HER BLUE WHEEL IN THE WOODS: RANSOM!

"Yeah, it is real," she whinced, her eyes pretended to be wheels. "I've got sixteen of them in midnights." All of them blankly reeling, he imagined her without the earrings, but lightly. Neither of them needed toes for this house of cards. Besides, when one Romeo plants his heels in the Blue Wheel they all get a turn at bat. Or, at least that's what she was obliquely forming. "I can be innocent, but not what you think is crazy." She wanted that to be written in bold costumes, for his parade. "I'm sure you can appreciate my wanting to keep all these shoes for wearing. They are, after all, things." He nodded - but why? Gravy time never had this many sets and she knew that all she had to do was crumple up silver dollars to get that windpipe reading its lines properly. "Okay," he'd had it. "Get me something else blue."

NEXT TIME, THE FIRST TIME IS TWELVE OR MORE

It was my first time, so I wanted everything to be perfect. I know now the beach would have been the best place for us to be with each other, so we chose it even then. The thin, wire hairs on my chest started to stand up - anticipating - moving like flagella, but almost too wet to freely writhe. Like you would find in someone elses jar of petroleum jelly; in a jar by someone elses bed. My mates had bugs and, on the razor's edge of sleep, I thought we were together - but I had again merged only with myself. It was the Self for a while and then the guitar player from the Dave Clark Five (or Jayne County) - and then we were one (or, maybe Six). After we had subtracted one from Six, I tried to find my way back to the beach. Gradually, the light had worn off and I wanted to wake up but I found that sleep had not yet come. This was the worst part because we had become a fraction. Six was a long way back. Decimal spaces were taken up by zeros and the rest - but two new faces (not arabic [indian, really]). It (sleep) then came and I went home. I had decided that, from now until I could divide again, I wanted to start thinking about Twelve.

TWO CURLS FROM F.A.I.R.Y. - AND GREASED

He went to the F.A.I.R.Y. room to cry. Lengthy hotdog auditions have perfectly developed his moustache. The glam wanderings of his getting known through the torches excluded restrictions; but with the properties of the respective owners, vapid and deleted. They said it was safe, and he would save on gas. Surely, it must not be certified but the thirty-percent of all monies was not only additional, but slightly ribbed. "Just stop wearing it," the advertisement read. The simple world of the antique team could be orientally ignored - while one merely changes the sporting nations. Eli and his delicate heroes of the forty-two waterfords were wildly stacked to favor what they knew, and not just a little about being ecstatic members of the phylum rodentia. Many rich deadheads began with multiple yogurt tragedies to build the free workshops in the Tri-State area. There may have even been a lottery for sixty-six woman from F.A.I.R.Y.. "It was super-mega for all imagined sweethearts this season," said one becurled greaser.

I KNEW YOUR SECRET MILK GOD

You can't talk to me - I'm the same man. I have liquor and I work and to feed my secret family milk from the vacuum rays of our inner planet.  I came from shimmering mountain people, whose time was neither now nor whenever. Now, we're doing just fine - like the orbiting celestial prison our minds have envisioned. With you or without you, I have chosen the Old Man Sick Tribbet wedding dress to wear, and creating the Crimes of our god - unified and alone. For he who has collected dew at the hour just before dawn, I have saved an equinox. We will live - my secret family and I - in our own trousered, unremembered, human hearts. On this night, the wet grass will sway heavily; we will appraoch the dawn on a quiet woman's trousers - living to be.

THE RED HORSEY OF THE WHISPERING KING

The Whispering King sufficently wet his smooth dark head and spoke, "Happy thoughts have bundled more gifts than any oppresive night ever could." Nancy listened lamely, like a poorly illustrated cow. "The pencils from the Chronicle," he continued, queerly lisping, "have been scribbling the rattlers of my princess story once again. Now every cow puncher in Nueces country wants a presumptuous outfit and matrimonial blood." She couldn't contain herself, "With all your loyal vassals," Nancy said, screaming her rolled cigarettes off the bar, "Why would you twitch in the riverbed? You've never burdened your ego's pony with song before." The Whispering King heard. He fell silent. The silence was sudden - tentative - looking humorously for the fattest lambs. Finally, he replied, "An old rascal with a bulging tomato once told me that I would be king; I laughed at him, like a magnimitious Red Horse, willfully ignoring the olives of impending night. That has been my deepest regret."

PRESENT INFORMATION AGAINST THE POOR

She separated forms, marriages and sheafs of counterfoils a short distance from the new telegraph office, who were not very busy. "What clock was it?" she asked. Her hands were like whipped egg whites and extremely bland. I looked down but had no answer. "Because, I don't even remember what we were talking about." She acted as if she had recently used marijuana. "Perhaps I should relieve my mind, confidentially?" She said that would be fine. "We haven't even bothered yet but surely you can imagine a run-down telephone booth and the old person to go with it." She nodded, so I continued, this time investigating my own disappearance. "Well, I have an interest in someone else's racehorse but not the impossible ransom to be concocted. That being said, I presently have not begun to make sense to you, me or anyone else."

STANLEY AND THE INKWELL OF NOT-TIME

"No, Stanley. You don't understand, " he said. "If I take off these glasses, I lose all contact with the past." What he meant was that the synthesis would be impossible to achieve if it were not in the mode of an original being. Certain instantaneous consequences, concerning the Erlebnis, would characterize a hypothetical discovery, granted, but at what cost? "I am, of course, implying presupposition." He hastened to add that the duration of the extensions equaled the problem inherent in dimensional memory but could not explain the engram of extra-temporal refusals, regardless of spurious ideas. I tried to console him, "Dead time is an observable magnetization, like a piece of soft zinc in a phenomenal procession." He nodded, internally and inadequately, then said, "Grant a past to something atomically heavier than the Final Opposite and you've got an ontological dilemma." I hadn't the heart.