shouted again.

Marge and Mitch had just been visited by a real live genie. He shot out of the vacuum cleaner hose like a balloon while Marge was vacuuming. It seems he was selling vacuum cleaners, and giving away free complimentary wishes with each model he sold.

"This is wonderful!" Marge called out to Mitch. "Come here and do a happy dance with me."

The genie watched, a wide smile on his face as the two hopped and skipped, arm in arm, around in circles. He looked very friendly. He was no taller than a leprechaun and just as green.

"Shall we get down to business?" he interjected kindly.

"Well, let's see. First off, we'll take your entire line of vacuum cleaners," Marge started, eyes focussed in the distance, on all the wonders soon to be hers, "and then I'd like a husband who's always amorous, a--"

"You fool!" Mitch broke in "Don't wish yet! It's a trick! You've got to think it over carefully before you wish. Haven't you read all those stories about wishing!?! I'll probably go blind or something!"

But the genie had already lifted his hand for that magical wave that would finalize the wish. Thinking quickly, but perhaps not all too brightly, Mitch lunged forward and slam-kicked the genie against the wall. It broke the genie's concentration all right, but it also broke the genie, who splattered into an interesting wall design, what with the green blood and all. Not even the new industrial strength vacuum cleaners could remove the stain. That's when Marge and Mitch started arguing.

Story #232

Note from Indeterminacy: Check out Courtney's genie story. It's inspired.

Don't forget. Today is Friday. Go over to Michael's blog and write a story for one of the pictures he posted. Then come back here tomorrow, because we'll do the same.

Everyone was trying to keep up with the Joneses, and at first, it worked. The Joneses built themselves a spacious garage with air conditioning and a wide screen TV, for that drive-in feeling. And everyone else built one, too. The Joneses added on two extra levels to their home. Everyone else did the same. A steady stream of delivery trucks visited the quiet, suburban street delivering identical appliances to all the homes, to expand into the newly added levels. But when the Joneses constructed their own private Stonehenge in the back yard, the neighbors revolted. Where were they going to find that many slabs of stone when everywhere they looked was plastic? One night they carried off all the slabs and buried them, leaving behind only a few loose pebbles.

Story #231

Note: This is a repost (and slightly rewritten) of the story I contributed at Michael's Blogin Idiot. His Friday tradition is to invite visitors to write a story to a picture he posts. Check by there tomorrow!

The two girls had to be careful not to tip their hand. One false move, and they might scare off the boy, and they had worked so hard to lower his defenses. Brad watched as they both yawned at the same time.

"Geeze, am I boring you? I could leave," he layed out flatly, like a centerfold with no picture on it. He was ready to abandon the interactive recreation that might await him.

"No, no!" the girls improvised, while thinking how tedious conquests could be. Kitty continued, "You've got us so enthralled. It's just that we stayed up all last night thinking about you."

Brad was appeased. He relaxed slightly on the sofa and studied them, lips forming into a soothed smile. The ruse had worked. The girls continued talking to Brad, the ulterior intent buried under the blanket of their false affection.

But then it happened again. The yawn overpowered both girls at once, as Brad looked on. Kathleen was especially careful to cover her mouth as thoroughly as possible. She didn't want to spoil the surprise. Before Brad could protest again, or perhaps even stand up and slip away, Kitty decided it was time to act. She moved forward and locked her arms around him, pulling him closer, just as she had arranged with Kathleen. It wouldn't do for Kathleen to go first. Kitty merely desired to feed on Brad's emotions. Kathleen, the vampress, would feed on his leftover blood.

Story #230

Robert Sheckley, the science fiction great whose comic sense of the universe is nothing less than sublime, took seriously ill while attending a science fiction convention in Kiev. His condition has since improved and he has been transferred to a stateside hospital, but funds are required to cover the costs of the hospitalization and his convalesence. Details are at his Website: www.sheckley.com.

If you never read anything by Robert Sheckley, blogger Zed Lopez has compiled a list of online texts. If you read them, maybe you will see why Robert Sheckley is one of my heros, and why I hope that each of you will do what they can to help him.

Mario had an intensive gaze that led women to believe there was something mystical about him. It was true that pretty girls evoked a certain concentration in him bordering on the manic. But his gentle features invariably deflected any suspicion of perversity or obsession. He imagined one day what his paradise would be, leading to his decision to invite several of his female friends at once. The mystery of Mario's eyes intently fixed on them, awaiting an answer, invariably functioned with each of the girls he hoped would grace him with her unstockinged presence. And they came, all of them. He had told them he could read their fortune, but in a new way, the way of a lost art that had been passed along in his family, in secret, from generation to generation. He could read the soles of their feet, follow each of the lines of that tender base of a woman, each innocent curl of their toes and curve of their instep, read all the delights and passions awaiting their lives, and - this he kept to himself - he would read them in such a way as to subtly suggest himself. But Mario underestimated the girls, and overestimated himself. The jumbled pairs of bare feminine feet summed to a force of erotic power that strained his heart past the ability to beat. Not even mouth-to-mouth resuscitation could save him.

Story #229

Once a year the bunny felt herself at a biorhythmic high, that day called Easter when it achieved the miraculous task of hiding billions of chocolates and twice as many jelly beans to cheer all the world's children. But when that day had passed, a dampening depression engulfed the poor bunny. The three sisters found the Easter Bunny in the department store the day after Easter, crying to herself in a corner, ready to end it all. They sat with the poor creature, talked to her, sang songs to her. Their exuberance was catching, and soon the Easter Bunny found herself smiling again. They told her funny fairy tales about Tortoises and Hares, but with happy endings. The Easter Bunny hopped for joy and reached into her pocket where she found a leftover lollipop, which she offered to the youngest of the sisters. It was a touching moment. Without hesitation the sisters invited their new friend home with them, asking if she'd like to stay on for a couple of weeks. The Easter Bunny agreed, grateful tears welling in her eyes. They hopped and skipped all the way home. After the necessary arrangements and preparations were made, there was enough rabbit stew to last the entire family the two promised weeks.

Story #228

Thanks to everyone who contributed their own version to this story! They have already been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com!

It's the weekend again. For those of you surfing in via BlogExplosion, and don't know what it's about, every weekday I post a found photo and a story inspired by the found photo. On weekends I invite the visitors to try their hand at a story (See above photo, kindly donated by Mushroom). Each month I give a prize to one of the contributors, selected at random, a b+w self-enlarged photograph I took myself. I post my story on Monday, and move the stories posted here in the comments section to indeterminacies.blogspot.com. Anyone who contributes also gets a link at that site. And you are all invited to submit photos of your own for next weekend's story.

Now an update on the Petesville situation over at Pansifiles, based on several rumors which have come to my attention. After I posted Friday's story exposing the shocking Barbie-morality that rules in Petesville, complete order broke down. Betty Boop is safe. She's with me now. But President Pete is said to have been deposed and was lately seen surfing from blog to blog, from an undisclosed location, leaving comments reflecting his total loss of contact with reality. It's a sad situation, but was bound to happen sooner or later. Hopefully things will be back to normal after Mrs. Weirsdo returns from her vacation. For further information on what this is all about, please refer to the Friday morning post.

Martin and Gregor were two good Catholic boys, that is, until they chanced by the decadent window display with the life-sized, sophisticated Barbies. Unfortunately they noticed the wink. That was the beginning of their moral decline into a dead-end depravity. Up to that point they had been of the respective opinion that they would wait until well after marriage before lying with a member of the opposite sex.

"I might wait a few years after the honeymoon," Martin said. "I don't want to rush into something I don't understand."

"But it isn't sex if you lie with a Barbie," Gregor argued, planting a seed in both their fertile minds.

"When you put it that way... Hmmm, one of those might make a nice replacement for my teddy bear," Martin pondered out loud.

"And the cool thing is," Gregor went on, "we wouldn't have to go to confession about it. Because they have no souls."

"That settles me. So, which one do you want, Greg?" Martin asked his friend while considering the permutations of possibilities associated with each of the two selections.

Gregor had already decided: "I want the one with the mask. My sister has a Barbie like that."

They walked into the store, visions of inanimate splendor coaxing them forward. The storekeeper watched them suspiciously out of the corner of one eye as they approached. Upon seeing their ID, he flew into a rage. "Get out of my shop," he sputtered severely. "You're too young to buy those! Go sleep with a real girl your own age!"

Story #227

Today's story will be delayed a few hours due to ongoing negotiations with Pansi of pansifiles.blogspot.com. As I posted in my comments section, I have photographs incriminating the whole of Barbiekind. All I want in return for not using these photographs is a small favor, a favor which should pose no problem to someone like Pansi or Doodoo man or whatever else those things over at Pansifiles are called. These are disgusting images depicting Barbies seducing and corrupting underaged boys and girls. They are in flagrant violation of international law! All I want for not posting them is a wild night with Betty Boop. I don't think that's too much to ask.

Bambi commented:
Mr. Indecency:
President Pete wishes me to infirm you that you are a evildoer and an enemy of the state.
Even if you were not, Miss Boop has been retired since 1939, and if you were any respector of age diffrences you would understand how unseamly you're request is, in any case the terms of PANSI's contract expressly forbid any business dealings involving rival intertainmant figures.
Even if the pictures to wich you alude proove to be genuine, which I doubt, Naked Gymnastics for JESUS is not responsible for the behavior of Barbies who are not cast members.
Do you're worst!
Sincerely, Bambi

I'm sorry, Bambi, but that's just not good enough. So what if Betty is a mature woman? At least she's not a minor, which, I might add, your kind seems to have a penchant for.

I know that Pansi is terrified I'll use the photographs because she just posted this flattering review of my blog. But I don't think anyone is fooled. We can all see through plastic. Her own profile says that she doesn't read.

In case you don't know what this is all about it's all been widely reported in the media:
At oldtommyboy.blogspot.com
At pansifiles.blogspot.com

Pansi: You get me Betty or else!

-----------

Note: If you're just surfing in here via Blogexplosion, welcome! I had a sudden 5000 credit windfall in Blogexplosion and I'm using some of it for this site, and some of it for the companion blog: indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

There had been no room for them in the painting so the leftover models had all been collected and placed at its base. The real problem was where to put them up for the night. At the museum's closing time they all trekked up flights of Art Deco stairs to the attic where rock hard cots had been placed, imitation Bauhaus, the best the museum could do on their budget. During the day, meals were brought to them, but it became a nuisance, with visitors talking to the objects while they ate, as well as begging for the odd bite, and leaving crumbs. Soon, museum guests began crashing the modern artwork, mingling in with the small group before the canvas. The cozy club grew gradually into an unwieldy mob. They began fighting over the pieces of bread the curator brought them. Art critics who dared criticize the technique or the rendering of the creation were browbeaten to ribbons by the volatile group of seated impressionists. Some were even physically mishandled. It wasn't long before the overcrowded conglomerate became irritable and aggressive all the time. Eventually, the painting's meaning shifted. The religious symbolism weakened. The work became a treatise for man's inhumanity towards man. One day the painting was stolen, people and all. A graffiti-covered school bus was seen leaving the scene of the crime. No one bothered calling the police.

Story #226

Blanche's stern gaze could twist itself into any guy's mind, attaching itself to fears cowering in the darkest corners of the unconscious. Ghosts arose to interfere with the victim's reason. He'd feel himself hopelessly haunted by unrelenting truths, even if he'd seek flight in a divergent direction. The glaring eyes would merely press him deeper into the labyrinth, loosing dark spirits to loom freely on the periphery of thought, summoning a cowering wreck in the place of hollow self-confidence. But Buster was brave. He invited Blanche to his house, bade her sit down before him, while drawing her stare into him. He had to know. He had banished all his ghosts, had what he considered to be the perfect mind, one with no suppressions, pandering instead to perceptions of brutal directness. He lowered all his defenses and met the intensity of her gaze. It was love at first sight. She felt it, too, but, oh, if looks could kill...

Story #225

Vera loved the beach. She often slipped away unnoticed from her friends to a secret rendezvous with the sand. She etched out hearts on the malleable surface of homeless pinpoints irretrievably separated from the where of their birth and the what of their existence. As she placed her hand in the heart she sensed the nearby warmth of the summer sea, a confirmation of the sand's love for her. It had been some seasons now, and the initial pain had seeped away. Only the love remained, and that was as everlasting as a human being could will it to be. She thought of him over and over, thoughts cycling in serene concordance with the tide caressing the shore. He had died so young. And this was the place they scattered his ashes.

Story #224

The cave girls shared a happy-hug. They'd located the late professor's secret credit card, the one from the 25th century, with a 3 billion dollar credit limit. He'd been kind enough to drop it out of his pocket before they sent him back to feed their cat. Now they could do all the hunting and gathering their prehistoric hearts desired. It didn't take them long to discover the online shopping with its innovative one-click gathering and same-day shipping. They ordered a thesaurus, just to see what it was, but it couldn't lick them. They ordered phallically shaped lava lamps, sweet rock candy, tiger skin bikinis and a set of psychedelic paints and brushes. But it was all just ersatz. They spent sleepless nighttime sessions pining and painting modern art murals on the lab walls, reflecting what was on their mind most: boys. During a typical session of cat feeding the girls suddenly gave each other another hug of delight. Their million year old dream had come true. The boy they'd sent Mesozoic survived the test of manhood, hog-tying the cat with a loose vine, and beating his chest triumphantly. The girls finally had their new pet. They pressed the button to bring him back.

Story #223

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

Special thanks to Becca for donating her photo. Also, thanks for all the story contributions, which will be reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com shortly.

- Look. Do you see yet?
- No. Nothing. Just a dull purple-gray. there's nothing there.
- You have to look long enough.
- We've been standing here five minutes already.
- But the eyes! Don't you see them?
- Nope.
- C'mon. The artist is a genius.
- I don't see that. I don't see a thing.
- But that yearning expression, embodiment of a deep desire to be noticed. To be cherished. And to cherish in return. All in a tender, fleeting glance. Eyes that entrance you like wisps of visual incense drifting their way towards you, engulfing you in an intoxicating fog, drawing you into a bottomless trance from which there is no return, into an everlasting journey to the serene sensuality of shared togetherness.
- Let's move on. All I see is purple.
- You must try again. Close you eyes when you look at it, like I'm doing.

Story #222

The lady on the billboard willed Clyde to kiss Chloe. He did so. Then the lady willed Chloe to kiss back. She did as the thought directed. Clyde and Chloe both enjoyed what they were doing, and scarcely surmised an involvement by the nearby femme looming flat on the plastered paper. True, the boy and girl had been total strangers up to then, but when that urge to kiss takes control, even a rose without a name tastes sweet. The two-dimensional lady relaxed for a moment, observed smiling how Clyde and Chloe connected at the lips, pleasured countenances telling the tale of savored sensation. Thus satisfied, she began her subliminal sales pitch: "Buy Pepsodent... Buy Pepsodent... Buy Pepsodent..."

Story #221

Metaman was a state-of-the-art, space-age creation, a stainless steel mesh weaving. His fiberglass veins electro-pulsed the blips of light that made him live. He had a twinkle about him, given by the reflective grade of his polished appearance. His brain was a cluster of magnetized staples hovering in his head. He was designed to live an independent, meaningful life. Since no one in the modern age knew anymore what that meant, they decided to observe him and find out. His first act upon activation was to gather together his television, laptop and cell phone and press them all together into a sleek little footstool of classic design. The scientists documented daily forays to the thrift stores. He systematically combed yard sales and flea markets, where he salvaged antique artifacts once used by everyone's great grandparents: A manual typewriter, a telephone with a spinning dial and a real ringing bell of metal meant to resound, even a gramophone. If an object didn't function, he'd fix it by twisting a paper clip into the intricate mechanism. No one could ascertain how he did this as the science of repair was a vanished art. His front door was like a time machine to another century. Nights he would put on Benny Goodman 78's and type away on his book, a treatise on the virtues of recycling.

Story #220

"Look Sherry, you can borrow my reflection for the date," stated the blond whose cotton top of black and white stripes accentuated her curves in the most intriguing manner.

"Will it really work?" Sherry replied hopefully.

Lynn was the most experienced girl in the school, though the collective of her dangerously intense experiences was purely vicarious. Despite her seductive appearance, Lynn guarded her physical virtue like a vicious lioness guards her jungle bed.

"Of course it will work, Sherry. With two sexy auras coming out of you, your own and mine, that guy will be so stunned you can play with him like a Ken doll."

"Lynn, you awe me!" Sherry exclaimed.

Lynn smiled a smile wise in the ways of erotic. "Don't forget to signal me on my cell phone so I know when to take off my purity ring and slip into the passion trance. And don't forget our agreement. I'm doing this for the experience, you know. So make sure he gives you a lot of it."

Story #219

Kamilla wanted to have some fun with her PC. She could get any guy she wanted, but a computer? That was a real challenge. Each function coming up on the monitor plodded her playfulness. A sultry urge made her slip to the floor and pounce upon the tower. She grasped the wires with her hand and administered a long set of toying caresses. The hardware felt it. It didn't know what it was doing now. Programs started and stopped without being called. Bits cycled themselves into a blur. She bent closer to involve her mouth in the process. The tower began to tremble as it felt kisses fondling along the cables, ever closer to the slots and connectors. Her hot breaths caused electricity to surge. There would be a meltdown soon. But before that could happen her tongue shot out hard, toggling the power switch to off. Kamilla could be a heartless tease sometimes.

Story #218

Thanks for all the great contributions. I'll move them here in the next days: indetermincies.blogspot.com.

Martin was undressing Tina with his eyes. First the t-shirt slipped over her head and blew away in the wind. Then he imagined the straps of her bikini-top sliding from her shoulders. Finally he began to toy with the knot spanning it all onto her, anxious for the annoying scrap to flop away. Tina was helpless to do anything but wait while her coverings diminished. Nina, however, began to tease Martin by dressing Tina back up again. She doubled and tripled the knot until it was so tangled he couldn't think through it. With one synchronized swipe the straps slid back over the shoulders. Next Nina imagined a new t-shirt weaving itself around Tina, hiding more and more of her tastily tanned torso. A few minutes later the sun peeked out from behind the clouds and breathed summer at them. With no further help or hindrance, the t-shirts and bikini tops landed in a pile by the deck chairs while the two girls reclined, inviting the warmth and freedom to wind itself around them. After that Martin was more smiles than a happy-face factory.

Story #217

Instead of the daily story I decided to post a rant. That's what blogs are for, right? Destiny, fate, and much, much worse, the Deutsche Bundespost have played a cruel joke on me. I ordered a book, and through no fault of the sender, the book that arrived was a completely different one. Imagine how perplexed I was to find, instead of the literary title I had ordered, a work in Portuguese, by Professor Marcelo Lopes de Souza, entitled "O Desafio Metropolitano - Um Estudo sobre a Problematica Socio-espacial nas Metropoles Brasileiras." Without confiding in babelfish I take it to be a socio-economic analysis of the problems of Brazil's metropolitan areas, a book I wouldn't choose to read even if it were in English. No offense to the subject or to Professor Lopes de Souza who I am sure has written a classic in its own right. I simply detest reading analyses of any kind. I wanted literature.

Upon opening the package I was at first perplexed. Upon closer inspection it became apparent that the package had been opened and resealed with tape labeled clearly with the "Deutsche Bundespost" name and logo. The package also had a stamp of inspection by the German customs office. The original book may have been stolen!

I dialed the Bundespost's customer service number only to hear a recording that they'd all gone home. I looked at the clock. It was 8 PM, the time their service goes to bed. I went to their Website and poured all of my inspiration, creativity and bitterness into a letter of complaint, including a demand for reimbursement. But I know it will do no good. They will tell me the package wasn't insured, it wasn't registered, it wasn't properly packed, etc. etc. In short, that it wasn't their fault.

But I couldn't lose any more time with this. I had a story to write for my blog. I wrote a story. And then I wrote another one. I found that this incident had so affected me that I was taking my anger out on the characters, doing terrible things to them that they did not deserve. If only the chance combinings of indeterminacy had left me with a book of equal value to me or better it could have been so different. But this was just pure meanness. Even worse, my muse is away for the week visiting her parents. She might have cheered me up, but without her by my side, I'm afraid this has fed on my mind.

Then I decided. I will not rest. Though I may be fighting German windmills, I will not surrender. The German windmills have been provoking me for years, and this was the last straw. This is war. I will visit their Deutsche Bundespost. I will speak to them firmly and not without a crazed glint in my eye. I will pursue this matter until I have seen every office and desk in every branch office and headquarters of their entire organization. Some of the employees I will see so often we may even become friends, greeting each other by first name, and talking over old times, when I first began complaining. I may even see my original book lying in the open, on someone's desk. When this is all over I will either have my money back from them or I will be left with a masterpiece of non-fiction surpassing "Der Prozess" by Kafka.

Getting my mind to other things I would like to announce that this month's prize for the weekend story contributions will be a book by Marcelo Lopes de Souza on the problems of urban Brazil. If life gives you a lemon, make lemonade. There. I feel better now.

Story #216

Note: This story is dedicated to Princess Dominique

Hacker baby was having fun. All he did was press a few buttons and before anyone knew what had happened he was inside the NASA computers, playing with the planets. He made the moon blink on and off. He made stars go supernova. Hundreds of them. Because the explosions made such pretty colors. Then he hit reset and they were back again. He made the sun skirt around on the horizon. It was more fun than bouncing beach balls off of papa's belly. Hacker baby loved it. But people outside were going nuts. They didn't realize that all those planets and stars in the sky were put there by NASA and run by a Mac.

Story #215

Dirk had caught her red handed. "You're fooling with the car, aren't you, Stella?" he confronted her.

"No, of course I'm not," she responded with false surprise, "I dropped a bracelet. I was looking for it." She turned her hand so that he could not see the grime on her fingers.

"You're lying. Because I know I saw you fondling the tire," he shot back, but he was bluffing. He wasn't sure what he'd seen, and he didn't want to believe he'd lost her to something mechanical.

Stella considered what to do. What to say. Did he know what she'd been up to, or was he just guessing? Had he noticed the drops of motor oil on her thighs? "Dirk, you know that no chassis can come between you and me," she stated in certain terms. But she was angry at having to justify herself.

Feeling slightly ashamed at his accusation Dirk deflected his gaze to the side. Stella used the opportunity to quickly slip her hand beneath the car for another feel of the metallic underbelly. It made something happen inside her. "No!" she screamed then. "I can't lie to you anymore. Just go away! I don't want you! It's your car. I want to hug it. To touch it. To feel the warm motor oil seeping onto my skin."

The force of her words crushed Dirk. He sputtered a few moments, trying to say something, then stormed off to do private battle with his sudden emotions. Stella inched her way under the car. "Alex? Are you still there," she called, touching tentatively in the dark space beneath the automobile. "I'm here," she heard the mechanic's guttural voice. "Let's start our threesome," she whispered to him.

Story #214

Sigelli was a genius of construction who built living machines out of girls. His first creation, the one that made him famous, was known as the 'Belle Phone,' two girls connected from back to back with a long piece of thread. You'd whisper a secret to one of the girls and immediately the other girl knew, though she stood in the next room, clear out of acoustic range. No one ever deciphered the elegant mechanism. It only worked with secrets. His 'Sigelli Dancers' had shapely figures and patented legs. The group of ten dancing girls could dance sequences of intricate choreography to any music, even atonal classical pieces, which were extremely hard to dance to. It was also fun winding them up. Now he was testing his new creation: The 'Female Slot Machine.' No matter what salacious proposition you fed it with, it never came up with the same three ways of saying maybe.

Story #213

Thanks everyone for contributing! I think the stories turned out great! Stories have been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

Boys lost interest in Gabby and Gertrude faster than a game of spin-the-bottle with a headless statue of Isis. The two were wandering aimlessly up and down alleyways, contemplating what to do about it when they saw the ancient Egyptian symbol of femininity. The attraction and exotic of ancient Egypt were exactly what they needed to revitalize their auras and keep the boys intrigued. Something like that would hold thousands of years, when all they wanted was to live happily ever after for a few months. Fingertips extended, each lay a hand on the glistening gold overlay. The surge of mystery into their blood was immediate. They felt it. One look into their eyes and the power of the Ankh would surge forth and electrify the beholder. One touch from them would tingle the imagination with visions of Cleopatra and Nefertiti. It would be fun with the boys now. They walked on to the pick-up bar, never suspecting that the monument was only two months old and made in China.

Story #212

Laura was an amateur diva. Maybe she wouldn't be the heartthrob of millions of red-blooded males all over the world, or the secret desire of as many women longing for a new kind of adventure. But she was assured of the eye behind the camera taking her private picture. She focused on the photographer through the lens, thought of what a kiss with him would be like, parted her lips asymmetrically as a reaction to the playful idea, bent her knee upwards. His nerves were steady though he trembled inside. He wanted to throw the camera down and concentrate on her with all his senses. This he did, after the photo. Laura became his own personal diva, shared with no one, except the few people reading this.

Story #211

Sorry, today's post will be a little late. I attended a cousin's funeral yesterday. And wasn't in the mood to write last night.

P.S. The prize for an April story contribution (see indeterminacies.blogspot.com) went to Mushroom!

One night the alien came to impregnate Brian with its seed. The results were apparent a few months later as Brian's belly began to swell. His culinary urges took a radical turn. One night he might eat mounds and mounds of lady fingers, another night he'd swallow down plate after plate of sushi. He wouldn't touch pizza or beer. It made him nauseous. At sudden instances in public he began to cry for no reason. And he had been such a macho guy before! People stared at him oddly, remarking later, when he was out of earshot, how that spare tire of his would fit an 18 wheeler. Finally the big day came. He moaned and jerked spasmodically on his mattress. When it was all finished they filled a box with the collective offspring. They looked just like Barbie dolls, petite plasticine figures. They didn't even seem like they were alive. Wanting to put the entire incident behind him, Brian gave away the neo-Barbies to the neighborhood children. The dolls lay in secret with real Barbie dolls and several years later the resulting horde rose up and moved to Hollywood.

Story #210

Note: This story is dedicated to Weirsdo of The Pansi Files, just like that.

The men arrived armed to the hilt. Sometimes it was necessary. This time the neighbors had called. Strange thumping sounds were heard coming from the apartment, and that could have only one meaning: The microwave oven had gammaed. That was what they called it when the oven, instead of cooking its contents, flushed waves of radioactive poison into its food target. For decades everyone had presumed the microwave ovens to be innocuous boxes, but they were wrong. The deadly contraptions were biding their time, planning the next cooking revolution. One bite of a so-cooked TV dinner was enough to turn anyone into a mindless mutant. Then they'd run around berserk in their apartment, making thumping sounds. The authorities had assembled commando squads to round up all the microwave ovens. Public service announcements imploring people to use crock pots and toasters were plastered into TV news programs and newspapers, but most people never watched the news or read the paper. Unless the message was worked into one of the popular sitcoms, there was no chance of it ever being seen. Agent Meier of the microwave decommissioning squad surveyed the situation, tiptoed quietly into the kitchen, removed the deadly apparatus and tiptoed back out. Meier was glad he had the mask. Otherwise the couple making love on the kitchen table might have seen him blushing.

Story #209

Elaine visited the museum one day while touring a city of culture. The works of art spoke to her secretly and imparted upon her their plan, inviting her to return after closing hour to be with them. The Renoir nude would hypnotize the guard, so he would not be a problem. The mobiles would spin on their own, attracting the motion-sensing cameras. The statue by the window would see that the bars were unlocked. Once she was inside, there would be no disruptions the entire night long. Her clothes discarded in the corner, she would stand before the paintings, arms outstretched, and they would cast their colors upon her. She would sense fine nuances that even the artists themselves had overlooked. The sculptures would allow her to glide her fingers over their perfect forms, to marvel at the mystery of skin the impossible texture of warm ice. Ancient objects would whisper their secrets into her ear. She would understand them and appreciate them. And in return she would be understood and appreciated. As Elaine self-assuredly reached to open the bars, she looked forward to a new world of intimacy open only to one girl alone with art.

Story # 208

This picture turned to be truly inspiring, didn't it? I'm glad I chose it. For the prize drawing I'll leave it open until I post tomorrow's story. Anyone still wanting to contribute a story, please feel welcome to. Tomorrow I'll select a contributor at random who will receive a b+w print of one of my own photos, along with a story it inspired. I can send this either snail mail or in digital form, in case the winner does not want to make known his/her address.

The reader stories may also viewed at indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

Billie found a magic globe in the attic. Whenever she laid her finger on a random somewhere a boy exactly at the midpoint of her fingertip would fall in love. He felt all the pangs and desires and sensed the presence of his new beloved, but he did not know who she was or how to find her. When she placed her finger on the globe a second time, the girl of that boy's dreams turned her thoughts to him. Both would begin writing poetry to their unknown loves, feeling that someday, somehow they would be together. They would glimpse each other in nighttime dreams. In windows, across crowds, and begin desperate pursuit to find who it was. During the day they might absentmindedly jot down a face, and then realize it was that one special person. But never would they recognize who it might be. It was always someone they had never seen before. Indeed, they never had proof that that someone existed. Some went on believing the rest of their lives. Some hid their flame, grew older, and settled for a more sober kind of love. But at night, sometimes, they still would dream. And oftentimes an inspiration was felt emanating from that distant soul. Billie didn't know what to do now. She had placed her finger for the boy. And after placing her finger the second time she realized she had unintentionally selected herself.

Story #207

Note: This story was inspired by a poem I read at a blog called "The Angel's Cloud". A translation of the German language poem is in the comments section.

Martin found the girl wandering downtown streets reading aloud from a book on hotel management. Everyone looked at her strangely but Martin was fascinated. He sympathized, too, because people often looked at him the same way. At night he'd lay awake tossed left and right by his trembling obsession with hotel maids. Not even his therapist could satisfactorily explain it to him. Finally he stopped seeing the therapist and invested the money instead in a weekly stay at the Marriott. He felt safe lying on the plush hotel couches with cushions holding him snugger than a mother's womb. And no matter what he imagined about the maids, there was no one standing behind him telling him what it really meant, because no matter what it meant, it never topped the surface idea with the maids. So when Martin saw the girl, he immediately invited her home with him. Now she was reciting the chapter on female service personnel the third time through. He hoped it would get her in the mood, because he had plans involving her services. When the moment was right he would reach behind the sofa and pull out a maid's uniform. She would put it on for him. Then they would go upstairs, to the bedroom, where he would watch her make his bed and tidy the room.

Story #206

Note: It's another photo from Audra in Budapest!

Nelson was out collecting butterflies. It must have been obvious because the girl in the bushes asked him just that. "Are you collecting butterflies?" her voice drifted to his ears, permeating his consciousness, leaving a sweet aftertaste like honey yet to be.

"Yes," he answered, his eyes lingering for an awkward moment of silence while the girl simply continued smiling at him. He nervously tugged at his net.

"The butterflies went that way," she said, pointing.

Another awkward silence ensued. Though she never stopped smiling, he felt he had been dismissed, so he turned to continue his hunt. "Bring one back for me," he heard her call after him from behind. She raised her voice slightly to add, "Please?"

Nelson could hardly concentrate on the butterflies. All the while he pondered the girl among the sweet azaleas, a girl whose smile induced a strange intoxication in his brain. He thought he saw her afterimage each time he blinked his eyes in the bright sunlight. The monarchs and the morning cloaks and the red admirals he had come to love appeared especially elusive today, always flitting away when he was ready to pounce. Finally, a vanessa cardui, that species known as the painted lady, fairly flew into his net, as if guided by intellect. Without hesitation he knew he would give it to the girl, certain that his token of chivalry would charm her over to him. And so he returned to her. In an instant the captured creature hopped from the net, arced, wings flapping, into the air. It lit in the girl's cupped hands. She brought it up close to her face and inhaled a deep, savoring breath. Her tongue extended as if to meet the passively waiting creature. Then she turned so he could not see what occurred, yet the slurping sound he perceived was quite distinct. A few moments later she released the butterfly into the air and turned to meet Nelson's horrified gaze.

"It's so nice to be pollinated," she said to him, but he couldn't respond. "You didn't know, did you?" she went on, her smile never waning. "I'm part of the flowers."

Story #205

Postscript (March 2, 2008):

The Danish artist Tabita has drawn a wonderful illustration for this story.

Rose and Violet were rational girls. When they discovered they each had similar feelings for Harvey they decided to settle it with a friendly bout of arm wrestling. The winner would receive full rights to Harvey and have free reign in determining what pleasures to obtain from him. Harvey watched from the cupboard, lips trembling with tense titillation. He knew them both well and wondered now what would happen when the winner took charge of him. He wasn't a powerful man, by no means. Each one of them could wrestle him to the ground with one hand bound behind her back, as he had discovered the time he tried to tie them up. "That's what I get for avoiding sports all my life," he thought to himself. Rose and Violet, on the other hand, paid close attention to their physical fitness, attending the exercise studio twice a week, and softball on Sundays. He struggled to look up from the system of ropes constraining his motion. The match was a draw. That made him shudder. Weaklings should never juggle girlfriends, and he had cheated on both of them, which came to light when he accidentally mixed up their names. With Solomonic wisdom Rose and Violet decided that each would get half of Harvey. They smiled at the prospect of tearing him in two with their bare hands.

Story #204

Note: This is the prequel to the Harvey set (Stories #174 & #175)!

The thought that she had bitten off more than she could chew swelled to gagging proportions and swirled around her head pinching her cheeks. The boys were laughing, pulling off clothes, working out who would be first with Claire. They had been drinking heavily the entire evening, just as Claire had requested. She didn't think she could follow through with sober eyes staring at her, but she hadn't expected such bravado. "I'm going to suck at this," she told herself fatally. But she had wanted the practice and the girls had enthusiastically volunteered their boyfriends for the intimate procedure which they themselves were not inclined to perform. She thought ahead to when it would all be behind her. There'd be no added company nine months later. That was certain. No, the boys would return to their girlfriends, completely content, one less tension to worry about in their conventional erotic encounters. Yes, Claire thought, it was indeed swell of the boys to help her out on such short notice, and swell of their girls not to mind. After performing the nine impromptu vasectomies, Claire was a cinch to pass her med-school exam the next day.

Story #203

Thanks to everyone who contributed! The stories have been moved to indeterminacies.blogspot.com. Remember, at the end of this month I'll hold a random drawing of everyone who contributed in April to award a b+w print of one of my own photos, and a story to go along with it. Late contributions are still welcome!

P.S. I think Courtney stole the show with her story.

Laura had stunning, straw-blond hair and a perfect face. Not a single blemish was to be found on that baby-smooth skin of hers. No pimples. No wart on the nose. No cracked lip. Not even a freckle. She toured the country with her brunette manager, living out of the back of a van, appearing to aesthetically minded audiences, offering them facial symmetry for the two short hours she stood before them, spotlights trained on her so that no pore should remain in shadows. She'd stand up blinking into the glare, nodding slowly from side to side, so that everyone could see each of her profiles. And they'd sit there, peering and glancing and gazing and studying the harmony she offered them. Spontaneous waves of applause would burst out and bounce from one side of the auditorium to the other. Little did she know they were looking at her legs.

Story #202

Ruby had just seduced a rock. It was a sight to see, the way she'd sauntered up to it, placed hands on the creviced gray surface, and dug her fingernails into the stony flesh. The rock couldn't take it. Cracks began to show. Pebble dust shot into the air. But after a few token tremors it settled into a tame state. Now Ruby could do anything she wanted with the mineral formation: mount it, or mold it like clay into esoteric shapes. They might even get volcanic together, go for a skinny-dip in a secluded little lava pool she knew. Ever since she was little, Ruby had been different from the other girls. She didn't play with dolls - she read geology books. People wondered what was going on, but now they knew. Ruby and her loves gave new meaning to the words "rock and roll."

Story #201

Please don't be mad at me. I have to skip posting today. We have company staying with us this week and I didn't have a chance to prepare anything. In the meanwhile, if you haven't read all the stories, I'd like to refer you to one of my muse's favorites:

Story #7

And now some really good news: A Gag Reflex (part 2) begins today (Wednesday)! Check it out!

See you tomorrow...

P.S. I had a relaxing time on the train to work this morning reading in James Thurber's "Let Your Mind Alone!" in which he lampoons all the self-help books of his day. I keep rereading it because it's so funny. I highly recommend it.

The keeper of images sat in the darkened room, staring at photos he had suctioned out of the Internet. He devoted his attention to each image for a fragment of a second. He saw youth after youth all around the globe forming their fingers into the gangsta signs. He saw cute girls kissing other cute girls, captured instances of a lingering quality. He glossed over gaggles of friends lying in the grass, heads forming a circle, bodies extending like spokes of a wheel. Weddings and birthdays, discos and parties streamed by in pounding regularity. Self-portraited adolescent girls displayed a pierced navel for a boyfriend or for personal study. Boys displayed the self-evidence of their masculinity. All of these were expected and observed in the miniscule time the keeper devoted to each picture, one of which blurred into the next. Uncounted thousands of images flashed before his eyes until one rare moment astonished him. It was a subtle hint of emotion in the eyes in combination with lips turning a thought into words, or a nuance of interaction between persons, two or more, an expression he had never yet seen. These were the images that riveted his attention: seconds, minutes, between dreams. The keeper had found something new. He wrote down the story and added it to his collection of archetypes.

Story #200

The dogs trotted by as if nothing were amiss, but it bristled their fur to see a stray human out alone, without a leash. There were laws against that sort of thing. Humans had repeatedly shown themselves to be the most irrational and volatile creature on the planet. At any moment it might pick up the potted plant and hurl it against the building. Or turn on them screaming and kicking, for no apparent reason! Not even the wisest canine scientists were able to explain these unprovoked outbursts. Therefore the dogs remained nonchalant, exercised no sudden moves that might intrude on the creature's precarious mental equilibrium, and got the hell out of there. It had been a mistake to import the humans to the planet, but the damage had been done, indeed, was only just beginning. Once a male and female of the species got together all the barking in the world couldn't separate them. So each year there were more and more of the creatures walking around, and what was worse, they didn't even taste good.

Story #199

You all have been so great about contributing I wanted to start giving prizes, maybe once a month. So I'll start retroactively, write each poster's name on a slip of paper, one paper per story, and pick one at random. So anyone who contributed stories in February or March, one of you is going to win something. I'll announce the winner on Monday, and what they've won. There will also be prize for April, once the month ends.

Announcing the winner of the random drawing of all contributers: M.P. of Portugal! The prize is a black and white enlargement of one of my own photos, and a story to go with it. Sorry it couldn't be anything valuable.

Later today I'll move these stories to the companion blog: indeterminacies.blogspot.com. Anyone still wishing to post their version, please do so!

The cult of Fé was considered odd. Its members wandered around like zombies echoing "Fé Fé Fé..." to anyone who would listen. But that was in the religion's beginnings. After their spiritual leader Fang Fu ascended into the promised land of Foy, various splinter movements of the main belief were formed. One group with an almost fairytale like spirituality wandered the countryside declaring "Fee-Fie-Foe-Fum" while planting beans. Another, more musical group, called itself the Fa faction and caroled from door to door repeating "Do-Re-Me-Fa" in a sing-songy voice adhering to some kind of new four-tone system. An alternative Fa movement sprang up singing "Fa-La-La La-La" but the two did not get along, as they sang in different keys. The remaining members formed a swing revival band, gaining reknown for their rendition of "Flat Foot Floogee with a Floy Floy." Then came Fifi. She wasn't like those boring old gurus with long, white beards who traditionally led cults. Fifi looked nice, and she bathed. Under her beauty the splinter factions unified into one. Now they strolled happily around town, chanting "Fifi Fifi Fifi..." ad infinitum, followed by an eager pack of female dogs, who must have thought it was about them.

Story #198

Waldo was obsessed with Marge's arm, the one with the mole on it. When they started dating she thought at first how romantic it was that he would grip her soft appendage and begin kissing and nibbling before she could even roll up her sleeve or, in later stages of the romance, remove her top. The trouble was, he never got past that particular extremity. Marge gave subtle hints. Such as "lower," to which Waldo responded by pulling her arm down to the floor. Or "My back is so sore, I sure could use a massage." That only started Waldo stroking her forelimb while repeating his theory on acupressure, how all nerves end in the elbow. It was quite frustrating until Marge decided to get a second boyfriend, Bill. She still let Waldo nibble her arm, but gave the rest of herself to her new love. Waldo was fairly progressive about the whole thing, that is, as long as Bill stayed away from the arm.

Story #197

People sometimes threw away odd things but this was beyond Vic's wildest dreams. There were four of them. Four lovely young girls in the dumpster. Each one more alluring than the other. He left the cab of the junk truck and approached them, casually smiling with his smoothest bedside charm. He knew four girls who wanted to have fun when he saw them.

"Could I give you girls a ride?" he asked them innocently.

"Sure, we'd love to come with you," the girl in pink answered, followed by a chorus of sures and giggles from the other three.

"Be my guest," he said. One by one he offered each girl his hand to help her down. "There's plenty of room in the cab for all of us." The girls filed into the truck.

Driving with the four girls at his side Vic's thoughts danced ecstatic jigs. His imagination acted out all the details of getting them inside his house, mixing them drinks of sweet cola and whiskey, just in case they might change their minds, although they certainly seemed willing now. The two girls in the matching tops intrigued him. Were they twins? They could be. Their hair styles differed slightly, but when the time was right he would give them special attention, explore their minutest details up close to his greediest satisfaction.

A sudden bump interrupted his thoughts. "Sorry girls, just a pothole," he stated authoritatively, turning to his passengers to show his smile once more. But the girls weren't there. He saw four hefty bags piled on the seat next to him, bursting with garbage, black plastic glistening in the setting sun. Vic decided that he desperately needed a vacation.

Story #196

"Melon" May Lo was known in a region comprising several hundred hectors of the Asiatic mountain range that was her home. Word about her twirled up phallic peaks and down floral valleys from boy-mouth to boy-mouth. May Lo's handiwork with the watermelon was so stunning that members of the less verbal male gender often had trouble expressing the experience in words. They would hem and haw and stutter their way through a stunned stupor - "And then...and th-th-then sh-she..." - while the physiological reaction induced by May Lo and the sweet fruit she used recurred in embarrassing intensity, creating quite an awkward mess to have happen during a boy-to-boy conversation. May Lo never saw any boy longer than a week, but that was part of the plan. After those days and nights spent subject to May Lo and her pronounced skills with the watermelon the boys were hooked, eating from then on two to three watermelons a week, originating from the one and only distributor of such exotic imports to the region: May Lo's father.

Story #195

Note: Thanks to Roachz of rambling_chicken.blogspot.com for her blind permission to use this photo. I hope she'll forgive me for the story.

The lady in the moon lazily lifted her eyes. Her alarm clock screeched like a meteor skating on atmosphere. There was to be a full moon that night, meaning she would have to shine her very best. But she did not feel like showing herself at all. Her makeup had run out, and the solar tides had put her in such a state of exhaustion she couldn't even orbit her eyes, let alone her whole body. She sent out lunar waves of mayday to the clouds. "Cover me up," she begged them, "for I am too tired to glow."

"No," the clouds told her, "it has been an entire month since we've seen you in all your splendor, and we will not be denied this feast of light."

"If only someone would eclipse me," she cried, tears beginning to stream down the dark side of her face.

But none of the heavenly hosts volunteered to eclipse her. They were waiting, all of them, to see her this one special hour when no one of her curves was veiled. The lady of nighttime rolled over and went back to sleep. Once in a blue moon she shone only for the lovers in her own dreams.

Story #194

Magister Mecanus worked in the Destiny Department predestining love. He selected a pendant from the girl pile and one from the boy pile, placed them next to each other, and examined them closely with his magnifying lense. The match was aesthetically pleasing to him even in the minutest of details. His highly trained fingers felt the flat metal likenesses for affinity static and dangled them millimeters apart, one in each hand, to test the magnetism. Finally he reached for the abacus on the corner of his desk and computed the time the boy and girl would share. His computation worked out to just over eighty years. The rest of their lives, in fact. This made Magister Mecanus very happy. It was always sad when the pendants came back to him so soon to be melted down again.

Story #193

Note: Thanks to all who contributed stories this weekend. They may be viewed all in one place at indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

The pool party had long since ended, the music had stopped, the wet bodies had dried themselves and drifted away, but Brenda's reflection lingered at the pool's edge, hoping for her own private plunge into that liquid element of life. But she found it impossible to venture in alone without her body of substance to draw her in after it. She was doomed to roam hither and forth along the concrete edge of watery pleasure, passionately yearning but never able to dip into the coolness. Brenda herself was in the arms of a boy she met while swimming. He had admired her in her dripping bikini, lay now in her arms looking into her eyes. But she seemed vacant to him, hardly responding to his touch or glance. She had left an important aspect of herself at the pool, but never suspected. And so she would remain. The reflection of Brenda could not run away to find her mistress, as reflections may only exist where they have been cast.

Story #192

Eugene loved Katy so much he locked her in a closet. "I love you, Katy," he would tell her upon leaving for his confrontations with the world outside.

"If you love me, let me out," her muffled voice invariably called to him as he moved out of the room, out of earshot.

He would come back from time to time to feed her, and give her clothes. In a generous moment he even gave her a flashlight and a mirror so she could see what she looked like when she tried on the clothes. But he never let her out of the closet.

"I love you, Katy," he always called to her as he left.

Weeks, months and precious years watched over a ritual become reflex. It came to pass that Eugene could no longer speak with the vigor he once knew. As he tried to utter his declaration of love he could only cough helplessly. Before leaving the room to lay on his deathbed he etched his epitaph in the accumulated dust of their time together: "I love Katy."

Story #191

She is the spirit of water, or Neera, as dying men in the desert call her name, pressed by an archetypal instinct of primal language and a desire for one of her teardrops. Neera is a sad spirit, but when she cries it gives life, though she mourns the teardrops she gives forth for others, making her even sadder, for each droplet, no matter how small, is a part of her. When exhaustion subdues her she drifts the Earth in search of any remains of the waters she gave forth. What she finds she absorbs again into her flesh, but knows that she is doomed to perpetually part with it again. Neera swam in the pools of the Garden of Eden. Those days she was happiest. But that was so long ago, a memory nearly washed away by the tide that is her heartbeat. She caressed the throat of every great and every minor person who ever lived, and caresses the throat of everyone alive. She refuses no one. Despite her promiscuity, her purity is eternal.

Story #190

Reporter: I'm here with Professor Ernest Grimm, the world famous archeologist who has made what is perhaps the most significant discovery of our 50th century. Professor, would you please explain what you found.

Professor Grimm: I'd be glad to. Here you see a petrified specimen of the race that once inhabited this land during the Google dynasty. Now, we were sure that some kind of catastrophic event ended their civilization. A solar flare melting all the credit cards or a fatal disease like hiccups. We just didn't know.

Reporter: But you've solved it.

Professor Grimm: Yes I have. You see, this specimen here was coming out of a server room with a backup of the Internet in his hands. Luckily, the Outdoor Computer Museum in Antarctica is in possession of a working Windows PC, the only one in existence, reconstructed from pieces dug up where the Pacific Ocean used to be. The point is, we could read the backup.

Reporter: Were there problems translating it?

Professor Grimm: Actually not. The backup was in English, one of the simpler languages of that era, spoken universally by all primates. It doesn't present a problem to us. But I digress. You see, you have to understand about this race. They thrived on humor. It was their nourishment. It kept them alive. Gave them hope, something to laugh for, as one of their ancient sayings goes.

Reporter: And this backup proves that the humor ran out?

Professor Grimm: Yes it does. As we know, the ancient God of Comedy was Retarius, who channeled his humor to the masses by use of a blog. But one day he closed the blog and that was the end. With all the humor gone, everyone instantaneously turned to stone.

Story #189

Note: retarius.blogspot.com is one of my favorite blogs, because it's brilliant and it makes me laugh. Every time. On March 31st Retarius announced that he would stop blogging. It wasn't an April Fool's joke. This story was written as part of the tribute organized by Deryke of deryke.blogspot.com. Fortunately Retarius has reconsidered his decision, thereby averting a catastrophe of proportions we can only begin to imagine.

Kathy was a girl who consorted with plants. She had given up men long ago. During a few careful conversations with her vegan friend Susan, she ascertained an unspoken willingness to experiment, though outwardly her friend still upheld a semblance of resistance to such exotic interactions. That night Kathy invited Susan over to her house and softened her fears with a tasty wine made from plums just before their first stage of ripeness. It was very sweet and resulted easily in the desired clouding of Susan's inhibitions.

"It's so lovely," Kathy mused, "lying on the bed, the vine wrapping itself around you, sliding across the most sensitive parts of your body."

"But I couldn't kiss it," Susan stated anxiously, fighting off the desires confounding her determination.

"You'll learn to love that," Kathy countered in a sisterly voice full of encouragement. "Look, I'll show you." Without turning around, she lifted her forearm. The ivy awoke from its slumber in the pot, slowly extended itself, slinking down to her shoulder and into her hand, inching unambiguously towards her waiting mouth. Her tongue met the quivering leaves.

"Lesson one," stated Kathy with a mouth full of ivy, "stroke the leaves with your tongue - from bottom to top - as many as you can. When they begin to twitch in all different directions - they're yours to devour."

"No!" cried Susan, panicking, "I can't do that! I can't eat them without a dressing!"

Story 188

- Are you sure this is going to work?
- Oh, yeah, it's an ancient thing, you know. Tried and tested.
- Won't he put a curse on us or something?
- Nah, that only happens long after the embalmment, if someone starts to mess with him.
- But he's not embalmed yet.
- Duh. That's because he's still breathing.
- You mean, this might kill him?
- Well, he wanted us to make him into a mummy. You can't bake a cake without breaking a few eggs.
- OK, if you say so. But if he puts a curse on me, I'll tell your mom what you did to her linens.
- Will you just shut up and seal his nostrils!

Story #187

Lynn is her name. I spied her there several times, on days I bowled, or tried to bowl. When she wasn't watching me my eyes followed her pleasant curves and the straight lines she walked. In my imagination I equated her dimensions with the perfect shape of a bowling pin. She never bowled, yet she was always there, bee lining back and forth in a patient, ambling gait, eyeing the bowlers, but never smiling at them. There was something odd about her presence there.

One day I was ready to bowl my first strike. My form was perfect. My grip immaculate. I concentrated like a Buddha at the gate of Nirvana. I threw. Ten feet later the ball rolled into the gutter, just as I had wanted to roll onto Lynn. That's when she smiled at me. Girls make me nervous when they smile, especially when it's at me. I didn't hit a pin that entire evening. And the strange thing is, the worse I bowled, the more she glowed with lips upturning and eyes welling with love, as if to tell me, "It doesn't matter. I believe in you. You'll get your strike." But the more she warmed to me, the worse I bowled.

We've been together now for several years. Sure, she told me about her past, but I didn't mind. And it did serve to explain the attraction she felt towards me that night. For years she had been the lead pin in her lane, bearing the blunt blows of those horrid orbs bringing her down dozens of times a night, knocking her comrades against her. One day she willed herself not to fall. As the ball concussed a magic spark electrified her, transforming her into real flesh. She haunted the venue as a live girl until discovering my mercy for the pins.

Story #186

"Come over here to the railing," the beautiful girl said.

Jeff was stunned. He thought he had heard talking out on the balcony, but it couldn't be Bo. She broke up with him weeks ago, stating in her knifey, no-nonsense way, that he would not see her again.

"Why did you come back?" he asked her, suspicious of her intentions.

"I changed my mind. I want you. Come over here and want me."

Jeff wanted to believe, but he also knew it was April Fool's day. The contradiction of Bo-ex and and Bo-his collided to the sound of sirens as his desire nudged him forward. A dim thought arose. What if she intended to hurl him from the balcony at the end of the kiss he would snatch from her lips? She knew judo and was extremely hard to pin into positions she did not want to be in. He hesitated.

"You're going to come and hold me, aren't you?" she cooed at him with a tempting smile to back it up.

That smile was one of those addictions he could never resist. He lunged forward towards the promise of carnality. As he bent closer to lick the soft parts of her body his head bumped with a loud bong against the railing. He looked up and she was gone.

"April fool!" laughed the burly male baritone in his head, a sadistic voice that had taunted him since the day Bo left. He would have to do something about those voices he was hearing. It was beginning to annoy him.

Story #185