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.

It just didn't feel like a holiday until the saints heads were hauled out and rested on their ceremonial spears. The ones with a little dried flesh still attached got dusted; the ones that were only bone got polished. Some extra padding was required to keep the skulls in place, of course, but a little of the green sponge kept for flower-arranging did the trick. One winter, her mother had used the green sponge to arrange flowers *in* the skulls, but that had generally been viewed as a lapse of good taste not to be repeated. One shouldn't mess with tradition. And so, just as the skulls were neatly arranged and the boughs of holly hung, the messengers were sent out in search of new saints. They hadn't found one in 10 years, of course, and the last one had been snatched up by the Gonnagles before their messenger even made it back to the hall.


Inspiration: Thinking of holiday decorations.
Story Potential: Low.
Notes: This is an entertaining bit, but the story doesn't have legs (just skulls).

He thought it was a lawn ornament. One of those shiny ones that he liked. He had a half-dozen of them in his back yard, stolen from neighbors who'd never know. But as soon as he touched it, a massive electrical shock zapped through him and he realized his mistake. Too late. He flopped to the ground and a bright light shone before his eyes, then he knew nothing. Until he woke up some 10,000 miles above the earth. "Wha--?" he muttered. The ovoid grey being rotated to face him. "Ah," it said, with a precise British accent--


Inspiration: My lawn ornaments were stolen.
Story Potential: Low.
Notes: Shitty. Nothing worthwhile is coming out of this. Fuckers.

It was the twelfth day of Christmas, and signs of stress were beginning to show. "How much longer do you think she'll need this?" she asked between gritted teeth.

The psych nanny in her skull answered, "A large number of days longer, I would guess.. This is something she feels she lacked after her parents died, and it represents all the happy things that she wanted and couldn't have."

"And how long do you think it will actually be necessary?"

"All that time. Though at a certain point, she will probably start becoming angry with the toys and the perceived hollowness. What she really wants is her parents, and there's no bringing them back for Christmas."


Inspiration: Writing down the date -- 12/01/2009. Twelve.
Story Potential: High, mostly because of the Christmas angle.
Notes: Or is there? Time to think about technology and science and psychology. Hrm--the ghost of families past? Spiritual experience brain centers? (Nah.) Dead stars movie technology? A little Katherine Hepburn with her mother? A little Cary Grant with her father?

Dinner was delayed. She scowled out into the blizzard going on outside the cabin. He was due back by now. He knew she' d made his favorite--a main course of gingerbread cookies, followed by a nice hot oatmeal and cinnamon soup, with only the most delicate of spun-sugar spires for desert, and hot mulled wine on the side. She wasn't worried about him, for his element was snow--but his element was *also* hot warm cottages with snow blowing out past the windows and a nice warm fire inside. Especially because cookies were involved. She tilted her head. What was missing? The stockings were hung on the chimney with care, the children were tucked away snug in their beds--and his glass of milk was still in the fridge.

Inspiration: Oh, thinking of Christmassy things.
Story Potential: Medium.
Notes: There's no actual story here, but it's somewhat charming, and a seasonal theme gives anything a boost in potential.

She did not like to share. Now. Not yet. It wasn't that she was selfish, but she saw the future and knew the end of her story, and she knew that it would require her to share far more than she wanted. So for now she huddled over her toys and her food and her love, trying to keep it all for herself until it came the time when she wouldn't be able to not share. She told her prophecies easily and for free, most of them--only the way of her death did she keep to herself. She was thoughtful about it, though. She didn't know exactly when it would happen, but she knew she'd be neither a child nor an old woman. She switched to eating only vegetables and was extremely careful with her health. They would find no worms between their teeth, no infections to spread to cuts in the fingers that would butcher her. It--

Inspiration: Thinking about Christmas, and what Christmas is really about. Sharing.
Story Potential: High.
Notes: Might be a flash story. I don't think it needs to be spun out far.

"Santa, bring my baby back to me," she prayed, kneeling in front of the fireplace with all the stockings hung just right. She knew it was blasphemy to pray to Santa, and the priests all said that it was God's will that had taken her baby from her, but she still felt the hollow ache in her arms, the weight that was no longer there. She would have prayed to anything that might bring her baby back. He had been taken from her one fine autumn day, when he was just closing his eyes to sleep. She'd leaned back against the tree, and--

Inspiration: "Santa Bring My Baby Back" by the Rev. Horton Heat
Story Potential: Medium? Except that seasonal stories are a good pitch, so....
Notes: Some fairytale tie-in? Or is it a horror story?

The tinsel-elf garland dangled from the corner of the fireplace mantel, hanging tantalizingly close to the flames. She frowned and waved an imperious hand. The tinsel-elf reluctantly scooted itself up higher, away from the flames that would dissolve its current form and free it to run out the door. "Did I say to burn yourself up?" she demanded. "No. You will stay as you are, in your current form, until after my guests are gone. You will shimmer slightly and shift positions to catch the light--not to catch on fire!" The tinsel garland slumped in depression. She hissed through her teeth. "Well, what can I expect from last-minute preparations?" she muttered to herself. She pivoted on her heel to survey the rest of the room. Transformed elves dangled--

Inspiration: Mistyping "tinself"
Story Potential: Low.
Notes: Eh. Mildly humorous fantasy story.