Storytelling, sharing, fact or fiction.


I wrote this some years ago… have not edited or changed anything for here. It was a writing game, using I think several given words, with a limited word count. I only remember one of the words now. Fuzzy.
Hoping others will join as I absolutely love stories as a way of getting to know people.


Taking the time to find the perfect, secluded camp is always worth it. I move leisurely, lest I miss such as the dark, round strawberry leaves, three or five per wild vine, strewn generously across the dunes. I wonder on whose lucky tongue the sweet fruit melted… some two months ago, it would have been. Long legged shore birds, racing hither and thither, and the ever evolving clouds keep me company as I veer from the sight of man, the sound of road, and the whirring of my own thoughts.

So you might imagine my twisted visage as first I came upon what would have been my ideal campsite, and a heartbeat later, her naked form, dappled dark and light, halting me in my tracks, taking my breath. The sun glances through windswept brush, its ethereal fingers, warm, stroking the flat valley that rises, falls, between her hungry hips. Relieved, I inhale at the sign of life. My spot was taken, and had I come from the opposite direction, I’d surely have walked off in dismay at the site of the forlorn camp.

As it is I cannot move. Not for long minutes, but in that time I take in her broken tent, reinvented. The footprint became a makeshift canopy, rope and sticks crisscrossing and knotted in the fashion of a woman that doesn’t know how and doesn’t care, so long as it stands, mostly. A fire pit, cold and empty but for a chunk of charred log and big tin cup, is made of an assortment of oblong rocks, chosen, I think, for color.

Unbuckling my pack, setting it down, nearing her, I keep thinking she’ll wake. Sitting cross legged at her side, I watch her until goose bumps spread across her forearms and breasts, my traitor blood running effusive from my head to my dick… and now, of course, her eyelids flutter open, dark blue, taken by surprise and yet she remains still, watching.

“I wonder if… I could make you some dinner.” I blurt.
Taking her eyes from mine, she lifts bony knees and elbows with an effort, examining her slender limbs as though she hadn’t known.

“I think so.” She whispers.

“Okay, I’ll get to it then.”

For lack of firewood or the time to collect it, I dig for my stove, pan, a bag of soup, water and my spoon. Smoothing a space to set up, I turn my back to her, preparing our meal, listening, waiting. When it’s done, and her share poured into her cup, I find she’s only turned over, chin resting on the heels of her hands, her fair cheeks glowing in the last light of evening.

“Aren’t you getting cold?” I ask.

“Do you have a fuzzy?”

“Don’t you?”

She shakes her head and stirs the proffered soup, blowing on it.

“Could I wear yours for a while?”

So I give it, and she zips herself in it, grinning, and it covers her bottom,
not quite.


This is hot and romantic.


I was going for both. And edging surreal, I hope. I think I’d like to write another. I need a break from mbti.
Be my muse and give me three to five words?


Ooo yes! Please, keep writing! And it would be an honor to be your muse.

patience, universe, tears, lips, belt.


Lovely! I will get right on it. For measure and motion, I will give myself 1000 words and till the night of the 29th to finish.

It would be extra fun if any others want to join with Erika’s words.


standing in the middle of the playground,
hoping you’ll revisit the place from the memories that we shared.
false sense of hope is so strong it clouds my judgment of reality.
everyone reminds me of you.
my heart drops to my stomach when i think i see you.
but of course, it was another delusion. hoping i’ll run into you somehow.
even a shadow of a long-haired woman makes me nervous thinking it could be you.

i said i never loved you.
that’s the last thing you heard out of my mouth.
how could you believe such a lie?
how could those words overpower everything we’ve built up in the past?
it’s like how the world trade center can fall to ashes within minutes although it was built over the years.

what was that plane that hit us?
was it destined to end this way?
could we have prevented this plane to be flying at our direction?
so many questions. yet, no single satisfying answer.

the first time we had coffee together in the diner secluded near the bowling alley.
it was quiet. surrounded by mirrors.
i could see you and i from different angles.
but at this moment i’m looking into your eyes.
ready to make confession.

you giggled. wait.
did you giggle? maybe not.
i think you smiled.
it was smile of relief.
what are you relieved about?
was it because you were worried that i was going to bring bad news?

"well. i’m not interested."
you said it so coldly.
but i was eerily relieved.
it put me back into the cold heart that i started to warm up.
i like coldness. this is what i’m used to.

“okay. thanks for telling me. now i can move on.”

there was no more conversation to be had.
my ice cold heart nearly cracked.

it’s been about a week.
you’ve been calling me everyday. trying to have a conversation.
i was once stranded at a train station. you called me then too.
it was hot summer. probably 95 degrees outside.
i had no money. just a train ticket home.
you offered me a ride. i kindly refused.
but you drove to the station, and brought me ice cold water.

your kind gestures were confusing. but i didn’t want to question.
the more i question, the more i will think of you.
no. that’s a lie. you’re already killing me inside.
and i can’t stop thinking about how much you’re killing me. slowly. and gently.
but i won’t let you know that you’re killing me.

and then you pop the question.

you invite me to the same diner where i was turned down from different angles.
these mirrors remind me.
i wonder how i looked from the behind.

we sit. you seem concerned. but you’re trying to smile.
after few exchanges of polite ‘how are yous,’

“do you still have feelings for me?.. or have you already moved on from me?”


“why are you asking me this question? what are you trying to do?”

you can clearly tell i’m upset. or am i?
no. i’m not upset. i’m happy. but i just need you to answer this question.


there it was. that one word was enough for me to know everything about her.
i wanted to grab her and pull her towards me, then kiss her.

but. i didn’t.
she needs to know.




Oh man, communication troubles! Pride! Loss.
Thank you for adding, supernok.



you see everything.
it was my pleasure! inspired by your own writing.
this was nonfiction though.


Some article on minimalism has got me motivated to clear out stacks of junk piled on the basement shelves, stuff no one’s used for years. Everything is getting sorted in three piles: trash, donate, and a very small one to keep. The thrift shop probably wouldn’t even want my ratty old camping backpack, but I quickly sweep the sand-crusted pockets for anything useful. There’s a canvas belt for the donate pile, a quarter and, damn, that purple seashell he carved our initials on and strung on fishing line. I turn it over and trace the mother of pearl with my index finger, remembering a boy and a beach from a time faraway.

Dan really wasn’t my type. All he had going for him was some crazy dreams and an ass to die for, that and he made me laugh. He thought it would be a grand, romantic adventure to camp on the beach for a week. For the first couple days, it was. We fished and swam, walked to the public beach house for cold showers, and explored little shops and cafes in town. We settled into balmy evenings and tried to scry our fate in flickering, green flames of a driftwood fire. Dan traced constellations on my freckled shoulders with his lips, and I was lost in nights of pounding surf. Pretty soon sand seemed to get everywhere though. It chafed at me and I felt like I couldn’t breathe in that stuffy little tent. We watched our last sunset together drop like a shiny coin as he whispered that the light matched auburn highlights in my hair, but he couldn’t see lines of dark storm clouds gathering below the moonlit horizon. The next morning, he went out for a jog and promised to bring back coffee and donuts. I’d run out of patience, so I scribbled a note, shoved all my things in that backpack, and slipped out before neap tide. My brother, Neil, drove me home. He say very much, just that he wasn’t surprised that it hadn’t lasted long.

The silly seashell seems to defy gravity; I can’t drop it in the trash can. I twirl it faster and faster. The string’s grown old and brittle, but it doesn’t break. I can hear my own blood pulsing in my ears like waves on the shore as I walk up the stairs. I wad up the line, wrap the whole thing in toilet paper, and shove it in the bottom tray of my jewelry box. Somewhere in an alternate universe, I might have hippie beads instead of anniversary diamonds, maybe less furrows between my eyebrows, probably skin cancer too. I gently close the lid, but the tinge of salt in my tears keeps reminding me of those things I don’t need anymore.

(mostly fiction, crying at the end is all Erika’s fault)




Bravo geneva! Thank you for playing. Read it thrice now.
You tied it up perfectly. I have trouble with that.

I am slacking. Started off with a bang and slumped. Classic.
I’ll see what I can do.


Uh oh!


I did ask for an example of crazy girl a few days back… and this certainly qualifies. That he could not feel makes his reactions curious. It pleases me that you joined us.


That’s messed up- but well done and a very creative view point!


When I say curious, I often mean that I will be deciphering the meaning for some time. That it is out of the ordinary and worth consideration.


No. My curiosity is that he can’t feel being cut and sewed back together, therefore he also can’t feel the sex. So the feeling the physical which lends to the emotional in terms of the sex, isn’t available. But if he could feel the operation, he wouldn’t give a damn about what his dick could feel. So all of it is a head trip only.


why did you delete your story Erika?

and i found all these back and forth with Tiny interesting, was giving me different perspectives on things!


@Ankh, I am both soaking wet and tangled in web.


Me too. But that’s because I walked in the rain while ovulating.