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Piles of innocence, rearranged. The caption made him shudder before he even saw the photograph, though he wasn't quite sure why. Fear of serial killers? Fear of modern art? He rather thought that the latter was more terrifying to him on a personal level. And so--braced for dead babies or artistically arranged rubbish--it took him a while to understand what he was looking at in the photograph. First reaction: relief that there was no blood, no body parts, no death. Second reaction: confusion. Maybe it was art, but if so, it spoke to him in a way that modern art didn't usually. There were a few things that he remembered from his own childhood: a magnifying glass (perfect for frying ants with!), a pair of his mother's underwear (and how had they gotten those). Some things he didn't remember at all. Some things he vaguely remembered seeing one of the other kids playing with. But it was *his* childhood there, *his*!


Inspiration: Misreading and grouping together a couple of subject lines in my email inbox.
Story Potential: High.
Notes: I think this could be a very good story, rather Bradburian, but I don't think it's so much my type of story. And it would be a lot of work to get it shaped right. There is also the grimdark in here, since innocent children are monsters, but there is shiny in the grimdark.
The stones gleamed a golden beauty beneath the rain from the downspout that polished the ordinary dull rocks to shining jewels. The water ran over her fingers, reflecting the sun that shone through the clouds. The storm light made the leaves bright green and the pebbles precious jewels, it made the air heavy and fragrant with promised fertility and possible death. The sunlight shone green, tornado-green, though the clouds were only light. Cars drove past on the street, heading home as soon as possible. On the edges of town, wind blew through the wheat fields.


Inspiration: "Zen In The Art of Writing." I don't think this approach to memory-mining works for me. Maybe I need to do the linked word-groups thing. Very odd, but seems like an approach worth attempting. So--ah, yes. I loved storm weather as a little girl, and my favorite thing was to be out in it, staring out how it transformed ordinary pebbles. Well, not strictly ordinary. My mother collected granite and quartz and other interesting-looking rocks, possibly as part of the same thing that made her interested in gravestones.
Story Potential: High.
Notes: Maybe high potential? Storms transforming nature/beauty. There's something there. But I'm also looking harder for something because of the source. Hrm. I mean, really, there's something in anything.
Death's mum had made him a sweater. It was fuzzy. It was a shade of peach that she probably thought was quite masculine, it was fuzzy, and it was a sweater. It looked very comfortable and warm and the sort of thing one would wear to be hugged. Death sighed. He'd tried explaining, "But, Mum, I'm Death!" before, but it never worked. He might be Death, but she was still his mum, and he looked cold as, well, cold as Death Himself, when he went out on his rounds. He might be Death, but he was also Sam Frampton, and his mum didn't want to see her Sammy get cold. Such frightful places he ended up--

Inspiration:

Potential: Actually, high perhaps.
Notes: It's an interesting character, at least, which is not necessarily the same as an interesting story. But this is definitely a character that could be in an interesting story!

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penthius

January 2025

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