Everyone came to the party to touch Atoma. She lay on the bricks and they touched her. One by one. Tingling sensations zapped into her brain like dots and dashes of a telegraph signifying sensual words; the words metamorphosing into a male and female figure of electrical current. They mingled in the gray matter inside her skull, did dances, slung themselves around, twirling on the magnetic perpetuity of their attraction and repulsion, neither force winning out in the end. "Touch me harder!" she cried, and the boys all came to clench fingers around her extended limbs, to induce the feeling through her nerves and into those centers of ecstasy hidden from the outside eye. A smile of pleasure formed on her lips as mental cyclones whirled into each other inside her, yin and yang uniting in a flash of lightning that shot the sensation back through synapses, out of the threshold of thought, surging along myelin to extremities, waves of galvanic voltage discharging into the hands clasping her so severely... The physics professor looked up from his lectern to see the entire class panting heavily. This always happened when he read the chapter on nuclear fusion.

Story #256

Apart from the scene's sensualities, the sight of three playful girls, lips enclosing around the strawberries, tongues fondling the redness while the assisting suction of indrawn breath convinced the fleshy fruit to release the fullness of its juices to mingle in the mouths, there was also something horrific about it. The boys at the party, of course, felt wildness rising in their blood at the oral-erotic sight of it. Captain Phrang, on the other hand, shuddered while watching his men die by such devourment. An hour earlier they had all cheered with euphoric glee as their cantaloupe-like space vessel swooped in over the strawberry patch. They saw row after row of their kind, lined in the traditional parallel lines signifying welcome in their green watermelon world. They landed in a garden, their cantaloupe blending splendidly with the abounding floral colors. Through the wide patio window of the nearby structure they located the bowl of their fellow beings. Captain Phrang sent his three ripest men to make contact. They had commenced mingling in the bowl of strawberries, when one by one, the huge voluptuously-lipped creatures began plucking them from the coliseum-like container. He winced with each enclosure of lips around one of his men. Pacing nervously up and down his cantaloupe craft he wondered how in the world he would ever explain this to their wives.

Story #255

Harvey clicked the send button, dissolving his e-mail into a flux of electrical impulses that zapped through the hubs connecting the World Wide Web with God knows what. But he really wanted those love pills. Seconds later the doorbell rang.

"I'm the Spam Fairy," the girl at the door said, but she didn't smile and gaily wave her wand about like those fairys he'd seen in Disney movies. She looked at him with those big, consternated eyes of hers and waited for him to tell her what he wanted.

"Is something wrong?" Harvey asked her, sensing that this was his big chance, showing sympathy to a fairy, maybe even doing her a good deed. No telling how she might repay him. She might even be willing to grant some especially personal wishes.

Tears welled in her eyes, "It's so awful in our world," she cried, "Streets paved with college degrees, mortgage money raining from the skies, hailstorms of little blue pills." She leaned her head on his shoulder while her shoulders bobbed up and down accompanying her stifled sobs. "And the diet supplements, the cheap real estate everywhere..."

She looked up again and he saw the tears running down her cheeks, "And those pick-up bars filled with girls yearning for Christian dates. They're so shameless! We're working round the clock, sending e-mails trying to find someone to take all these abominations off our hands."

Harvey looked into her eyes and stated with all the sincerity he could muster, "I wish I could help you."

"Do you, really?" she asked him, eyes sparkling with magic. Harvey nodded. The Spam Fairy waved her wand. The next thing Harvey knew he was in a room filled with PCs, and at each PC was huddled some wretched person, moving a mouse and typing in e-mails with shaky fingers. A burly sumo wrestler with sweaty muscles and a whip strolled gaily about the room, randomly lashing the stooped figures. "Type faster! Get that spam out! Longer! Harder! All night long! You!" he bellowed grabbing Harvey by the arm and accelerating him into a hard, empty seat. "What do you think this is? Disneyland?!? Get to work!"

Story #254

Thanks for contributing your stories. They have been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

After weeks of coaxing diplomatic enough to bring peace to the Middle East, if it had not been so selfishly applied, she still said no. It was the third glass of whiskey and soda, smuggled into her like sugar candy in a pack of birth control pills, that finally bared the camel's back, if the soft, revealed skin of a woman could ever remind anyone of a camel. He danced around her with the camera trying to capture breasts owning contours he had so often admired stretching the cotton tops she wore. But her top-heavy torso dragged her into a graceful spin, perpetually stumbling against something, hiding all the fleshiness he had hoped to immortalize digitally. If ever he did get an open shot at her the result was so blurred as to frustrate even a minute examination of the enlargement. All this gyroscopic rotation in pursuit of exposed breasts magnified the effects of whiskey and soda in the photographer's system. He became dizzy, wobbled in directions his feet wouldn't take him, and finally stumbled flat onto the floor, where he fell asleep. The girl caught herself on the door, pressed up close, adoring the feel of gentle wood on her tender skin and the sensation of blood circulating in whirlpools of excitement. She took up the camera, undressed her unconscious host, and continued to fill the camera's memory with male positions of appealing delicacy. As a souvenir for her photographer she left one picture of herself.

Story #253

Bruce was the only man in the world who understood women, a quality that made him quite popular among men, not to mention women. Mondays and Tuesdays he graciously set aside from his grueling routine of lovemaking to advise other men in the complex intricacies of getting along with their female: when to kiss, when to listen, when to immediately remove oneself to the safety of a barricaded basement. He knew it all. The grateful men did anything for his advice. They shined the shoes off his feet. They ironed his pants for him. They carried him around on his suavely-surfaced seduction sofa, while Bruce himself indicated the direction with a quick twist of the thumb. He should never have allowed the delegation from MAMAS (the Macho Man Society) into his house. When he gave the signal to put him down they dumped him from the sofa and slammed the weighty piece of furniture right down on top of him. Bruce wasn't good for business.

Story #252

They set up the virgin sacrifice in the car port. The willing volunteer poised herself on the swing, ready to release herself to the gravity that would draw her into the salivating mouth of the beast before her. In these, her last moments, her life flashed before her. She saw the sweet boy in grade school who had held hands with her, that first awkward kiss with an unacquainted brother of a friend, the first tingling of tongue against tongue. She relived the first dance in which stiffening manhood pressed against her in all its titillating mystery. Breathless moments vaulted visually before her, heart beating fast, spurred on by forbidden sensation. She became vaguely aware that the images flashing were new, yet unlived. She lay with a dark-eyed boy, embraced him passionately, feeling her innocence slip into blissful oblivion. Then her vision cleared. Her orientation found her on the swing, ready to surrender to the gravitational forces that would draw her mercilessly into the quivering mouth of the waiting beast. But the beast sensed a change which disagreed with him violently. It shuddered, throbbing from pale to red to violet, finally popping into a cloud of nothingness, like a soap-bubble condom playfully inflated past its bearable tension. The girl arced back and forth on the swing, ever higher, enjoying the summer breeze against her cheeks.

Story #251

Clara blew into the bottle giving life to a cosmos. This made her a Goddess. The miniscule beings in their new existence began worshipping her. They swam in their fluid waters singing hymns to her beauty and imagining how it must be to see her perfectly before them, to be nestled in the sacred softness of her skin. She was so large to her creations that even the unfathomed thought of perceiving her overwhelmed their senses into imbalance. They would splash about in disequilibrium until her tranquility steadied the waters. In the end they had no real concept of who she was or what she was, yet they unconditionally longed to enter her heaven. For Clara was a thirsty Goddess. It wasn't long before she raised the bottle for another sip, drawing scores of her minions back into their origin, to be digested by the holy juices and to flow in the blessed blood. This was part of the eternal cycle of life.

Story #250

Orca: There he goes, diving into the pool again.
Orco: What a show off! Evolving from a beach ball into a human.
Orca: Your brain's a beach ball if you believe that evolution nonsense. Everyone knows the Great White Whale created us by breathing dust into our inflatable forms.
Orco: Sure, but still, there he is, coming and going as he pleases. And all we do is float aimlessly in the water.
Orca: But it's a great life, isn't it?
Orco: I don't know. Sometimes I'd just like to swim across the pool to the other side, to be in the sun. Or sometimes, if the sun is hot, I'd like to swim into the shade. But we can't move!
Orca: There's more to life than just moving around.
Orco: Well, I wish he'd stop moving.
Orca: Basically, he's nothing more than a bacterial conglomerate. If they'd only put a little more chlorine in the water, he'd go back to being a beach ball.

Story #249

Thanks to Mrs. Weirsdo for contributing a story: see indeterminacies.blogspot.com

Sorry. I'm on vacation now until mid-July. Please page down for my vacation goodbyes.

Jules, Jim and Jonah sat in the living room, four walls, a window, no door. Their words to one another were sparse, though their thoughts ignited at the focal point of Catherine. Jules thumbed through his telephone book finding Catherine on every page, more times than he had ever called her. Jim perused his paper from story to story, each exposing another facet satisfying the obsession: stories of her first kiss, editorial opinions on her beauty, the allure of her face in every advertisement, and her intellect sensed behind every contact announcement, a new woman described each time. Jonah was trying to get her on the television but there was no picture. Usually she was present on every channel, walking avenues, sitting in the park, a book on her lap or a care-free swim in the open bosom of the sea. He shifted his efforts to the radio. Perhaps he would find her singing a chanson, or speaking at a press conference announcing the owner of her heart's affections. And he did find her. He listened as Catherine sang a song of farewell to men, voice fading in and out owing to the widening distance between her and the opposite gender. She had decided for the moment to concentrate her attentions on women. Jules, Jim and Jonah found themselves in one whale of a limbo.

Story #248

Note from Indeterminacy: Thanks go to Sylvain Chuzeville of the band Ex-Magnolia for kind permission to use the photo. Check out their song "On a Shelf," a title which kind of goes well with this story.

VACATION GOODBYES
Ladies and gentleman, I have to announce now that I'm going on vacation for two weeks. This will be the last post until I return. I've also posted a photo at indeterminacies.blogspot.com for all of you to contribute stories to while I'm away, like we've been doing on weekends. I still have to select a winner for June. I'll do that next week and announce it somehow. And don't forget that Michael at blogin_idiot.blogspot.com is doing this story thing every Friday.

I have to apologize to everyone who commented in my guestbook or at one of the stories, because I haven't been able to respond to all your comments yet, and to all my blogging friends, because I haven't been able to keep up with all your blogs as intensively as I've wanted to this past months. I hope to make good on that in the next weeks.

I keep finding these cool sites and want to share some with you. Please do take the time to check them out. I think I've fallen in love with all these ladies:

www.geeekgirl.net
www.moxiegrrrl.com
arterium.blogspot.com
barofsoap.blogspot.com
omnamaste.blogspot.com
seizethenite.blogspot.com
ostrichspeak.blogspot.com
colettesgrave.blogspot.com
livingwellornot.blogspot.com
northerndeath.blogspot.com
atomicvelvetsigh.blogspot.com
fromsunshinetosuicide.blogspot.com
spaces.msn.com/members/unrequestedopinions
(Sorry if I made a mistake and put a guy in here)


Not ladies, but also well worth checking out:

beerhaikudaily.blogspot.com *creative*
fuggettaboutit.blogspot.com *funny*
gimmesomemoney.blogspot.com *original*


And this is my staple of favorites (I'm in love with all these ladies, too, except the ones who are guys, and there it's more of a manly type feeling):

jamiesmindlessblather.blogspot.com
princessdominique.blogspot.com
rambling_chicken.blogspot.com
saddlesorereview.blogspot.com
alixinwunderland.blogspot.com
hauptundneben.blogspot.com
oldtommyboy.blogspot.com
bitterbierce.blogspot.com
thealienguy.blogspot.com
askthedevil.blogspot.com
falafelsex.blogspot.com
pansifiles.blogspot.com
cmarie88.blogspot.com
coveries.blogspot.com
kellykell.blogspot.com
deryke.blogspot.com
sabem.blogspot.com
tinadupuy.com/wp


I know I've forgotten somebody, so please don't have your feelings hurt. I'm throwing this together in a hurry. One more thing. Check out the latest issue of the Practically creative e-zine. I'm in there somewhere.

"I can dance here in public, if I want to," the damsel in white exclaimed by snapping her delicate fingers. She unfurled the lavender matting, stepped upon it and began her motions. Men stopped and drooled. Women fretted and frothed. Both sexes knew that no one could move like that, not in the natural way of muscles. The damsel appeared intensely concentrated on her motions, but she perceived minutely the entirety of those around her. She even knew intuitively which of the onlookers she would take with her when it came time to return. Her body began talking to one of the men she saw. "These motions are for you," her body told him. He understood and smiled back a suave declaration of physical lust, acknowledging the body she used. When the dance was over she beaconed him to join her on the tiny carpet she stood on. The rug lifted and soared into the air, bringing them to her kingdom where she reigned as princess, one whose hobby was the collection of men. In a night that had no need for words she enjoyed the new addition to her collection. When it was over he uttered chains of, "I love you, I love you." But she had decided the togetherness was an incident denouemented and closed, had him led to the harem room to be with the rest of the men gathering dust in her collection. In their idle time together the men found they had one thing in common. None of them could say "I love you" with body language.

Story #247

"Wake up! Get out of bed," the voice hammered incessantly at her pseudo-slumber. Didn't the voice know she never closed her eyes? This was her way to the place where dreams waited to wrap themselves around a mind and hurl it through ever kaleidoscoping sceneries. But she walked in flesh, not an imagery of herself. She could go wherever she wished in the realm of everyone's imagination while she lay in bed, eyes wide open, the blanket concealing her. The blanket had been blessed and bequeathed by a great-grandmother who, it was rumored, knew several mystical concepts that had never been written down. The past night had been fulfilling to her. She found a dreamer weaving through clay scenery and decided to pursue him. He ran and ran, ever slower, driven by that night spirit he secretly wanted to confront and embrace for the feral feel of her femininity. But an inexplicable blind terror drove him onward. To her it was a whimsical game of cat and mouse. She abandoned him as he sank screaming into the clay. A blink of an eye later she focused into a new dream where she smiled at a boy trancing on a mountaintop, luring him into the impossible pursuit of her down an 80 degree incline, pondering whether she should allow his outstretched fingers to fasten onto her. All this happened in a state of waking and willful consciousness. "No, I'm not getting up now, even if it is two in the afternoon." She pulled the cover back over her head, pretending to have slept. Somewhere in the world, eyes were closing in repose, inviting her to seek out the soul and toy with it.

Story #246

Note from Indeterminacy: A big thank you to Grace-Monday of This City Kills for kind permission to use her photo.

People were amazed by the head growing on the apple tree. It always tried to engage the orchard workers in conversation. "Nice apple crop we're having this year," it'd say, to the bewilderment of the listener. "Try the red delicious from the top branch. They're the juiciest." The head offered to tell the story of Adam and Eve, from the point of view of the apple. In its spare time it rattled off long term fruit futures, and was quite willing to share the secret of how to make an apple pie that could get the devil to give back souls. There were, however, instances of hostility. Anyone walking by the tree eating grapes or a banana was liable to be doused with hot dripping apple sauce.

Story #245

Dora had a doll house that was realistic in all its suburban ranch house detail, down to the bric-a-brac on the living room mantel and the television remote control. She placed a couple of dolls inside, leaving them to germinate with each other. They started dancing. You could look in through the open wall and watch the dolls whirl and glide within their confines. Dora started inviting her friends over to peek into the dolls' mock-up world and watch the interaction. More and more people came to watch. Word got around. Both Time Magazine and the National Enquirer did a feature on "The Dancing Dolls." Camera crews filmed them and doll psychologists toured talk shows speculating on the sublimated passions of the dance as ersatz. Whatever it was, the dolls swirled through the living room, lost in shared motion. There was nothing else the boy doll and girl doll could do. The door to the bedroom was stuck, and the remote control did not activate the television.

Story #244

Note from Indeterminacy: The stories in the comments section will be reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

Check out some more great free-for-all story writing at blogin_idiot.blogspot.com

Sandra sat in the place with the chairs, staring intently at them. Each fixture represented a person with whom she had shared intimacy of emotion and sometimes, intimacy of the body. But they had parted company from her, as they found they were walking hand in hand on parallel paths that suddenly wound away into opposing distances. But Sandra's imagination was lively. She thought of faces she had known, summoned auras out of the aftertaste that lingered in her. When all the seats were filled the party began, and Sandra was the guest of honor. They sang songs to her, served her drinks, showered her with conversations which had begun way back when, but were never finished. When the last glass was empty, and the last word spoken, and the last kiss placed, her friends found it was time to return, some to the deep dream of sleep, some to a daytime reverie or the sudden remembrance of their dear friend Sandra who in reality had never existed.

Story #243

Albert saw the glaring lights of a 747 jumbo jet careening towards him, brakes squealing uselessly. It looked like it would roll right over him. "How do they keep finding me?" he puzzled while his cold sweat slapped him with a horrible chill. He closed his eyes and ran blindly, anywhere, just away from that machine. He stumbled into a ditch and opened his eyes. The lights came now out of a new direction, bearing right down on him. He rose and bolted away with all the energy his sudden shot of adrenaline gave him, then finally collapsed, turning his head hesitantly to see that the lights were still on top of him. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed. "Hello, is this the secretary.....good.....Look, could you tell the chief, I won't be taking that sick day after all.....That's right. I'm feeling better. I'll be at the control tower in twenty minutes.

Story #242

Note from Indeterminacy: this story was originally posted at Michael's Blogin Idiot Blog. Check out the other story contributions!

She lay on the bed, so close and yet as unreachable as one of those images out of a life flashing before one's eyes, perhaps on occasion of attack and devourance by vicious dogs. "I would love to accommodate you," she said, flashing a smile that showcased her wide lips, "if only my dog would let you past." Harvey tried everything. He threw sticks across the room and through the window, hoping the creature would jump out in pursuit. He dropped a cat at the dog's feet; he waved a choice t-bone steak under his noise. But nothing fazed the iron canine gaze drilling into him. Harvey retreated to the safe but non-erotic emptiness of the living room, to consider what to do. His thoughts stepped onto the idea that he and the dog had quite a lot in common. The love of a lady had already formed a bond between them, albeit a bond of rivalry. He would just have to do something about that. The desires swirling in his head lead to inventiveness. He left the house, returning a few hours later with everything he needed. Under the dog's suspicious stare he set it all up. And it worked. While the dog sat captivated by the Lassie DVD playing on the laptop, Harvey was able to stroll past and visit the girl on her bed. He had a wonderful time, as her accommodations were indeed most hospitable. Regrettably, Harvey neglected to set the DVD on continuous cycle. When Lassie ended, he had a very nasty surprise.

Story #241

The Siamese twins joined at the waist made the best of their situation and became a musical duo, Chad on keyboard and Chip on guitar. But all was not as harmonic as one might expect. Chip got so into his solos that he thrashed around and banged Chad's keyboard with the neck of his guitar. This broke Chad's concentration, causing him to slide his fingers onto the wrong notes. Sometimes the keyboard slipped out of his hands with a loud crack against the hard stage surface. The performance inevitably fell apart under the specter of loud argument. Some nights it even came to blows. Chad had a mean left. And Chip's right was not to be trifled with. The two were brought together at a summit meeting where they agreed to work at the problems constructively. First they tried double saxophones, but as Chip and Chad swayed to their rhythms the instruments got all dented and began producing atonal honks. They tried sharing the same harp for a while, which theoretically might have worked, as Chad was left handed and Chip the opposite. But they kept wanting to strum the same strings simultaneously, causing them to snap. Any one of the two might have lost an eye. In the end they traded all the damaged instruments for a used accordion. This went well. Chad worked the left end of the accordion and sang bass, Chip worked the right end and sang tenor. They didn't get many gigs though. Because Chip and Chad were one physical entity, people were not willing to pay the price for two musicians.

Story #240

"You're still not getting it!" the director hurled at his rehearsing players.

"What did we do wrong this time?" the boy pondered.
"Are we to play it in mime?" the girl wondered.

The director sighed. "I'll repeat it again if you're lost: This is Theater of the Absurd. You must avoid meaning at every cost."

"You gave us Shakespeare to read," said she, "and told us to use the soliloquy."

"We have no budget for modern scripts, and these may be used without royalty. I ask only that you state the reverse of what you read, so that we might add absurdity. Begin again, please, at the scene where Hamlet confronts Juliet."

Hamlet: Anarchy or decadence? Answer thou this question.
Juliet: O Romeo, Romeo, there art thou!
Hamlet: 'Tis better to have pleasure by slings and cuffs, than watch the Wheel of Fortune.
Juliet: Deny thy father came thus to me? Oh what was his name? I dared not refuse him. But it was not love, I swear it.
Hamlet: I'll take his wooden arms and trouble him to spring in the sea to his unopposed end.
Juliet: I have some capsules I long to take. 'Tis said one forgets one's own name.
Hamlet: To sleep, to sleep with thee evermore, by sleep mean I that pleasure of a thousand throbbings of the flesh. Ah, thy natural hair!
Juliet: Take thou thyself, through masturbation. Wilt thou masturbate?
Hamlet: 'Tis a consummation devoutly to avoid.
Juliet: With thy hand afoot, no arm nor face of mine thou need. Or belong to a man, a name of thy choosing.
Hamlet: To sleep with thee, perchance was but a dream: may that thou would rub me.
Juliet: To thee 'tis all the same. Take my friend Rose. She smells as sweet as I.

"No! No! No!" the director lamented loudly, throwing his arms in the air.

"What's wrong now?" the boy and girl asked as one.

"It's good," the director told them, catching his falling arms, "but it's making too much sense. Let's go instead with a new concept. Girl, you be Othello, and boy, you play Little Richard. Stagehand! Bring out the piano and the horse."

"This is absurd!! Of concepts completely unheard!!" the boy and girl responded in verse.

"Act!" barked the director, "Art must not be deterred!"

Story #239

I'm posting my version a little early. Anyone else wishing to contribute a story to the picture, please feel free to do so. Thanks everyone who wrote something. Again, it feels like it's my birthday, with all the great stories you shared with me.

For another round robin story writing, check out Michael's blog: http://blogin_idiot.blogspot.com

Kitty had had quite a night as a cat. She arched her back in a final feline impulse, purring softly to herself. It had been wonderful fun playing with the dogs. She'd saunter up behind them in four-legged form and meow in that sultry cinnamon way of hers that brought out the tiger in them. They pursued her as she sprang a skewed path all the way to a magic meadow she knew of, where no one could disturb them. Only Kitty and her chosen pursuers knew what secrets they shared in that out of way place. The dogs never told, but let out a panting sigh whenever they recalled it. Kitty meowed to herself in the mirror, resolving to sleep a sound sleep that night. By now she had enjoyed so many of these little romps, she could no longer say for certain whether she was born a girl or a cat.

Story #238

Note: This story is dedicated to Tom and Icy.

Captain Max of the Metaphysical Murder Commission was investigating the crime scene. The tearful girl who had called him was quite beside herself. "My dolly's been murdered. Can you help?"

"Was the murder metaphysical?" his standard response ran.

"Yes, I think so," she sniffed, going from crying to confused.

"I'll help."

Via psychic metalink to the cell phone built into everyone's brain these days it was an easy matter for Max to press forward into the murderer's thoughts, while enjoying an Irish coffee at his desk. At the scene of the crime Max examined the jumbled thoughts closely. Yes, he'd seen this hundreds of times before. He doublechecked in his Handbook of Dream Symbology - standard department issue - just to be sure. The mutilated doll was a poignant sight for his hard-boiled eyes, especially since he'd felt like twisting one apart himself on more than one occasion. He kept that detail out of his report, though. The tie lying underneath, now that was obvious. And the die, well, love is a risky business, when you're just starting out. When the girl stopped by to see Max, he knew just what to say.

"You've grown up, haven't you?"

"What do you mean?" she coyed.

"You've kissed a boy."

The girl blushed. The kiss had definitely happened.

Max poured on all the charm he could muster. This was, after all, a girl who kissed. "Look, I know what happened. You're not a little girl anymore. You've discovered boys in such a whirlwind manner that your toys, well, they just self destructed."

Story #237

Note from Indeterminacy: Thanks to Ariel for donating the photo!

It was love at first sight when the demoness came to my door, crying softly to herself. There was no way in heaven I could resist. The urge to take care of her overwhelmed my otherwise casual mentality, wherever seduction is concerned.

The Devil had put her to work tempting males into the evils of fornication and self-manipulation. One way or the other, she usually got her man. But she was sick of it and she wanted out.

"I want out!" her thin thread of a voice hooked into me, as powerful and holy as the cable holding up a church bell.

I promised to do everything to get her out of the clutches of Satan, whom she referred to as the Pimp from Hell. Upon hearing my stand, her face lit up, tightening that hold she had on me like a pleasurable vise. And I don't mean vice! There were no evil or lustful feelings between us, and I was sure that none would develop.

I lay her down on my bed, stroking her gently to calm her down, because she was tense with the fear of Satan's wrath. I began fiddling with the horns on her crown, until they were loose enough to slide off and toss away. I told her of all the things we could do together, how I'd take her to church, and read the Bible to her, and the late nights watching gospel TV. Her emotions must have been as turbulent as mine, for I felt her arms enclose around me, and noticed that her lips were about to press against mine. But before they could, the door bell sounded, causing both of us to jump. I went to see who it was. The Jehovah's Witnesses had come calling. Two of them.

This was a Godsend! I told them the situation and urged them to come inside and help. At the very least, they could offer her refuge in their temple. But my enthusiasm somehow unsettled them, and they backed away nervously. I implored them one last time to help me with the demoness, but then they bolted off, scattering half their pamphlets in the process. When I returned to the bedroom, my demoness was gone. But I thought of her that night as I touched myself.

Story #236

If this story has led you into temptation, there are now two paths you may take: one is dirty and the other is clean.

The girls threw off their shoes and became barefoot zombies. Each footfall drew them further into the perpetual hypnosis of their self-sustaining gait, and they marched, one after the other, a single direction, a single purpose, a single soul. In a dislocated room, mind's eye focused on the phenomenon, sat an aged conjurer in the center of the force, summoning the bodies to him. He uttered the syllables scribbled onto the parchmented scroll, little knowing that he was as much a marionette as the girls had been made so by his repetition of the eternal desirous chant. "Tat-chin-tan-am," he repeated in the ancient Sanskrit syllables, "I want you, that which I have lost." On the scroll was the sketch of a feminine form, rendered erotic by its vagueness. The suggestive lines were to his fertile imagination the seminal source of any and every girl in her years of sexual awakening. He took those lines and wove them into visions of baseness, wrapped them around his ravenous yearnings. Their youth became his youth. When the girls arrived, they did not like how he had ravished them in his waking trance. Without a thought or word, they lined up to slap his face.

Story#235

Thanks for your story contributions, despite my writing so little this week. Stories will be moved to indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

This is one of those "I've been tagged" posts. I probably would have ignored it except it comes from Alix who I would never ignore, and the questions are just right. I've always asked people I met what their favorite books were. It's a great way to find well-kept secrets, and broaden your reading horizons. So here are the four questions:


1. Number of books you own:
I have too many books to count so I'll count the bookcases instead. Two wall book cases. Two as wide and tall as a door, one long one, about outstretched arm's width, waist high, four others, waist high. I think I left out a some. All filled with books. There are also a few boxes of paperbacks in the basement and my son (8) has one bookcase with his books.

2. Last book bought:
Got it today, Sunday, at the Hamburg-Bergedorf Schloss Museum. "Bruno Karbeg Gebrauchsgrafiker in drei Epochen" Saw the exhibit in April coincidentally on the last day. One of the leading ad-designers in Germany from the 20's through the 60's. Some of the logos he designed are still in use today. What interested me most about him is how he refused to use his talents during the Hitler years to further his career. He never worked on propaganda or Nazi themes, though they wanted him to.

3. Last book I read:
Al Franken "Why Not Me?"

4. Five books that mean a lot to me:

Winnie the Pooh (read it when I was little, and was always my favorite)

Carl Jung's writings on Synchronicity: it's part of his collected works in several volumes. The breakthrough learning German was working through these texts, sentence by sentence.

Robert Sheckley's "The Journey of Joenes". It's a brilliant science-fiction satire of the cold war period, early 1960's, including beatniks, told in oral tradition, thousands of years in the future.

Joseph Conrad, "Heart of Darkness". The meaning of life is in that book. I had to read it in college but didn't understand anything. But I had to understand it for the exam, so I forced myself to read it again. And then it clicked for me. I read anything by Joseph Conrad I can get my hands on.

Kurt Schwitters Collected Works, Prose volumes. Yes, the famous Merz artist wrote amazing dadaistic prose (in German). The only way I can describe his unconventional brilliance is that it must have inspired Monty Python.


As stipulated by JJ via flutterby, the tagged must choose five taggees. I choose:

Courtney
Jamie Dawn
Qunicy
Princess Dominique
Mushroom: you can post your answers in the comments, since you don't have a blog.

Anaya pressed herself flat onto the surface. Her instinct demanded it. Toppling forward through millennia of generations a single drop of serpent blood had managed to remain pure in the human organism of her culmination. But that miniscule drop claimed its brood. She moved with painstaking leisure, seeking the heat of the male body to hold her own blood warm. She slithered closer on bare skin to wrap arms and legs around the saline sweetness of her masculine victim. Once upon him she constricted, constricted, until the male screamed, bones crackling and eyes widening in primal horror. His final desire implored what was left of the girl to avail herself of a more human ritual between male and female. This awakened a further hibernating droplet, the blood of a viper. She placed a bite of venomous saliva on the bare nape of his neck, paralyzing him in the midst of death throes and ecstatic lust while crumpling under her tensile muscles. Later, Anaya's senses returned to her, slowly, as if waking from a dream overwhelming in vividness but details intangible. "I need to go on a diet," she told herself as she passed the mirror, "No one's going to hire a fat belly dancer."

Story #234

I've decided to take a short creative pause for a couple of days, partly due to a hectic work situation, partly due to just wanting a short creative pause. Recently I've stumbled across some new (and newer) blogs that I think will be worth following, but please come back here after you've looked at them:

Those of you who miss Retarius and the now defunct Non-Stop Cavalcade of Fun (retarius.blogspot.com) will love this new blog called Saddle Sore Review: saddlesorereview.blogspot.com.

A blog called "The Swaying Hips of Kelly Kell" presents a new kind of counterculture cool that I enjoyed right from the start: kellykell.blogspot.com

Then there's the blogger from hell, Satan himself, taking a walk through the blogosphere, heckling the sinners he comes across. I'm already enjoying the devious humor of it: askthedevil.blogspot.com

I guess everyone is blogging these days. Even aliens, as witnessed by this funny, new blog, which in one of its first posts has revealed the truth about Pansifiles: thealienguy.blogspot.com

Poetess Fiona Robyn, who ran a blog for some time exploring creativity and ways to channel it (creative-living.blogspot.com), has begun a new blog posting daily poetic thoughts, descriptions of fleeting scenes and feelings. Some of the posts might be called expanded haikus: asmallstone.blogspot.com

Icy of the inseperable Tom & Icy duo (oldtommyboy.blogspot.com) duo has a new, secret blog. Woof: speakicyspeak.blogspot.com

Ned Rosen's camera phone journal "Dirty Lense" has been around for a few months. I enjoy his eye for perspective: dirtylense.blogs.com/my_weblog

Last but not least, and all the worse because ladies are supposed to be first, is this sexy, new blog "The Shorter the Skirt, the Higher the Kick" about a gal named Patricia Jenkins who just moved to Sweden. I like the way she titillates: coveries.blogspot.com

"Courtney!" Mother Jamie called out, much like Aunt Em in The Wizard of Oz, imploring Dorothy to come inside during the cyclone, with the difference that Courtney usually was the cyclone.

It had been a quiet evening at home, the family in the living room, Daughter Courtney in her bedroom showing her screenplay to a producer she'd picked up somewhere, when a sudden hush magnified the silence. Knowing the ways of slimy, male producers, or at least, suspecting them, Mother Jamie barged into the bedroom to offer marzipan donuts, which Grandma had just made. Grandma had been trying for years to get rid of her attic full of almonds, an E-Bay acquisition that had puzzled them all. "They're worth money!" she'd insisted.

"Courtney's gone! Her monkey, too!" Jamie shouted, expecting the entire company to erupt into a spontaneous posse. Everyone except Grandpa fell asleep.

"Let her go," the elder Quincy offered, looking up from his Illustrated History of Erotic Art, "It was gettin' mighty crowded here, anyways. And please stop hollerin' while I'm a tryin' to concentrate!"

Jamie organized hubby and son into a search party using the horsewhip she carried for disciplinary emergencies. The three of them took off in the family jeep faster than you could say "Autobahn." After cruising up and down the entire state of California Son Taylor wondered why they didn't just call Courtney on her cell phone to find out where she was.

Courtney's recorded voice greeted them: "I'm at the Grand Canyon with a Hollywood producer and can't be disturbed." Jamie's eyes flashed a bright red, the kind in photos without red eye reduction. They lightninged across Death Valley faster than you could shoot a porno film, and careened over to Arizona, braking just in time to prevent the motor from melting.

Once arrived, they glanced about in some confusion before their calls of "Courtney!" were met. They heard a moan. "That was passion!" screamed Jamie. They charged forward and found Courtney, in a lotus position, near the edge, typing away contently on her laptop. "Oh hi," she said, Zen look on her face, serene in the eye of her storm, "I was just adding some scenes to my screenplay." Another moan drew them to the traumatized producer, hanging from the brink of the four thousand foot drop, by one hand, Courtney's pet monkey dancing from side to side, tormenting him with a stick.

Courtney explained with a devious smile: When the producer offered to work out some new bedroom scenes with her, she had decided instead to bring the cliffhanger aspect into her story. The producer's fear was inspiring. It added just the edge she needed to assure an Academy Award for best screenplay.

Story #233

Disclaimer: Any similarity between actual persons, living or dead, is their own fault for sending me the photo.

Announcement: The May prizewinner for story contributions is ........ Alix! I'll be in touch with you Alix, about the prize (a black and white print of one of my photos). All the stories have now been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

"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.