The bass beat summoned him up, reaching far down into the sewers where he hid from the day, bringing him back up. He hesitated, and then the fog of artificial smoke reached down its tantalizing tentacles and he felt it wrap around him into leather armor and clubbing boots and some really rad tattoos that--he tilted his head sideways and studied them curiously--said RAD DUDE 4NIC8! So rad was back in, and leetspeak had yet to die. He sighed, mock-sad, but the bass was vibrating his blood and his feet ached to be dancing and the sewers were quiet and calm because rats didn't throw parties and nobody got jazzed about sewer waste, but he wanted to be up and dancing, despite his choosing a lair as far away from the siren call as possible. Someone either opened a dance hall nearby, in which case he'd have to move, or they were hosting a rave or whatever they called it these days, in which case the police would find some unexplained deaths. He sighed, and felt it resonate in the air. He flexed, and felt space give way for him.


Inspiration: Random google of "gatecrasher" ended up with lyrics of "Gatecrasher" by Razor.
Story Potential: Medium.
Notes: Could be fun urban fantasy. And no, he's not a vampire, not precisely. Or an incubus, precisely. Maybe he's whatever a male siren would be.

They tangoed across the room with a dust rag in one hand and a mop in the other, pausing in the middle for a close embrace, and then moving on with the perfectly timed rhythms of professional dancers. They were professional dancers, of course, but not first and foremost. Nor were they cleaners first. No, what they had chosen to set above all other things in life was being able to live in space. Chronic lower back disc pain would have rendered her unable to dance...eventually, barely able to walk. In space, though there was some gravity in the residential quarters, she would get no worse. And she could still dance. And so they took whatever jobs they could--for he was a man loyal to the woman who had been his partner in dance since they were seventeen and his partner in romance for almost as long--and they danced in space.

Inspiration: "Swedish Wedding March"
Story Potential: Low? High? I am confused by this.
Notes: I love this image, but it's not a good story idea.

The suite began, the musicians shifting effortlessly from tuning up to playing the first waltz. The little figurines glided out from their recesses in the walls of the dance hall and moved through their paces like the clockwork that ran them. Their faces were pulled back in macabre grins of joy, their heads tilted at angles indicating wild abandon entirely unfamiliar to those who knew human anatomy, angles that would have been impossible if, one and all, their necks had not been snapped before the clockwork mechanisms were slid under their skins like morbid bones. There was only one living girl in the mix, and she was nearly dead of exhaustion and fear. If she could keep up, she could live. This--

Inspiration: "suite", as a musical term for a set of instrumental dances.
Story Potential: High? Low?
Notes: Yes, I've a macabre mind. I sort of like this as some sort of steampunk/dark fantasy/horror invention. She can live, but only if she can dance as much as the clockwork figures. And somehow, she does. How? Why? Through what intervention? And what does that do to her for the rest of her life?