Hickory dickory dock, the mice ran up the clock. The clock strikes 10, the mice run down again, hickory dickory dock. Hickory dickory dock, the mice run into the maze. The clock strikes eleven, the mice are even, hickory dickory dock. Hickory dickory dock, the mice unlock the box. The clock strikes twelve, and no body needs to rhyme ever again, because nobody's going to tell their kids what happened after I got out of the box. Even parents who tell the original version with the mice getting their tails chopped off and the wicked stepmother being pushed into the barrel lined with nails--even those parents aren't going to tell the--


Inspiration: The ticking timer. Always the timer.
Story Potential: Low.
Notes: This is low potential, I suppose, because there's no super-original story there. I *love* this as the opening for something, though.

Escape was rumored to be impossible. Looking around her at the heavy ranks of guards and the thick stone walls, she could believe it. She shivered. It was a good thing that her plan didn't require escape--just a little creative cell-swapping. All she needed was to be replaced by one of the other horribly ill inmates who'd been here a very long time and were just about ready to die. They would probably not mind her proposed fate, which she objected to quite vehemently. There was only one time when the swap could even take place. As part of their "humane treatment" of the prisoners, there was a designated half-hour of exercise in which all the prisoners were shuffled into a small courtyard with very, very high walls. If you craned your neck, you could see a narrow square of sky high above. It was--

Inspiration: "Escape From Meridell Castle"
Story Potential: Low.
Notes: Boo-riing.