Stanley slapped the last tire into place and began heaving mud over the sides to coat it. Muri was going to love it when she saw it, he was sure. He'd taken old bottles, the nice blue ones and green ones, and put them in the walls to let light shine in, pretty colored light just like in fancy churches, and he'd built a nice big hearth for her to cook over, and he'd put in two other rooms, a private bedroom--well, it would be private as soon as he could find a nice piece of cloth to hang for the door--and another room that he figured would set any woman dreaming of a nursery. And he'd love a nursery in his home with Muri. She might think that Hassan would be a better husband, since he had a guard job one night a week at the factory, but Stanley planned to show her that he could make something really nice for her, nicer than Hassan had, in his tin-roof shack with the rusted out holes where the rain came through, in the shantytown. Stanley had a patch of farmland granted by the chief of the village to his father's father--


Inspiration: Trying to find a different cultural referent.
Story potential: Low.
Notes: Named Stanley because his mother had ambitions.

She cried, "More!" and they ran and brought her more food. She ate, and she swelled, and still she cried, "More!" They fed her all the cassava and all the manioc and sweet potatoes that were still too small to harvest and she still screamed, "More!" They pulled down all the coconuts and tossed them to her whole, watching her devour them without even cracking the shells. And still she swelled and grew, demanding "More!" Her sister bit her lip, watching, trying to think how to make this stop before her sister swelled so large that nobody could stop her, before the village ran out of food entirely--

Inspiration: "Rebel Yell" - Billy Idol
Story Potential: High--but only if I figure out the twist that makes this an awesome little flash story.
Notes: I don't even know if those food plants all grow together naturally....

She became a shaman by accident. Plane accident, to be specific. The plane came hurtling out of the sky like a bolt of god's wrath, and she was huddled up swearing and crying in the tail of the plane like everybody else. The difference was that when the plane crashed, she was the only one able to unfasten her seatbelt and climb out. She knew--or thought she knew--that planes could explode at any moment. But you weren't supposed to move wounded, because they might have internal injuries. So she stumbled away on her own into the jungle, never mind her high heels and entirely unsuitable skirt. Well--she'd expected an uneventful plane ride and a romantic reunion, so she'd--

Inspiration: How to Survive When Lost in the Jungle - eat only foods that you can peel or cook, and avoid brightly colored plants or those that ooze milky sap.
Story Potential: Medium.
Notes: So she eats something she shouldn't. Etc etc. This story has overtones of a colonial mindset that I don't like.

When it opened up next door, she couldn't believe her eyes. It was the perfect candy store. There were mountains of candied figs, piles of candied yams, high blocks of pure cane sugar condensed into hard brown blocks that you had to scrape a little of the outside sugar off before you could use them, and the spun sugar twists made by the old women with no grandbabies to look after. There were bowls of dried fruit, and there were even spices in dusty jars. She scuffed her sandals through the dust as she pressed her face up against the glass. There was no way her Mama would ever let her have so much as two pennies to spend in a store like that; so much waste, her Mama would say, so much waste when you need--

Inspiration: Checking out a new neighborhood "candy store".
Story Potential: Low.
Notes: Huh. Wasn't expecting it to take an African twist, but so it did.

She squatted beside the St. Thomas tree, one finger drawing designs in the dust as she squinted at the workmen raising up the heavy concrete blocks for the new mission. Her finger swayed and danced, leaving eloquent lines that sprawled a history of the future across the hard-packed dirt, there for anyone to read that looked. After her hand slowed and came back to her side, she finally looked down at the pattern drawn. Her eyebrows rose. The future was not what she had feared it to be, but if it would be what she hoped for she would need to do more than simply step aside. She sighed and stood, stamping her feet to let the long skirt settle around her ankles. She smacked her hands together to send dust spinning out into the air. At her feet, the lines that had drawn themselves--

Inspiration: "St. Thomas tree"
Story Potential: High.
Notes: This theme of magic or divination being done by drawing patterns in the dust keeps coming back to me. And this is another African-influenced one, which is kind of nice. I should write those more. I'm hesitant about writing something involving the interaction of Christian faith and magic--it's a bit of a touchy subject.

The doll was made of mud, with two betel nuts for its eyes and shiny cowry shells for its teeth. It blinked mud-covered lids like the tops of clay pots over the bright shining betel nuts, and she knew it had worked. She squatted beside the doll that was nearly as large as her, and she hoped it had worked well enough. Her feet dug into the clay of the riverbed. Beyond her, she heard the slow grumble of the hippopotami as they moved to their favored sleeping grounds. She took out the knife that she had stolen and cut a slash across her palm. She held her hand above the clay dolls' face. Blood ran down her wrist and dripped onto the dolls mud skin, where it was instantly absorbed. Dark rivulets ran over the white cowry shells.

Inspiration: Listening to some Wyclef, thinking of sorta-similar setting but not really...wound up in Africa.
Story Potential: High!
Finished Length: Short story.
Notes: There's lots of fairytales about changelings. I don't know of any African ones (and why is it that Europeans get fairy tales, but Africans get folk tales?), but that's the tone I want here. And instead of being stolen, the girl makes her own replacement. There could be all kinds of reasons why, but eventually she wants to reclaim herself from the clay doll, and it requires some significant work.