She liked the #vespers held in the park. She could actually attend the evening service because it wasn't held on church-guarded holy ground, but she could appreciate nature's peace. The darkness also made it easy to pick up a snack afterward.

Inspiration: vespers
Potential: low
Notes: Eh, it's a vampire thing. Although I like the whimsical nature of the character, this isn't particularly a story idea in itself. And she does appreciate nature and creation, still.

We have the saying, "Naked as a werewolf," for two reasons. One, people don't always have a choice in why they're #naked, so be kind to them. Two, you never know how dangerous a naked person is, so try not to get killed. #vss365 #prompt

Inspiration: #naked
Story potential: High.
Notes: Mostly I really like the voice of this one. I'm thinking this is a law enforcement person, or some kind of social worker.

Right here, right now, is all we got. I tell myself that because I hate the part that comes next. The flying, mostly. The being shot at is bad, too, but if they don't hit you you don't even notice it. If they do hit you, you're dead. The explosions take some getting used to, and I'm pretty sure I have some kind of PTSD, but I can still shove it down and ignore it. For now. No, it's really the flying. I must be the only superhero who, when they found out that they had an ace power, broke down and wept with terror. I hate heights, you see. It's why I learned how to backfly. People think I'm showing off, but it's really that I can't stand to look down. If I'm looking at the clouds, I can pretend I'm floating on the ocean.

Inspiration: An anthology call for superhero stories, looked up the art and it was all flying folks.
Story potential: High.
Notes: Eh. Could be interesting to have a whole team of conflicted superheroes who support each other and understand and etc., but one on it's own not as much. Actually, waitaminit, that makes it high potential. Yeah. I like it.

In what we eventually decided to call The Case of the Hollow Client, we didn't realize she was hollow at first when we took the case. Granted, I think that innate sexism that I've tried so hard to banish from my own thoughts reared its ugly purple head when she walked into the room and said, "I don't care if she seems funny or off-kilter or a little bit not-there, take a look at that body! Especially that bit. Those, too. And did you see the--oh, crap, she's looking at us." And so I was too busy trying to cover my own reaction, since one never wants to be quite the sexist pig that one's ex-wife told one one is, and I never noticed that she didn’t have the reaction to my reaction that a normal reactionary person would have. If you follow my drift. So I have only myself to blame for some of the weirdness and the sadness that we ended up in later. Of course, I also only have myself to blame for the parts of the thing that were incomparably grand and worth every penny that she'd promised to pay me and didn't.


Inspiration: Sherlock, "The Sign of the Three" - so don't use that case name!
Story potential: High.
Notes: I rather like the idea of an extremely self-aware protagonist who is, in fact, very sexist in his first impulses and very good at not actually acting that way. Most of the time. Could do the same gig with something else, I guess, but it might be a bit much to make him sexist AND racist AND etc.

Nobody wants to be alone. Everybody wants to love someone. Or at least, they want someone to love them. There is a perverse kind of comfort in pushing someone away who cares about you. That’s where I come in. I used to be an escort, one of the really high class kind that is only arrested as part of a massive sting, not the kind that gets rousted along the street corners. And I somehow fell into this weird little niche that doesn't require spreading my legs at all, only opening my eyes really wide, crying on cue, and generally being able to act a little stalkerish. It started when some guy hired me to show up to the restaurant where he was going on a second date with this other girl, so that I could make a scene. It worked for him. I thought it was a little sleazy, but what do I know? I got a thank-you card and a photo of them from their wedding only six months later.


Inspiration: "Androgyny" - Garbage
Story potential: Low
Notes: Not a story here, but it is an interesting character. Also, have it be a transition as an actress, not from a prostitute.

The jukebox was playing my tune when I walked into the bar, and that right there should have been enough to make me turn around and walk back out. But I like my tune. That's why it's my tune. It puts some extra swagger in my Levi's and some extra oomph in my smile. Least, that's what I judge from the way the barflies react when I walk in during my song. The rest of the time, I get about the same up-and-down as you'd see in a normal bar setting, followed by--well, followed by whatever their inclination is. Subtle smiles from the working girls who don't want to be too blatant, a little too much desperate hope in the eyes of the older women at the bar, and quick dismissal from the good-looking girls who really are just there for a drink and maybe a quick flirtation if the right handsome young guy walks in. I ain't him. But sometimes, when my tune's playing, I look like something a lot more interesting. Call it the blessing that my fairy godmother gave me in my cradle, or the curse that the wicked fairy laid on me. I have soundtracks. Not just for entering bars, either, though my job interview soundtrack hasn't helped me much except to distract whoever it is who can't figure out why the radio won't stop playing that long and somber song. That it's somber might tell you a little something about how my job history goes. I got a job doing long-haul work across the continental, and that's good enough for me. It does mean I walk into a lot of bars,though. Not much else to do when you're on the return with an empty load and no deadlines, or when you're waiting in a city for the load promised to show up in a week. You better not be wasting gas driving around, that's for sure! So usually it's visiting the bar that's near the hotel, or taking a bus into the downtown, if there is one. A bus or a downtown, that is.


Inspiration: Pit Stop (Take Me Home) - Lovage
Story potential: Medium
Notes: Eh.

"Due to the nature of the child's parents, it would seem to make only good sense that her custody is divided equally between the two parents, given what the medical professionals involved have explained regarding her...particular...needs. They assure me that with time it will become evident with which parent she should reside, but until that time, it is important to provide equal time, given various assurances of her safety regarding...manifestations of her nature...in either location." She sat there, trying to pretend that she didn't even know this family that the judge was talking about, but it was no good. On one side sat her earth-walking mother, wearing fancy high heels as fi to emphasize that she could, her skin tanned from the time she spent outdoors but her hair coiffed to such perfection that it made it clear most of that time was not spent in saltwater. On the other side sat her water-living dad, his hair a sun-bleached tangle that glinted now and then with a strand of pearls or precious metals tangled in it, his clothes the easily shed, waterproof kind, and a pitcher of water large enough for a meeting of twelve sitting in front of him--half-drunk. It would be seawater, too, she knew. She liked seawater well enough to drink, herself.


Inspiration: "Harbour Lecou" - Great Big Sea
Story potential: Medium
Notes: What happens when a merman and a human woman really, really don't love each other anymore.... I like the character of the daughter, though.

It didn’t matter how many of the others--the ones like they had been, once, and still were if you wanted to get technical about it--it didn't matter how many of them died. The wolves would tear them to pieces whether they were here or not, but somehow, she knew, her sanctioned presence made it matter, somehow, more than it would have if it were written off as the random violence that it might have otherwise been. It would have been a drug thing gone bad, either in overdose that drove people crazy or as some kind of violence that could be explained away. But she was here, she was of this world, and she saw the teeth that sank into the flesh of the dancers and worried it from their bones. The bodies hit the floor all around them. She watched, because that was what she was supposed to do, and because that was the one thing that kept her and Caleb alive. Caleb especially. It was her job to take care of her younger brother, and so she did. He huddled within her embrace, his face pressed against her chest and his eyes closed, wincing tat every squelch and scream and tearing rip that sounded like nothing else in the world. She watched, because she was the one who watched. At first, she'd been angry and jealous that Caleb got to hide and pretend that it wasn't happening. She was angry for his weakness.


Inspiration: "Let the Bodies Hit the Floor" - Drowning Pool and http://www.flickr.com/photos/theskylineview/8490684028/
Story potential: High
Notes: Maybe not a main character, but, I dunno, a side character if I ever write an urban fantasy/fae story where it seems to fit. And look at that awesome art!

143 Days to Christmas! The number ran ceaselessly through her head as she scanned the want ads.143 days to Christmas meant 120 days until she had a job that would come naturally to her, with her short height and chin-length hair, her pixie features and even the delicate curl of her (docked) ears. It hurt, at first, to clip the artificial points onto her ears and be reminded of what was lost, but now it was once again just a sign that her favorite (or at least easiest) time of year had come around again. The rest of the time, the job market was killer. Sometimes she could get a bit part in a TV show, but she knew well enough that she was no actor. She was pretty, but not model-pretty, and way too short. She was too short for almost all behind-the-counter jobs, and she didn't have the education to get jobs sitting behind a desk and tapping away on a computer. She kept meaning to save money from her Christmas jobs to put away for a little more education that would allow her to figure some of that sort of thing out, but it was such a relief to have any free money again that she found herself buying extravagant groceries and going out to dinner or seeing movies or getting a lovely dress that actually fit correctly instead. It was hard to live like she did the rest of the year, existing on $1.50/meal menus and living in the cheapest basement apartment that she could find, never buying new clothes, only used children's clothes from the second-hand stores, never buying new books or new art or handmade items--nothing that would make her soul sing. About the only thing that she could afford, she figured out, was to plant and grow things (highly unusual for a wintery creature such as she had been) and to fold origami artwork from discarded newspapers. Once she figured out how that worked, she loved it. She used natural dyes--by which she meant she used dyes that she could, made from her kitchen refuse or scrounged from her garden--and newspaper origami creations hung from her apartment ceiling and decorated the shelves and made long, festive garlands that crisscrossed above the furniture. She knew it would make her look insane to anybody who came inside, but--


Inspiration: http://www.flickr.com/photos/27357821@N00/9428560231/ - And yes, I was a bit startled by the extremely random nature of this Flickr photo, too.
Story potential: High.
Notes: I like this character, and it would be an interesting way to have a disabled character who is not less than she is supposed to be.

She sank down into the blue-green waters and thought, "This is worth it. Being able to live here, being able to do this whenever I want, it is worth all the inconvenience and the trouble and the stress of the job." She hadn't swum this particular coral reef before, but it was far off from the major visiting areas and so she had some hope that it would hold some of the more shy and hard-to-observe species. After all, she told herself, there was nothing wrong with having a hobby, and hers was stilling underwater species in their natural environment. She'd managed to sell a few of her stills off-world for a sum large enough to buy out one year from her contract. Still twenty-six years left, but that wasn't so bad. Lots of people did worse. She was careful never to buy from the company store any of the luxuries that could have easily added even more time to her sentence--contract, she correct herself. She would probably have to bite the bullet, so to speak, in about twenty years when it was rejuv or head for the threshold beyond which you were nonrenewable. She didn't like the idea, but it didn't come standard as part of the contract, and it wasn't the sort of thing that--


Inspiration: Google "carved box skin" -> image of two angel skin coral carved Asian women.
Story potential: Medium
Notes: Could be a story, doesn't demand to be. Oh, and I'm pretty sure she finds carvings underwater, grown over or whatever.