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May 18, 2005

Volume 1, Issue 6

Why is this person laying naked on the floor?

My kids have made up a dozen stories so far, so don't wuss out.

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I wait for your embrace. I ache deeply to be penetrated by you. The floor is cold this morning; it is too early for anyone from Cell Block C to have taken a shower yet. And through this coldness, it is my warmth that is your invitation to come to me.

It was too easy with everyone here in “shower call” last night; too easy to share your essence. Now it is just me … and you. My body rocks rhythmically waiting for you to come to me.

I long for the itch between my toes. “Fungi, come to me!”

Posted by: Clyde at May 18, 2005 7:33 AM · Permalink

Natalie Imbruglia posed for a still for a music video. "Snap the picture already, this !#@!$ floor is cold!". Sadly, her photographer was unscrupulous and her photos wound up all over the web.

Posted by: J Bowen at May 18, 2005 7:50 AM · Permalink

Thank God for this cool floor. I thought I would never get to sleep in this heat.

Posted by: Huggy at May 18, 2005 8:20 AM · Permalink

There's that damn contact lens! Now to find my clothes...

Posted by: daniel at May 18, 2005 8:46 AM · Permalink

She's blind stinking drunk. She has just thrown up all over the bed and her husband has made her sleep in the bathroom.

Or was that me?

Posted by: Rich at May 18, 2005 8:48 AM · Permalink

100 words? I can do it in two...well, technically one word and one acronym - NEA grant.

Posted by: marybeth at May 18, 2005 9:30 AM · Permalink

When consciousness finally returned, she found herself on the floor, unclothed, alone. Panic overtook her for just a moment until she remembered: it was over.

No trace of the machine remained; it had vanished as completely as had the rest of the group. Even the slight ozone tang in the air was gone. The piezoelectric plating had given way to plain tile, and the printed schematics that had once lined the walls were now generic business art.

At least there was still a phone. She glanced around nervously as she dialed, wondering if any more of the Observers were watching.

Posted by: Keiran Halcyon at May 18, 2005 9:31 AM · Permalink

The room was silent except for the sound of a single dripping faucet. He preferred to run late at night, assured of having the shower entirely to himself. That, however, was not the situation presented.

"Excuse me, Miss."

No reply.

The seven steps to her were enough to overcome initial shock and become aware of both his nakedness and his reaction to her's. This was sure to be an amusing memory rather than a Penthouse letter. He smiled.

"Excuse me, are you alright?"

No reply.

He grew flacid in feeling the soft skin cold as the tile under his feet.

Posted by: submandave at May 18, 2005 10:11 AM · Permalink

"Red X's," he said, with only his forehead showing above the laptop screen.

"What?" she said, feigning concern.

"You know those things where you can't see the picture...on the internet"

"Oh. I've been thinking."

"This damn thing...I'm sorry, what?"

"I'm moving back to Tennessee."

"What?" he said, "what do you mean by that?"

"I remember a day there, when I was 18. I may never get that day back. I was really in love. Not like...not like...this. I may never get that day back. But...fuck it...it's worth a shot. Life's too short to live without feeling."

Posted by: heebyjaco at May 18, 2005 10:24 AM · Permalink

Whoa whoa whoawhoawhoa...Wait a damn minute! They promised me I'd be in the alley, with Arnold and Michael and all that cool fucking lightening stuff. I want my money back, you thieving BASTARDS!

Posted by: tree hugging sister at May 18, 2005 10:36 AM · Permalink

Damn him. On the phone?! He was too chicken-shit to tell her in person.

She drank. Whatever was in the house… airport bottles of Wild Turkey, Smirnoff, Jim Beam. Jamaican rum from a friend on vacation. Applejack brandy from a trip to the Blue Ridge Mountains.

The TV was on in the background. They always play "The Robe" on Easter. Nothing can resurrect this marriage.

She’d never thrown up so much. The bathroom floor is so cool.

She’ll never drink this much again, she promises herself.

Until tomorrow.

Posted by: LJ at May 18, 2005 11:32 AM · Permalink

Consciousness seeped into her slowly. At first, she was only dimly aware of a coolness against the left side of her body. This slowly resolved into a tile floor as her eyes fluttered, half open. The tessellated surface seemed to stretch indefinitely into the distance. Increasingly, she remembered who she was and how she had come to be at this place and time.

That's it, she thought, finally able to think clearly, no more vodka for me.

Posted by: Rob at May 18, 2005 11:43 AM · Permalink

I gave in to the hype. It started with a free trailer. Then it moved to articles. Then it moved to blogs. The internet was my syringe. Star Wars the drug. Apparently blogs were to powerful a drug for this fragile body. I started to loose it. At one point I thought of dressing as Jar Jar Binks and going to the opener. That was when I realized things were out of control. I needed to be alone. No clothes to dress up with. I needed somewhere cold. I needed somewhere far far away from the internet and Star Wars.

Posted by: Nussmier at May 18, 2005 11:52 AM · Permalink

As even casual acquaintances could tell you, Lacy loved home improvement. She knew the schedules of both HGTV and DIY by heart, read every home and garden magazine, and attended all three days of the annual Home and Garden Show.

She finally decided to re-tile the old bathroom floor.

After that, no one saw Lacy again. And the bathroom light was never on in the evenings. But from the house, they heard the longest moans, punctuated by breathy screams...

Posted by: Shawn at May 18, 2005 12:01 PM · Permalink

Because she and THX-1138 stopped taking their drugs and started to have unregulated, unprotected sex with eachother.


Posted by: Brian at May 18, 2005 12:07 PM · Permalink

In truth, that much caffeine couldn't be good for anyone. And the picture refused to conceal the truth: despite the promises, she had gone way over her limit.

Fortunately, a picture can be inverted. The rest would never know, provided she remembered to clean that greasy spot off the ceiling tiles. Now where was that bottle of Formula 409...

Posted by: lawrence of arabia at May 18, 2005 12:50 PM · Permalink

It was a stark and dormy night....

Posted by: Alas at May 18, 2005 12:58 PM · Permalink

You must understand that Miles was a total asshole when drunk. That night he came back to the room, vomitted on the stereo, and asked Sarah if it was true that she made chipmunk noises during sex like Phil said. Then he stripped down, buck-naked, in front of all four of us, before passing out on the bed.

So we really had no choice. Revenge was a moral imperative. It's not like we knew there was a Junior High swim meet at the pool at seven the next morning.

Well, maybe Phil knew. But if he did, he never said.

Posted by: Jeff R. at May 18, 2005 12:59 PM · Permalink

Can you spare a square?

Johnny, don’t stare.

Such long, glossy hair... No, not down there!

Naked chick on tile? Man, that’s rare.

Dammit - not even a chair!
There’s one? Where?

Dude, check her out! Nice pair!

She’s unconscious - and her ass is bare.

Whew! You gave me quite a scare!

Nice legs - razor or Nair?

Hey! That’s no way to train a dancing bear!

I wouldn’t get naked any lay there on a dare.
It’s a bathroom floor - there might be poop there!

Why do you get the naked girl in your bathroom? No fair!

Posted by: Elisson at May 18, 2005 1:44 PM · Permalink

"Why is this person laying naked on the floor?"
(that's the topic? Nothing more?)
So I punch and kick and bang the door
(chained and bolted metaphor),
And soon I'm gibbering "What's this FOR?"
As mirrored dark I channel Gore,
All piggy-frothed and settling score;
Oh woe, I'll strip, collapse and snore
(Quoth the raving internetadore).

Posted by: Buddy Larsen at May 18, 2005 1:53 PM · Permalink

Stacy grumbled, actually growled, as she looked for her red pumps. She was sure they were here, but everything had gone grayish and she couldn’t tell if she had the green ones or the red ones.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Oh no! It had happened again.

With a whimper, she went out and lay on the kitchen floor.

That evening, her astonished husband found and woke her. He was more astonished when her first words were, “Honey, I didn’t turn into a dog after all!”

Posted by: Geoffrey Barto at May 18, 2005 3:22 PM · Permalink

"Look!" said Beldar, carefully moving the lower limbs of the mummy back and forth. "You can see they lie naturally up along the body."

"Huh. You don't think its posture is just a freak result of the final catastrophe?"

"Not at all. That fool Klemper got it backwards: they stood on the long tentacles and used the short ones to feed. All the museum's statues are upside down."

I thought about our most popular diorama, in which a mother creature puts food in the mouth of the young. "So you're saying the mouth is the opening at the other end?"

Posted by: Carthoris of Helium at May 18, 2005 3:55 PM · Permalink

“This is perfect!” The Director grinned, rubbing his fine moustache with a delicate manicured hand. “Make sure they only print the picture on the first edition.”

The lead assistant smiled – perfect white teeth framed by succulent pink lips – and caressed the Director’s cheek. “And on the next edition we print the ‘correction’ caption.”

They both laughed. The mere thought of hundreds of young boys rubbing themselves while viewing the picture was intoxicating.

And the many boys who would later question their own sexuality when it was revealed the photographer’s model was a man could only make the Movement stronger.

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at May 18, 2005 4:06 PM · Permalink

Finding common ground

The ticking of the clock so faint and distant matched her heart beat. Keeping her breath slow and even she watched the insect in her hand. A prisoner now as she was. It darted back and forth legs frantically clinging and pulling but she held fast watching it's futile efforts. She took no pleasure in subduing the thing...far from it. A look of pity reflected deep within in her soft dark brown eyes. She understood perfectly how the creature felt. She simply needed some reassurance that she wasn't alone in her agony. She squeezed it's thorax a little tighter.

Posted by: Minet at May 18, 2005 4:44 PM · Permalink

Ah, yes, with long legs posed inticing
A larger pic is more sufficing;
So blow it up with hardened software
And note your quickly softened hardware.

Posted by: Buddy Larsen at May 18, 2005 4:57 PM · Permalink

Hi there Marybeth--

I was just curious what you mean by that? Is it a slam on the photo? Or perhaps it is derision of nude photography? Possibly you felt it was a photo of some performance art piece that only some left wing nut-ball organization like the NEA would sponsor?

Not that have any problem with the NEA being labeled that way, I just wish you had more fully explained your point of view, especially since I happen to be the photographer. I have never even requested money from the NEA let alone feel that for a moment our government has any business giving any kind of artist a dime.

This note is not meant to be confrontational and I hope it doesn't come across that way.

Posted by: ted at May 18, 2005 6:50 PM · Permalink

Congrats to Jeff and Jim for being the only ones to not assume that this was a woman.

Posted by: ted at May 18, 2005 7:11 PM · Permalink

"How much?" The man asked.

"Effendi, for you, only 20 Dinars." replied Abdul.

"And you have more?"

"Many more Effendi. The Madrassahs are full to bursting."

"Good." the man said. He rubbed his chin. "Very good."

Posted by: Eric Blair at May 18, 2005 7:53 PM · Permalink

Ted -

My understanding of what the post was asking was that we write about what was going on in the photo, not comment on the photograph itself. Someone lying on the floor naked made me think of the kind of performance art for which the NEA gives grants.

It was not meant as a negative comment on the photograph or on your work as a photographer and I apologize if it came off that way. It was a slam on the NEA, not meant to be directed at you in any way.

I know my original post was terse and smart-mouthed. I couldn't manage a whole story today...but that's another story.

Posted by: marybeth at May 18, 2005 8:32 PM · Permalink


Through the miasma of shock and pain, betrayal rose like bile. She heard their voices in her mind--her sisters! Betrayed by her sisters!

It started so innocently. "Seven bucks for a mustache wax," Catherine crooned. "Twenty for your legs..." Jane added. They put their heads together over the brochure. She heard them whispering. It took a long, long time--everyone knew the Marshall girls couldn't do math.

"$472 for your whole body!" Catherine exclaimed triumphantly. "Everything. Legs. Ears. Head. Everything."

Afterwards they dumped her on the bathroom floor, the brochure clenched between her cold, waxed fingers.


Posted by: Nancy at May 18, 2005 8:38 PM · Permalink

October 1986

The sunshine through the empty window frames is warm.
I've never felt this cold before.

Six months ago, I left for Moscow.
Five months ago, my father died fighting the radioactive fires.
My sisters, their husbands, their children spent their last hours here delusional,
puking their guts out.
The doctors could only offer release.

Like their patients, I am here to die.

The tiled floor of the now-abandoned hospital where so much of my family,
my friends, my *life* died, has welcomed me to its cold embrace, has welcomed my choice.

I wait for the poisoned wind to blow through.

Posted by: Randy Shane at May 18, 2005 11:07 PM · Permalink

If you found dog fur, chips, coins, keys, receipts, matches, earring, fake fingernail, combs, pins, pens, paper clips, pizza cheese, candy wrappers, cookie crumbs, ashes, dust balls, tennis ball, dirty underwear, a sock, pantyhose, several belts, shoelaces, a candle, Coke can, roofing nail, fork, McDonald's bag, grocery list, a Penthouse, year-old TV Guide, AA batteries, broken remote control, ginger root, roach parts, rodent droppings, mites, fleas, bloody band-aids, nail clippings, hairs, vaseline smudges, indeterminate stains and a spent condom when you opened your friend's sofa bed, you'd sleep on the clean tile floor, too.

And then you'd make a new friend.

Posted by: c at May 19, 2005 12:32 AM · Permalink

They cancelled Season 3.

He spilled the vial’s contents onto the mirror and fished out a razor blade from his shirt pocket.

They cancelled Season 3.

No bills in his wallet. He rolled the straw from a scrap of paper towel torn from the dispenser.

No Tyrone. No Prince.

No Rick James.

Not this year. Possibly never again.

The rush swept his brain, staggering him. He sank to the floor, despondent to ecstatic in one pulse. The sweating began. He wriggled out of his clothes and rolled over, suddenly serenely certain: “He’ll be back.”

Cocaine’s a hell of a drug.

Posted by: Allah at May 19, 2005 12:56 AM · Permalink

Check before you post!