What Should I Write Next?
Jun. 17th, 2005 11:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
abracanabraAs I mentioned some time ago, I've been keeping a freewriting journal as a creative writing exercise. I have also been writing a short story longhand on the bus. That story, "Blood for Oil," is done now. I've gotten a ton of ideas from freewriting. These are the ones that I think are best. What do you think I should write next?
Hotel Visitor: Think of him as the hotel cleaner...who takes care of the really unpleasant guests.
Tags: ass-kicking, fantasy, high potential, urban fantasy
He moved leeward against the rain as it drove stinging drops of near ice into his face, despite the brim of his hat. He would far rather be indoors and out of this mess, savoring a hot cup of tea and reading one of the new books he'd bought, but he had his duties. He nodded his head to the doorman of the hotel when he reached it. The man recognized him; he'd come here before. The doorman's face whitened slightly, but no rich patron would have noticed the hesitation in his hand when he opened the door for the man. He walked into the lobby of the hotel. A few business travelers glanced up, dismissed him as not being one of their own, and returned to their perusal of the Wall Street Journal. He smiled to himself. If they knew what he really was, they would have run screaming in terror out of the hotel.
Inspiration: "leeward"
Story Potential: High...if only I knew what happened inside the hotel.
Finished Length: Short story.
Notes: The main character is clearly an Ultimate Badass TM. Sort of a dark urban fantasy setting. There's something very bad and paranormal inside the hotel that this man has to deal with.
Marriage in Vegas: In a post-apocalyptic world, getting married in Vegas--getting into Vegas at all--has become slightly more difficult.
Tags: ass-kicking, dystopic, high potential, humor, post-apocalyptic, science fiction
The bright neon lights of Vegas shone ahead of them. All that stood in the way was a deserted field filled with rusted automobiles and the barbed wire fence that surrounded it. The skulls of those who hadn't made it were mounted on rusted antennas, mute warning of the dangers inside. Beyond the junkyard, Vegas glowed. Electricity was there. And water. And money. And food. And beautiful women. All they had to do was get through the junkyard that surrounded a ten-mile radius around Vegas.
"Hon," he said, "do you really think this is worth it to be married by Elvis?"
"Sure," she said, smiling up at him, that half-tilted smile with one chipped tooth that had drawn him to her in the first place, when he saw her smile that smile at the bartender who had just suggested she pay her bill with something other than good cash.
He'd waited until the blood and alcohol had stopped dripping from the ceiling, then walked over and introduced himself.
Inspiration: Loosely inspired by a story told by chad_valentine of his and opheliac_9's honeymoon trip to Vegas.
Story Potential: High!
Finished Length: Short story could be awesome! I don't know if I have the stamina for a crazy book in this style.
Notes: Half-post-apocalyptica! Half-parody! ALL KICK ASS! Those crazy kids. No, really. Stone-cold crazy. Just can't lose the sense of humor.
A Runaway and Her Dead Cyber-Dog: Who killed the runaway's dog? Why? And how can she escape her doom?
The raindrops slid down her blood-slicked cheeks as she huddled against the cement wall. She tilted her head to the sky, hoping in vain that it would wash away the blood and leave her clean. All it did was sting when the acid rain got in her eyes. The body at her feet lay motionless, as trails of blood were washed from it into the gutter. Poor Bozo. He'd been faithful to her for so long, right from the time she was a little girl. Not that she was much older now. Before she'd had to run away, she would have claimed to be grown up. Two weeks on the street had cured her of that notion. Bozo had saved her many times in that two weeks. His eyes had analyzed the food scraps she dug out of the dumpsterbot, and he'd growled softly to warn her whenever the food was spoiled.
Inspiration: "Father Don't Cry (Extended)" by Doubting Thomas. The opening sounds a bit like synthesized rain drops. I've been listening to Doubting Thomas a lot this week.
Story Potential: High.
Finished Length: ? No, really, I should just remove this question.
Notes: I seem to be in a sci-fi mood lately, though after the first sentence I thought it would be horror. Nope. Definitely sci-fi. Former rich girl flees home for reason unspecified with only her pet cyber guard-dog. Oooo! Inspiration just struck. Falada, Falada? Sci-fi retelling of "The Goose Girl?" Could be fun, but why not go for something totally original, if there is such a thing? So what happened to poor Bozo? I'm amused that my notes seem to be more questions to remind myself to answer.
Robot Junk Shop: Robots are obsolete. Until one day, when the contents of an old junk shop become important once more
Posted on 2005.05.31 at 10:50
Tags: high potential, science fiction, steampunk
The clockwork pendulum of the amber cat's tail swung back and forth with the minute hand of the grandfather clock. The tail was getting a little scruffy now, the clockman thought, as he readjusted the time. When the cat was new, its tail had bristled in glory, but now it was a faded moth-eaten thing. The cat stared out the window, perpetually facing the city street, its eyes forever squinting against the sunlight of the day it had died. On the window seat beside the cat, a metal head stared back into the room, its eyes wide and unblinking. The clockman shook his head at it. 'Twarn't natural to fiddle around with robots. Not these days. Why anybody would think they still needed to, he didn't understand.
Inspiration: I wanted to do something a little more science-fiction-y.
Story Potential: High.
Finished Length: Short story. Could be novel, I suppose, if it was stretched. Really, I should just get rid of this portion of my notes, because I'm generally so wrong when I estimate this.
Notes: Science fiction, a little steampunky, a future where robots are considered old technology. Essentially, this is a junk shop. But one day, it becomes important again. Why? How? What can these robots do that whatever has replaced them cannot?
Lizards Dance in the Dreamtime: An Aboriginal Fairy Tale
Tags: fairy tale, fantasy, high potential
The lizards dance in the dreamtime. They do not dance in the real world, but by their head-bobs, the quick flick of the tongue, one can tell they dance in the dreamtime. And they remember that they can dance. Their quick movements, the scuttle of feet from rock to sand... they remember when they could dance. She did not dance in the dreamtime. She refused the very idea of the dreamtime, did little Redhand. And so, she did not move like a lizard, although she was of the lizard clan. She got the most stubborn look on her face whenever other people mentioned dreamtime, in denial of all that it could be and all that it could mean. She loved lizards, though.
Inspiration: I was thinking of dreams, but really, no inspiration.
Story Potential: High.
Finished Length: Short story.
Notes: Fairytale structure. Some research on aboriginal culture necessary.
Tinkerbell Brawl: Tink--a cute little thing who starts a fight in the wrong place
Tags: fantasy, high potential, urban fantasy
Tinker-fucking-bell, Marty thought, burying his face in his hands as he leaned against the bar. Sure. He had to walk into the only bar in the world with her in it. Sure, it was a five- minute flight from their apartment, and he knew Tink loved getting drunk whenever things went wrong, but if he 'd been forced to, he would have guessed that she'd been banned from the premises already. Oh, not that the bar owner had a thing against the faerie people...but most bar owners had a thing against Tink as soon as they figured out what she did in bars. She would bob in through the door, all glowing light, bright smile, and perfect tiny proportions. Then she would drink a thimbleful of whiskey. Sure, one shot and she was drunk. Not a barman's best customer, but hey! At least she wasn't any trouble, right? Wrong. Marty had seen her go on rampages before, but this one looked like it would be a doozy.
Inspiration: Spinning seedpods outside my window => faeries => tinkerbell
Story Potential: High
Finished Length: Long short story/novel
Notes: Tink can change sizes. Tink gets in fights. Tink gets into a fight in this bar and either a) something goes wrong and somebody ends up dead, or b) somebody drops something critical and flees. Marty and Tink don't have that kind of relationship, either. But they're in the investigation business, somehow, after a fashion. Oh, and this is totally altered modern-day urban fantasy.
Not That Kind of Party: So Why's The Alien Having Women in Your Room Again?
Tags: alien science fiction, high potential, science fiction
[I freewrote and then the computer crashed. So I lost it. But I still wrote it, and I think it had potential, so I'm recording it here as best I can remember the outlines] Scenario: J'george stands in front of his apartment arguing with his landlord, who thinks that whatever is going on in there lowers "the tone of the place" (the place being a very skeezy tenement apartment building). Inside the apartment, some being referred to as 'it' has invited ladies...J'george insists that they are real ladies, and that it's not that kind of party. The landlord says that it isn't that kind of place and points to a titty bar advertising "All women, all human" across the street.
Inspiration: kaleidogirl commented something about hookers to one of my posts, and I responded, "It's not that kind of party!"
Story Potential: High.
Finished Length: Short story, but what do I know? All my novels have started as short stories.
Notes: This could be rather nifty, and it's all in what's implied in the exercise.
Spaceman Stickup: You'd think the guy'd never held up a convenience store before.
Tags: high potential, humor, science fiction
I was just sitting behind the counter, me, minding my own business, listening to the radio and flipping through the nudie pics, when this guy just comes in and tries to stick me up. 'Cept, the funny thing is, he don't know how! I been stuck up...lemme see...must be three times since I got this job? Mostly, once they figure out that I'm cool, they're cool. They get their money, I don't get shot, and it's all good. This guy, though, he didn't have the first damn clue. I mean, really! Dude didn't even a have a proper gun, y'know what I'm sayin'? He had this toy thing, like you'd get from Wal-Mart. It made beeping noises, and it was bright green and pink. Beeping noises. I swear, man, I ain't shittin' you. You think I could make this shit up?
Inspiration: None. I just had a brief image of a guy sitting behind a counter the second before I started writing.
Story Potential: High.
Finished Length: Short story.
Notes: I like this a lot. I like the slang, I like the feel of it.... I don't know why the gas station was held up, but I bet I could figure it out. Maybe I will.
Bomb Shelter: And then there was silence
Tags: genre undetermined, high potential
It was never silent in the bomb shelter. Even when he huddled in a corner with his hands over his ears, it was never silent. That bothered him the most: more than the other kids who tried to start fights, more than his mama crying, more than when they had to stay down for longer than they'd planned and ran out of food. More than anything else he just wanted silence. But when it wasn't a baby crying, it was the hushed murmurs of people trying to distract themselves from their own death. The airplanes flew overhead and their rumble penetrated through the thick cement that shielded the shelter, even if their bombs didn't. It was never quiet. So when he woke to silence, at first he thought that the bombs had made it through after all, and everyone was dead.
Inspiration: I read a line in a book earlier that mentioned looking up women's skirts in a bomb shelter, and as I put my fingers on the keyboard, a plane flew by overhead.
Story Potential: High.
Finished Length: Short story...novel...any length but flash fiction. Hell, it could be a trilogy for all I know.
Notes: There's something about this twitches my imagination. I don't know what. Midway through, I thought I'd end with a scream as a dead body was found, but no.... This story could go anywhere: mainstream, fantasy, horror, mystery.... Simply because of the age of the boy, I don't think it would turn into a romance, but that's possible too. I guess it couldn't be a Western (oh,yeah? says a little part of my mind). I don't know what happens next, and I kind of want to. Uh-oh. I've felt this before. Must...resist.... I haven't even written much, but the character's alive inside my head. I know about his mother's tweed dress and his stamp collection and the photograph with the shattered frame.
The Swing's Sighing Song: A Mountain Tale of Love and Tragedy
Tags: flash fiction, high potential, non-genre
Her swing was swinging in the sweet, sweet sighing of the sycamore boughs when he came a'calling on her papa. Her swing it swung and sung and sighed like lovebirds do in their cages. And she sighed when his shadow fell twixt the shadows oft the branches. And her heart sang when his hand raised her chin to look at him full on. 'Twas only then she saw the long mean rifle gun a-hangin' by his side. Gone huntin'? she asked, hoping with all her heart he'd smile that easy smile and say, sure thing, honey. But his face was still all solemn as a preacher saying prayers, and she felt a slide of something along her cheek that might'a been a tear.
Inspiration: I wanted to try and shift my third-person voice a little, and I just had an image of a long-haired mountain girl on a swing while tree branches swayed above her.
Story Potential: High.
Finished Length: Flash fiction.
Notes: Think of old ghost stories or ballads and the patterns they set up. The Highwayman et al. Also? The title sucks.
Fall of the Cherry Blossoms: On the terraformed world, everything happened according to plan until the cherry blossoms fell untimely early
Tags: high potential, science fiction
The cherry blossoms were brilliant patches of white against the purple sky. Lady Miyamoto looked up at them and pondered the beauty of their flowering. Twice a year, they bloomed, and all the court came out to remember their exquisite past. The cherry blossom season was a time for remembering, a brief week's break from the onerous demands of court and politicking. All factions gathered together to watch the cherry blossoms. It reminded them all of whence they came, though the sky be purple instead of blue, and the goldfish that swam in the pond had scales of an iridescent red with swirls of green. A side effect of the metals in the earth, their court philosophers said. The people had been engineered to absorb and process them without such problems but alas, nobody had thought of the goldfish. It was a sad thought. Yet they were beautiful, still, in their way, as they swam through their ponds and under the stone bridges, past the statues of the ancestors. She looked up at the cherry blossoms and so it was that she saw the blossoms fall to untimely death.
Inspiration: The crabapple trees were blossoming today.
Story Potential: Very high. Interesting set-up options...I like where this could go.
Finished Length: Short story, though it could be expanded to book length. Let's not and say we did.
Notes: Medieval Japanese culture (in many ways) transferred off-planet and given, of course, a sci-fi future of technology. "Court philosophers" are the scientists. You know, I actually do really like this idea. It would require a lot of research, though. Heck, I'm not even sure what color cherry blossoms are.
Crystal Shop Murder: The crystals were supposed to promote healing energies, but they were stained with blood.
Tags: high potential, mystery, urban fantasy
The chimes sang their crystal song of greeting as she pushed open the door to her shop, sliding the heavy wrought-iron key back into her pocket. A smile lit her face. She looked up at the crystals hanging from the ceiling: wind chimes, good-wishing crystals, and birth crystals. Whenever she entered her store, she felt her spirit lighten. She had made the right decision those three years ago when she quit her job as a high-price corporate lawyer to open a small, new age shop. Her colleagues had had a collective fit of apoplexy when she'd told them. She would advise them to get some crystals to help calm their nerves, but she doubted they had listened to her. She looked up at the swaying crystals and saw the way the morning sunlight glowed through them, bringing out their hues of pale pink, purple, blue, green, dark brown-red.... she frowned. There hadn't been a red crystal hanging there yesterday morning, she was sure. She took another step into the center of her shop, letting her purse slide down her shoulder to strike the floor, and squinted up. It wasn't a red crystal. It had been clear, yesterday...but a splatter of dark brownish red marred the crystalline surface. Now that she looked, she saw other splatters among her forest of light. Her hand flew to her mouth.
Inspiration: The sound of chimes in the music I was listening to.
Story Potential: High.
Finished Length: Long short story or novel (blech!).
Notes: Genre-wise, this has the potential to be skewed to either straight mystery or semi-occult/magic realism-type mystery. Either way, there's a body in her shop, and it somehow ties in to her old career as a lawyer.
Sea Dog Soul: An old sailor finds out that there are, after all, some things that cannot be tolerated.
Tags: adventure, fantasy, high potential
The sea leather that bound the book felt warm in my hands, as if it were still attached to the seal it had come from...and that seal's heart beat, its blood flowed. An old sea dog like me had heard tales, and I wondered if they were true. Was a skinned seal weeping tears of blood beneath the ocean floor, tended to by its mourning brethren? It was a dirty business, this wizardry, and I didn't think of it further. Not right for a man of my sort. There was something off about it, like the smell of three-day-rotten fish. Not exactly inconspicuous. But there was no place on seaboard for a man cursed to be ill when he so much as looked over the bridge onto a small stream, never mind that he'd stood husband to the sea for most of his life. And such was my situation, so I had no choice but to seek other employment.
Paroled to Space: An inmate is given a second chance, but is he only in another prison?"
Tags: alien science fiction, high potential, science fiction
The twist of muscle against his skin thrust upward with his arms as he raised the heavy weights. Had to keep with the weights. in his imprisonment, it was the only thing that kept him going. Just like jail. Sometimes he woke up disoriented and thought he was back in the slammer, but no. Not in jail. He'd volunteered and got out, just like they'd promised. They hadn't told him he'd be going right back into another jail.
He didn't mind. No other inmates to hassle him, although he missed the conversation sometimes, until they came back. They'd let him have his weights. He hadn't even asked for them. They'd just showed up in his cell one morning. No. Not a cell. They'd just showed up in his guest room one morning.
It wasn't like he hadn't been warned. There had to be a reason why they'd pick a con out of prison and send him on a mission this important.
Ghost Children: Why do the adults pretend the ghosts don't exist?
Tags: fantasy, ghost story, high potential, magic realism
The old house up on the hill was haunted, Eric was sure. He knew the truth. Mrs. Carson might claim that there were no such things as haunts, but he knew better. All the kids did. They'd all seen Roger Moor when he came back after drowning, sitting there in class with weeds in his hair and leaving a trail of old brown water behind him, even if the teacher had insisted that he wasn't there. They hadn't screamed after that, when the other dead kids showed up. They usually didn't stay long. Rupert with his purple face, Emily with the bruises all up and down her body where it showed through holes in her nightgown, Richard with the bite marks deep in the arms, and pretty Julie who looked like she was alive--but she really, really wasn't. Julie had fooled the teacher, too, at first. Eric saw Mrs. Carson smile at her when Julie came into the room. It took her a moment to realize that Julie was already dead.
[Poll #515359]
Hotel Visitor: Think of him as the hotel cleaner...who takes care of the really unpleasant guests.
Tags: ass-kicking, fantasy, high potential, urban fantasy
He moved leeward against the rain as it drove stinging drops of near ice into his face, despite the brim of his hat. He would far rather be indoors and out of this mess, savoring a hot cup of tea and reading one of the new books he'd bought, but he had his duties. He nodded his head to the doorman of the hotel when he reached it. The man recognized him; he'd come here before. The doorman's face whitened slightly, but no rich patron would have noticed the hesitation in his hand when he opened the door for the man. He walked into the lobby of the hotel. A few business travelers glanced up, dismissed him as not being one of their own, and returned to their perusal of the Wall Street Journal. He smiled to himself. If they knew what he really was, they would have run screaming in terror out of the hotel.
Inspiration: "leeward"
Story Potential: High...if only I knew what happened inside the hotel.
Finished Length: Short story.
Notes: The main character is clearly an Ultimate Badass TM. Sort of a dark urban fantasy setting. There's something very bad and paranormal inside the hotel that this man has to deal with.
Marriage in Vegas: In a post-apocalyptic world, getting married in Vegas--getting into Vegas at all--has become slightly more difficult.
Tags: ass-kicking, dystopic, high potential, humor, post-apocalyptic, science fiction
The bright neon lights of Vegas shone ahead of them. All that stood in the way was a deserted field filled with rusted automobiles and the barbed wire fence that surrounded it. The skulls of those who hadn't made it were mounted on rusted antennas, mute warning of the dangers inside. Beyond the junkyard, Vegas glowed. Electricity was there. And water. And money. And food. And beautiful women. All they had to do was get through the junkyard that surrounded a ten-mile radius around Vegas.
"Hon," he said, "do you really think this is worth it to be married by Elvis?"
"Sure," she said, smiling up at him, that half-tilted smile with one chipped tooth that had drawn him to her in the first place, when he saw her smile that smile at the bartender who had just suggested she pay her bill with something other than good cash.
He'd waited until the blood and alcohol had stopped dripping from the ceiling, then walked over and introduced himself.
Inspiration: Loosely inspired by a story told by chad_valentine of his and opheliac_9's honeymoon trip to Vegas.
Story Potential: High!
Finished Length: Short story could be awesome! I don't know if I have the stamina for a crazy book in this style.
Notes: Half-post-apocalyptica! Half-parody! ALL KICK ASS! Those crazy kids. No, really. Stone-cold crazy. Just can't lose the sense of humor.
A Runaway and Her Dead Cyber-Dog: Who killed the runaway's dog? Why? And how can she escape her doom?
The raindrops slid down her blood-slicked cheeks as she huddled against the cement wall. She tilted her head to the sky, hoping in vain that it would wash away the blood and leave her clean. All it did was sting when the acid rain got in her eyes. The body at her feet lay motionless, as trails of blood were washed from it into the gutter. Poor Bozo. He'd been faithful to her for so long, right from the time she was a little girl. Not that she was much older now. Before she'd had to run away, she would have claimed to be grown up. Two weeks on the street had cured her of that notion. Bozo had saved her many times in that two weeks. His eyes had analyzed the food scraps she dug out of the dumpsterbot, and he'd growled softly to warn her whenever the food was spoiled.
Inspiration: "Father Don't Cry (Extended)" by Doubting Thomas. The opening sounds a bit like synthesized rain drops. I've been listening to Doubting Thomas a lot this week.
Story Potential: High.
Finished Length: ? No, really, I should just remove this question.
Notes: I seem to be in a sci-fi mood lately, though after the first sentence I thought it would be horror. Nope. Definitely sci-fi. Former rich girl flees home for reason unspecified with only her pet cyber guard-dog. Oooo! Inspiration just struck. Falada, Falada? Sci-fi retelling of "The Goose Girl?" Could be fun, but why not go for something totally original, if there is such a thing? So what happened to poor Bozo? I'm amused that my notes seem to be more questions to remind myself to answer.
Robot Junk Shop: Robots are obsolete. Until one day, when the contents of an old junk shop become important once more
Posted on 2005.05.31 at 10:50
Tags: high potential, science fiction, steampunk
The clockwork pendulum of the amber cat's tail swung back and forth with the minute hand of the grandfather clock. The tail was getting a little scruffy now, the clockman thought, as he readjusted the time. When the cat was new, its tail had bristled in glory, but now it was a faded moth-eaten thing. The cat stared out the window, perpetually facing the city street, its eyes forever squinting against the sunlight of the day it had died. On the window seat beside the cat, a metal head stared back into the room, its eyes wide and unblinking. The clockman shook his head at it. 'Twarn't natural to fiddle around with robots. Not these days. Why anybody would think they still needed to, he didn't understand.
Inspiration: I wanted to do something a little more science-fiction-y.
Story Potential: High.
Finished Length: Short story. Could be novel, I suppose, if it was stretched. Really, I should just get rid of this portion of my notes, because I'm generally so wrong when I estimate this.
Notes: Science fiction, a little steampunky, a future where robots are considered old technology. Essentially, this is a junk shop. But one day, it becomes important again. Why? How? What can these robots do that whatever has replaced them cannot?
Lizards Dance in the Dreamtime: An Aboriginal Fairy Tale
Tags: fairy tale, fantasy, high potential
The lizards dance in the dreamtime. They do not dance in the real world, but by their head-bobs, the quick flick of the tongue, one can tell they dance in the dreamtime. And they remember that they can dance. Their quick movements, the scuttle of feet from rock to sand... they remember when they could dance. She did not dance in the dreamtime. She refused the very idea of the dreamtime, did little Redhand. And so, she did not move like a lizard, although she was of the lizard clan. She got the most stubborn look on her face whenever other people mentioned dreamtime, in denial of all that it could be and all that it could mean. She loved lizards, though.
Inspiration: I was thinking of dreams, but really, no inspiration.
Story Potential: High.
Finished Length: Short story.
Notes: Fairytale structure. Some research on aboriginal culture necessary.
Tinkerbell Brawl: Tink--a cute little thing who starts a fight in the wrong place
Tags: fantasy, high potential, urban fantasy
Tinker-fucking-bell, Marty thought, burying his face in his hands as he leaned against the bar. Sure. He had to walk into the only bar in the world with her in it. Sure, it was a five- minute flight from their apartment, and he knew Tink loved getting drunk whenever things went wrong, but if he 'd been forced to, he would have guessed that she'd been banned from the premises already. Oh, not that the bar owner had a thing against the faerie people...but most bar owners had a thing against Tink as soon as they figured out what she did in bars. She would bob in through the door, all glowing light, bright smile, and perfect tiny proportions. Then she would drink a thimbleful of whiskey. Sure, one shot and she was drunk. Not a barman's best customer, but hey! At least she wasn't any trouble, right? Wrong. Marty had seen her go on rampages before, but this one looked like it would be a doozy.
Inspiration: Spinning seedpods outside my window => faeries => tinkerbell
Story Potential: High
Finished Length: Long short story/novel
Notes: Tink can change sizes. Tink gets in fights. Tink gets into a fight in this bar and either a) something goes wrong and somebody ends up dead, or b) somebody drops something critical and flees. Marty and Tink don't have that kind of relationship, either. But they're in the investigation business, somehow, after a fashion. Oh, and this is totally altered modern-day urban fantasy.
Not That Kind of Party: So Why's The Alien Having Women in Your Room Again?
Tags: alien science fiction, high potential, science fiction
[I freewrote and then the computer crashed. So I lost it. But I still wrote it, and I think it had potential, so I'm recording it here as best I can remember the outlines] Scenario: J'george stands in front of his apartment arguing with his landlord, who thinks that whatever is going on in there lowers "the tone of the place" (the place being a very skeezy tenement apartment building). Inside the apartment, some being referred to as 'it' has invited ladies...J'george insists that they are real ladies, and that it's not that kind of party. The landlord says that it isn't that kind of place and points to a titty bar advertising "All women, all human" across the street.
Inspiration: kaleidogirl commented something about hookers to one of my posts, and I responded, "It's not that kind of party!"
Story Potential: High.
Finished Length: Short story, but what do I know? All my novels have started as short stories.
Notes: This could be rather nifty, and it's all in what's implied in the exercise.
Spaceman Stickup: You'd think the guy'd never held up a convenience store before.
Tags: high potential, humor, science fiction
I was just sitting behind the counter, me, minding my own business, listening to the radio and flipping through the nudie pics, when this guy just comes in and tries to stick me up. 'Cept, the funny thing is, he don't know how! I been stuck up...lemme see...must be three times since I got this job? Mostly, once they figure out that I'm cool, they're cool. They get their money, I don't get shot, and it's all good. This guy, though, he didn't have the first damn clue. I mean, really! Dude didn't even a have a proper gun, y'know what I'm sayin'? He had this toy thing, like you'd get from Wal-Mart. It made beeping noises, and it was bright green and pink. Beeping noises. I swear, man, I ain't shittin' you. You think I could make this shit up?
Inspiration: None. I just had a brief image of a guy sitting behind a counter the second before I started writing.
Story Potential: High.
Finished Length: Short story.
Notes: I like this a lot. I like the slang, I like the feel of it.... I don't know why the gas station was held up, but I bet I could figure it out. Maybe I will.
Bomb Shelter: And then there was silence
Tags: genre undetermined, high potential
It was never silent in the bomb shelter. Even when he huddled in a corner with his hands over his ears, it was never silent. That bothered him the most: more than the other kids who tried to start fights, more than his mama crying, more than when they had to stay down for longer than they'd planned and ran out of food. More than anything else he just wanted silence. But when it wasn't a baby crying, it was the hushed murmurs of people trying to distract themselves from their own death. The airplanes flew overhead and their rumble penetrated through the thick cement that shielded the shelter, even if their bombs didn't. It was never quiet. So when he woke to silence, at first he thought that the bombs had made it through after all, and everyone was dead.
Inspiration: I read a line in a book earlier that mentioned looking up women's skirts in a bomb shelter, and as I put my fingers on the keyboard, a plane flew by overhead.
Story Potential: High.
Finished Length: Short story...novel...any length but flash fiction. Hell, it could be a trilogy for all I know.
Notes: There's something about this twitches my imagination. I don't know what. Midway through, I thought I'd end with a scream as a dead body was found, but no.... This story could go anywhere: mainstream, fantasy, horror, mystery.... Simply because of the age of the boy, I don't think it would turn into a romance, but that's possible too. I guess it couldn't be a Western (oh,yeah? says a little part of my mind). I don't know what happens next, and I kind of want to. Uh-oh. I've felt this before. Must...resist.... I haven't even written much, but the character's alive inside my head. I know about his mother's tweed dress and his stamp collection and the photograph with the shattered frame.
The Swing's Sighing Song: A Mountain Tale of Love and Tragedy
Tags: flash fiction, high potential, non-genre
Her swing was swinging in the sweet, sweet sighing of the sycamore boughs when he came a'calling on her papa. Her swing it swung and sung and sighed like lovebirds do in their cages. And she sighed when his shadow fell twixt the shadows oft the branches. And her heart sang when his hand raised her chin to look at him full on. 'Twas only then she saw the long mean rifle gun a-hangin' by his side. Gone huntin'? she asked, hoping with all her heart he'd smile that easy smile and say, sure thing, honey. But his face was still all solemn as a preacher saying prayers, and she felt a slide of something along her cheek that might'a been a tear.
Inspiration: I wanted to try and shift my third-person voice a little, and I just had an image of a long-haired mountain girl on a swing while tree branches swayed above her.
Story Potential: High.
Finished Length: Flash fiction.
Notes: Think of old ghost stories or ballads and the patterns they set up. The Highwayman et al. Also? The title sucks.
Fall of the Cherry Blossoms: On the terraformed world, everything happened according to plan until the cherry blossoms fell untimely early
Tags: high potential, science fiction
The cherry blossoms were brilliant patches of white against the purple sky. Lady Miyamoto looked up at them and pondered the beauty of their flowering. Twice a year, they bloomed, and all the court came out to remember their exquisite past. The cherry blossom season was a time for remembering, a brief week's break from the onerous demands of court and politicking. All factions gathered together to watch the cherry blossoms. It reminded them all of whence they came, though the sky be purple instead of blue, and the goldfish that swam in the pond had scales of an iridescent red with swirls of green. A side effect of the metals in the earth, their court philosophers said. The people had been engineered to absorb and process them without such problems but alas, nobody had thought of the goldfish. It was a sad thought. Yet they were beautiful, still, in their way, as they swam through their ponds and under the stone bridges, past the statues of the ancestors. She looked up at the cherry blossoms and so it was that she saw the blossoms fall to untimely death.
Inspiration: The crabapple trees were blossoming today.
Story Potential: Very high. Interesting set-up options...I like where this could go.
Finished Length: Short story, though it could be expanded to book length. Let's not and say we did.
Notes: Medieval Japanese culture (in many ways) transferred off-planet and given, of course, a sci-fi future of technology. "Court philosophers" are the scientists. You know, I actually do really like this idea. It would require a lot of research, though. Heck, I'm not even sure what color cherry blossoms are.
Crystal Shop Murder: The crystals were supposed to promote healing energies, but they were stained with blood.
Tags: high potential, mystery, urban fantasy
The chimes sang their crystal song of greeting as she pushed open the door to her shop, sliding the heavy wrought-iron key back into her pocket. A smile lit her face. She looked up at the crystals hanging from the ceiling: wind chimes, good-wishing crystals, and birth crystals. Whenever she entered her store, she felt her spirit lighten. She had made the right decision those three years ago when she quit her job as a high-price corporate lawyer to open a small, new age shop. Her colleagues had had a collective fit of apoplexy when she'd told them. She would advise them to get some crystals to help calm their nerves, but she doubted they had listened to her. She looked up at the swaying crystals and saw the way the morning sunlight glowed through them, bringing out their hues of pale pink, purple, blue, green, dark brown-red.... she frowned. There hadn't been a red crystal hanging there yesterday morning, she was sure. She took another step into the center of her shop, letting her purse slide down her shoulder to strike the floor, and squinted up. It wasn't a red crystal. It had been clear, yesterday...but a splatter of dark brownish red marred the crystalline surface. Now that she looked, she saw other splatters among her forest of light. Her hand flew to her mouth.
Inspiration: The sound of chimes in the music I was listening to.
Story Potential: High.
Finished Length: Long short story or novel (blech!).
Notes: Genre-wise, this has the potential to be skewed to either straight mystery or semi-occult/magic realism-type mystery. Either way, there's a body in her shop, and it somehow ties in to her old career as a lawyer.
Sea Dog Soul: An old sailor finds out that there are, after all, some things that cannot be tolerated.
Tags: adventure, fantasy, high potential
The sea leather that bound the book felt warm in my hands, as if it were still attached to the seal it had come from...and that seal's heart beat, its blood flowed. An old sea dog like me had heard tales, and I wondered if they were true. Was a skinned seal weeping tears of blood beneath the ocean floor, tended to by its mourning brethren? It was a dirty business, this wizardry, and I didn't think of it further. Not right for a man of my sort. There was something off about it, like the smell of three-day-rotten fish. Not exactly inconspicuous. But there was no place on seaboard for a man cursed to be ill when he so much as looked over the bridge onto a small stream, never mind that he'd stood husband to the sea for most of his life. And such was my situation, so I had no choice but to seek other employment.
Paroled to Space: An inmate is given a second chance, but is he only in another prison?"
Tags: alien science fiction, high potential, science fiction
The twist of muscle against his skin thrust upward with his arms as he raised the heavy weights. Had to keep with the weights. in his imprisonment, it was the only thing that kept him going. Just like jail. Sometimes he woke up disoriented and thought he was back in the slammer, but no. Not in jail. He'd volunteered and got out, just like they'd promised. They hadn't told him he'd be going right back into another jail.
He didn't mind. No other inmates to hassle him, although he missed the conversation sometimes, until they came back. They'd let him have his weights. He hadn't even asked for them. They'd just showed up in his cell one morning. No. Not a cell. They'd just showed up in his guest room one morning.
It wasn't like he hadn't been warned. There had to be a reason why they'd pick a con out of prison and send him on a mission this important.
Ghost Children: Why do the adults pretend the ghosts don't exist?
Tags: fantasy, ghost story, high potential, magic realism
The old house up on the hill was haunted, Eric was sure. He knew the truth. Mrs. Carson might claim that there were no such things as haunts, but he knew better. All the kids did. They'd all seen Roger Moor when he came back after drowning, sitting there in class with weeds in his hair and leaving a trail of old brown water behind him, even if the teacher had insisted that he wasn't there. They hadn't screamed after that, when the other dead kids showed up. They usually didn't stay long. Rupert with his purple face, Emily with the bruises all up and down her body where it showed through holes in her nightgown, Richard with the bite marks deep in the arms, and pretty Julie who looked like she was alive--but she really, really wasn't. Julie had fooled the teacher, too, at first. Eric saw Mrs. Carson smile at her when Julie came into the room. It took her a moment to realize that Julie was already dead.
[Poll #515359]