With all those bodies breezing about out there it was destined to happen. Doug and Marsha got together. Warm skin against warm skin caused blood flowing parallel to tepid blood to sizzle in the veins. A mile-high feeling of dizzying ecstasy charged through them. With each pelvic thrust they shot into unfolding realms of altitude, hotly defying the futile "no's" of gravity. The carnal splendor saw them swirling through boundless tangents, an intertwining one with the stratosphere.

Subsequent to an extremely bumpy ride George inspected his jet car, wiping clouds from the chassis. It never ceased to astonish him how the random formations invariably culminated in some kind of meaningful gestalt.

Story #184

The reader stories have all been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

Instructor: He's dead.
Trainee 1: Oh God, what'd you do to him.
Instructor: Only what was necessary. I have it down to a science.
Trainee 2: It's evil.
Instructor: It's lateral thinking: acupuncture, Kama Sutra and massage technique, a little of each. They give us a g-point. Guys have a d-circuit. But it's not easy to complete.
Trainee 1: Wish I'd been better in math.
Instructor: See, guys can't have multiple orgasms like we do. There's this protective mechanism, because the male heart can only stand so much. But nature gave us an override.
Trainee 2: How does it work?
Instructor: First of all bring him to the brink, and dangle him there.
Trainee 1: And then?
Instructor: Then there are these two nerves: one ends in his big toe, the other ends at the base of the skull. Read your acupuncture. So you're on him like a figure eight, if you get my drift. Usually it's pretty quick, and completely non-violent.
Trainee 1: Yeah, there's something humane about it, but it leaves such a mess afterwards.
Trainee 2: If they had black belts in love, they'd surely give you one.
Instructor: All right. Enough digressing. Put out your cigarettes and let the taxidermy lesson begin!

Story #183

The two cave girls sat at the monitor, staring into the webcam they had found. They were highly adaptive creatures. They didn't even need stones to knock out the scientist who had reached back in time via laser verberations to grab them into the present. They were subtler. They slyly let their rocks scatter onto the transfer platform where they had materialized. As the scientist stepped into the circle to clear the rubble away they rushed to the panel and pressed all the buttons they had seen him press. Now, at the control PC, they watched him back in their era playing with their pet mastadon. But it didn't like him very much. It was trying to step on him. Finally it chased him out of camera range and the screams that subsequently filtered through showed that he had stumbled upon their house cat, the one with the scythe-like teeth. The two ingenious specimens of the stone age quickly set up shop in the 21st century, downloaded some mp3's, camouflaged the time platform as a hip hop disco, and turned their attention towards boys. Hunting was so much easier on the Internet, and with their bare shoulders and coquettish smiles they could easily lure over and send back all the boys their pet cat could eat.

Story #182

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

Special thanks to Becca for contributing the photo!

This would be an all-nighter. Programmer Frank and engineer Barnes were struggling to get the system working.

"This is the second brunette it's generated," stated Barnes in an irritated growl, "What's wrong with the friggin' thing?"
"Let me try a new parameter matrix with split radix primes," Frank replied, grasping at straws.
"That's how I got the broad with the dog on her lap," issued from Barnes' exasperated expression.

The Blondex 3200 was a complex and temperamental piece of equipment for the generation of easy-going, easy-to-handle, and most of all just plain easy blondes for modern mating purposes. But something had gone wrong. Now the girls it generated were complex and temperamental.

"Can't we just try something with these girls?" Frank interrupted Barnes who was typing desperately at the console.
"You try. They won't let anyone touch them. That girl with the long hair slapped me."
"What about the other one? I mean her dog has sort of blondish hair. Maybe she's gentler."
"She sicced the dog on me!"

Barnes clattered some more on the console, manipulated the system parameters then clicked the generation button. Both men waited expectantly. There was a zapping sound.

"We've lost the motherboard," Barnes said in a giving up tone of voice.
"Look, Barnes, this is going nowhere. But I have an idea."
"What?"
"How about we say some nice things to the girls. Take them out to dinner, dancing, conversation. You know, the way it used to be. And if they don't come around, well, maybe they're clever enough to help us get the Blondex working again."

Story #181

Thanks to Irma "Audra" Vep for the photo!

Before leaving her abode for the "Who's Real" contest her thoughts spiraled into self-doubt. Soon she would pit her make believe existence against two living human contestants. On live national television! She'd done everything to conceal her artificiality. She'd put on make-up. She'd memorized the refrain of a top ten love song, practiced relating her aspiration: "I've always wanted to write a poem." She even planned the effect of a tear rolling down her cheek. But what if they saw beneath the surface? Saw the fiberglass weavings under her fragile, skin-colored veneer? It meant so much to her to win. Once they had certified her as real, she could do what real people did: share intense, one-time conversations with chance acquaintances, go shopping at Wal-Mart, use a cell phone and all the other mysterious and wonderful rituals accessible only to people with hearts and souls. At the studio she lost her way and wandered onto the set of a soap opera. Something about her, some searching look in her eye, struck the director. She was immediately given a role, returned each day to live out her new life with her new friends. And it was a sensation. The soap opera's ratings shot into double digits. Sacks bursting with fan mail arrived for the new character. Men basked in fantasies about her. Women all over the world saw her and wanted to be just like her.

Story #180

Mr. Peavey didn't mind taking his wife to the mall. Sure her tryings-on of every article of female covering with a three-digit price were about as fun to watch as a filibuster, but Peavey knew a secret. On the other side of the mall there was always some hot entertainment going on: scantily clad females whirling through the kind of motions that never failed to intrigue males. Peavey made his usual excuse. He would inquire at the travel agency about all the wonderful places he could take his dear partner-for-life on their next anniversary. As soon as she vanished inside the changing booth Mr. Peavey fairly galloped to the show and watched entranced, face glowing like a little boy at Christmas who found not one but two bicycles under the tree. He daydreamed as his eyes followed the gyrating bodies and his mind whirled on the nuances of the tropical dance. He would have to suggest an island cruise to Mrs. Peavey, and this time he would gladly come along with her. Unfortunately Mr. Peavey did not notice his wife sneaking up behind him. He also did not notice the mall wastebasket crashing down on his head. The dancing girls noticed, but didn't allow it to break their concentration. They were used to this sort of thing.

Story #179

Only three had come to share in the farewell. And soon it would be officially over. The camera and other equipment were destined for a film museum, the seats were too old to interest anyone anymore. Everything else had been promised away to the usual caring scavengers catching wind of a cache of history. The beam of light through celluloid streamed from the projector across the span of the theater, spreading out into moving images on the screen. Victor, who sat towards the back, nodded off, lulled by the sound of the organ music accompanying the antique visuals of a silent movie. His dream became a spark of light mingling with the light of the diva flowing through the air. It gave her life and form flavored by his modern imagination. He awoke as the film ended, the dream but a vague memory. He left with the others, but in one hidden corner of the soon to be abandoned theater slumbered the diva he had created, waiting to be imagined again.

Story #178

Once again, I'm overwhelmed by all the story versions you dear people contributed! Thank you very much. It's fascinating how each person saw this photo in a different way. The stories will be posted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com tomorrow morning.

Karla had just been kissed. And it caused a minor sensation. Except in Karla, where the sensation was decidedly major. Her shoulders hunched up and she staggered for a moment. But even then she could not open her eyes, as all her fantasies focused on the lingering residue of erogenous feeling. Everyone saw the affects of the kiss, but no one actually saw who it had been. One moment she was dancing alone and the next her lips glistened with a coating of fresh saliva. Perhaps it was magic, but Karla knew she had to have that boy. She opened her eyes and issued the demand that all boys present line up to recreate what had just occurred. The one whose kiss she recognized would be the recipient of..., well, of her. Just as the boys began assembling for their moment of tenderness something odd happened. They began slipping, bumping into each other, and running into trees. In the midst of all this chaos an invisible force grabbed her by the hand, jerking her forward on unsure steps, whisking her behind a rock. That's when her guardian angel introduced himself to her and apologized. Watching over her day and night, protecting her from harm, was nice to do. But her lips, her desirable lips had tempted him too long. He had to allow himself this one little slip.

Story #177

Vance and Vera invited an inflatable man to their house. When he arrived they sat him down on the sofa and ran through their act of hospitality. Refreshments were served, cake and coca cola. A half an hour went by gilded with small talk banalities. They conversed on the subject of helium-filled balloons. They asked him where he got his air. They inquired if he would like some fresh air at their window, a baldly audacious gesture, as the nearby highway billowed smog at tragic levels, and of course they knew that. The inflatable man had already noticed the bad air but concealed his perception, for fear of insulting his hosts. But his hosts were perceptive enough, especially now, and well aware that he had held his breath upon arriving, not that that concerned them. Nevertheless the inflatable man was becoming sluggish. He felt giddy and unable to move. The nitrous oxide Vance had carbonated into the coke and the aromatic glue solvents Vera stirred into the cake mix had done their job well. Before long he was defenseless. At sunset, heralded by the chimes of the wall clock, Vance and Vera fell upon their guest and sucked all the air out of his paralyzed form.

Story #176

Harvey became the first soul in theological history to demand expulsion from heaven. He was a masochist who couldn't come to terms with the paradisiacal pleasures heaven had to offer. They tossed him from the cloud to a harp fanfare and waves of good riddance. A short time later he toppled into hell, which Satan had just made over into an icy wasteland. Satan wanted a change and the frostbite burns of absolute zero were just as delightful to him as the seared flesh of brimstone. Harvey landed naked and shivering before a horde of demonettes poised to pelt his unprotected body with snowballs. But this was, after all, hell. Masochist or not, Harvey had to suffer. Despite his pitiful begging, the demonic mistresses never let fly their sensual pellets of coldness, but followed him around, feinting imaginary blows. As for pain, if Harvey wanted pain, he could have pain. Satan, ever the opportunist, put him to work shoveling snow.

Story #175

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

Harvey awoke to the sound of harp strings strummed by unseen hands. It made him nervous. He saw beatific angels all around him in cute little heaven costumes. They approached him smiling, anticipating desire unfulfilled in the new arrival. Harvey was too stunned to even say a prayer.

"We brought you something to drink"
"Would you like a massage after your exhausting death?"
"Shall we give you a kiss bath?"
"Oh it's sooo warm up here. Won't you help us out of these clothes?"
"Don't let our angelic appearance fool you. We're used to more than missionaries."

Harvey began to tremble. The heavenly servents came nearer.

"Don't be afraid, we're your personal angels."
"We're going to share you among ourselves for the rest of eternity."
"And teach you the meaning of divine pleasure..."
"On our own private little cloud..."
"We call it Cloud Sixty-Nine."
"You'll have no more pain, forever and ever and ever..."

Harvey was having trouble holding up under the barrage of well-meant seduction. He broke down whimpering on the cloud.

"We know this is a bit much all at once."
"Please don't cry."
"Take a nap if you like, and we'll play with your sleeping body."

"No!" his primal scream echoed through the ethereal setting. "Send me to hell," he cried between sobs, his pounding fists caught up tenderly in the soft cumulus carpet, "I'm a masochist."

Story #174

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

As Vincent jammed on his guitar spirits of the great guitarists intermingled with the sound vibrating throughout the room. Charlie Christian was there hovering in one corner. Wes Montgomery and John Fahey were in another. Jimi Hendrix and Robert Johnson arrived together, met Danny Gatton floating in through the open window. Duane Allman with his Southern rock aura danced on the ceiling. George Harrison met the Slavic soul of Krzysztof Klenczon and they duelled together on air guitars, variations on Vincent's themes. More and more spirits converged, filling the room with inspiration. The longer Vincent jammed, the more spontaneous his music became. The combined creativity in the air seeped into his unconscious, guiding his fingers, while his musical feeling flowed into the room, affecting the dancing specters of genius. A wonderful symbiosis had arisen. It was heaven for all. It was holy.

Story #173

It began the first night of the new month. The head appeared and followed him everywhere he went, eyes trained firmly upon him. His attempts to turn away from it saw it intrude again swiftly into his line of vision. The head caught the light and shadows such that he could never tell with certainty whether it was disembodied or not. And those unblinking eyes continued to stare. That was the worst of it, that the eyes never blinked. It made the head seem unnatural and threatening. Try watching TV under those circumstances! At each new eruption of disquiet inside him the head seemed to increase the mad boldness of its demeanor. It was always just out of reach, intensely focused eyes staring into him with a resolve that could smash stone to rubble. Even in his sleep he could not escape the ghastliness of it. It watched near his bed - the eerie illumination forced its way through his eyelids and entered his dreams at will - and looked at him. By the third day he cracked. He went directly to the collection agency and payed his overdue installment on his new state-of-the-art high definition widescreen television, upon which they called off their patented Neversleep Reminder Head™.

Story #172

Thanks for all the brilliant stories you posted in the comments section! More are welcome!

Original post: It's your turn again! I hope this photo will inspire everyone to pen their own story. Please post them to the comments section. Sunday evening I hope to post my own version.

Also, I'd like to say once in this central location: Thanks to everyone for the encouragement, the lovely comments, the links, and more basically, for reading my stories. I feel as if I've done something right, but I'm not sure what, and my only fear is that I might begin to disappoint your high expectations. I read your blogs and you're all so brilliant.

Another announcement: I will only be able to post stories until March 11th. After that I'll be on a two and a half week vacation stateside, my first time back since 1999. Regular posts will resume in April.

Martin proudly presented his photo of the Loch Ness monster to the world. He became an immediate sensation, an honored guest on talk shows, even garnered a cameo appearance on a Baywatch reunion episode in which the entire incident was recreated. His animated accounts of the legendary water creature charmed and engrossed audiences. He related how it had popped its head out of the water, turned towards him, given a sly wink, then waved its disproportionately small arms in his direction before vanishing again into the depths. It had to be true. People just didn't imagine things like that, not in so much detail. Fortunately Martin had had his camera and enough wits about him to capture the moment for all eternity, as proof of what he had seen. The photograph was later borrowed and scrutinized by marine biologists using computer enhancements combined with other state of the art methods, and finally discredited as an insidiously cheap hoax. It wasn't Nessie at all whose image Martin presented them with. It was an alien being flitting across a corn field. No one ever believed Martin again.

Story #171

Backseat-Dog: What's going on with our road trip?
Frontseat-Dog: Yeah, why'd you pull off the freeway?
Driver-Dog: It was frightening out there. Didn't you see it?
Frontseat-Dog: Woof. I mean, see what?
Driver-Dog: That Jaguar bearing down on us. That cat nearly ran us off the road!
Frontseat-Dog: I missed that. I was counting cows.
Backseat-Dog: I missed that, too. I was playing that alphabet game, looking for all the letters.
Driver-Dog: Don't be so intellectual! Dogs can't read.
Backseat-Dog: Sure they can. You know they make dog food out of cows?
Frontseat-Dog: Oh, really?
Driver-Dog: No they don't.
Backseat-Dog: Yes they do. I read it on the package.
Driver-Dog: Anything to munch back there? All this talk about dog food is making my stomache growl.
Frontseat-Dog: Me, too. How about we go get something to eat?
Backseat-Dog: Yeah, but go to a drive-thru. Most inside places have this "no pets" rule.
Driver-Dog: OK. Just a second.
Frontseat-Dog: What's wrong with now?
Driving-Dog: I'm waiting for the right moment to pull out.
Frontseat-Dog: The right moment?
Driver-Dog: I'm not going out there again unless I can drive behind a Greyhound bus.

Story #170

Karen had just graduated from cool school. They gave her a cool diploma saying she was cool and a pair of sunglasses, also cool. She had mastered written coolness: cool, kewl, and kool, knew how to emphasize as in keeeeewl, kewwwwl, and especially keeewwwlll. She'd picked up an idiom: "It's cool." She recognized the opposite: uncool. Her music professors taught her the coolio beats of rap, hiphop and blues. Her tutors agreed she had a cool body. After the ceremony her brother and sister, class of last year, came to pick her up and take her to the coolest club in town where Karen was hit on by a hot looking guy who taught her all about rad.

Story #169

Soon everyone would be thinking of Sharon. The package had just arrived. She had won. She had been accepted. It was as simple as that. The competition had been especially fierce and glass shattering, but Sharon had this knack for screams, screams that could turn blood into buttermilk. It was just this basic mood of hers. Her scream hit a nerve, a razor sharp balance between modern existential alienation and Nina Hagen on amphetamines. That's why her friends urged her to submit an application to the committee. The Council of Archetypes was broadening the collective unconscious to afford better representation to women. The special-delivery postman handed her the award certificate naming her the female counterpart of Edvard Munch's Skrik, the anguish archetype. Soon everyone would be thinking of Sharon...

Story #168

Note from Indeterminacy: In observance of "Free Mojtaba and Arash Day" (February 22, 2005), this blog stands for the right of freedom of speech and expression for bloggers everywhere.

Dihala was the Goddess of the Universe. Occasionally it was in her fancy to create a new planet with an intricate balance of living creatures forming together a harmony of themes to please her eyes and ears. While she was so occupied it was vital that Dihalus stand back discreetly and allow her to do her work. Creating planets was not simple. One interruption from him and the creation might be less than perfect. The creatures living on the planet might not function properly and begin to destroy the planet or each other. Dihalus was extremely careful. His conscience was still trying to live with the consequences of what happened as Dihala created Earth, and he grabbed her from behind to kiss her.

Story #167

Clara's relationship with the wall could not quite be understood. She was never seen in the company of boys. Warm summer days found her embracing the flat gray mortar in the garden. They tried everything. The spatula they used broke when they tried to slip it in between the warm flesh and cold stone. "Get away from that wall," they told her. Not even that worked. As the moon appeared through the trees the sounds of her song drifted in through the open windows, a love song she hummed, accompanied by a summer night's breeze. The mystery was solved when Clara's aunt, an avid hang glider, landed in the back yard one August afternoon and related what she had just seen from above. On the other side of the wall, at exactly the position Clara clung to, was a boy, weeping because he had no ladder.

Story #166

Kevin was in distress, so he issued a loud call to anyone in earshot. The three supergirls were up sunbathing on a cloud high above the skyscrapers when their supersonic ears perked to the cry of Kevin's voice calling "Help, I'm lonely!" The superheroines slipped into their tight tops and dived down immediately afterwards to where Kevin stood on the pavement of the smothering metropolis he walked. The red, yellow and blue colors darted around him, pulling him, tugging him, drawing him with them, making him feel wanted, less lonely. They sat him down at a cafe, brought him a coffee, and showered him with sweet smiles while he sipped the liquid caffeine. The three took turns whispering secrets into his ears. For one small moment, he felt confident and in control. After the coffee, they returned him to where they had first met him, did a brief dance for his benefit on the metal gate, then soared back to their cloud for some more topless sunbathing. All this didn't really happen. It was an urban mirage. Those who had seen Kevin noticed only a typical city dweller, walking along swiftly, mumbling incoherently to himself.

Story #165