He wanted it to be a memorable sermon, one that would get the attention of the people who hadn't done more than run through a mental chore and grocery list in their mind during church for the last ten years. He figured that would require some props. And somewhere along the line, it became a pretty elaborate scheme involving a chicken suit, some sparkly red undergarments that were large enough to go over the chicken suit, and--well, suffice it to say that he ended up needing a truck to haul all his supplies to the church. Sure enough, as soon as he popped out wearing the chicken suit, he had everyone's undivided attention! The sermon went over pretty well, too, with everyone laughing in the right places and some people looking thoughtful for the first time that he'd seen them. He figured it was remotely possible that he might even be called back to preach at that church again, though you never know what the outcome's going to be when you wear lingerie on the outside while giving a sermon. He thought he might get some phone calls complaining, or maybe some phone calls complimenting his humorous approach. He didn't expect to get many phone calls talking about miracles and blessing him and--sure, maybe he'd always tried to believe that it was possible a single sermon could do so much, but he'd realistically settled down and hoped for the small change that matters most--the ability to change a sinner's heart and set them on the right path, or the ability to strengthen a believer in a time of trial.


Inspiration: Looking for Mondegreens in "Dragostea Din Tei" by O-zone -> Googling "razor sledding dancing" -> this: http://americandigest.org/mt-archives/american_studies/a_small_favor.php
Story potential: medium
Notes: And now he'll be stuck with his chicken suit, poor pastor.

If you feel the sun begin to burn, your time has come. Don't try to run. The sun god stretches everywhere, in time, and he will reach you if he has to scorch and entire village to get them to drag you out, or if he has to bake you alive in the hut you fled into. After you are dead, they will put your body on a platform in the desert to allow it to desiccate and feed the vultures, as is right and proper, and the sun god will eat your withered essence. If you do not run, he might not eat you. He might only kill you if you did something that caused the sun god's justice to be called down upon you. He might just give you a vision. He might drive you mad and make your brain boil with visions that will never end while you live, but which might serve others. He might make you a priest. I don't recommend walking into the desert with no water to seek the sun god. Many do, every year, but he tends to scorn sacrifices he did not want. Some few become priests, but once they do, they realize the sun would have shone on them no matter where they were.


Inspiration: "Narayan" - The Prodigy
Story potential: Low.
Notes: Eh. Setting.

His face was black as the night on a stormy sea, and his eyes were the shining moons that sent sailors back safely. His voice held echoes of sirens' calls, and his hair was dreaded with tangles of seaweed ad shells. His skin was dry, and his feet were cracked as if he'd walked across the desert to reach them, despite them being in the middle of the sea. "Go back," he told them, standing on their deck, not swaying with the motion of the ship but somehow making the ship still around him. "Go back. I am the first guard, and these are people you should not visit." They didn't listen, though they crossed themselves without shame--he was not a Nubian, as they'd thought from a distance--no human had skin that black.

Inspiration: "Under African Skies" by Paul Simon.
Story Potential: Medium.
Notes: Just doesn't speak to me.

There's plenty of room for you and me, especially now that I've drunk down the sea, the god confided to me. Then he burped. I looked over the edge of the pier. Where formerly there had been a thick sea, now there was a crab or six clawing their heads in bewilderment and staring around them with goggle eyes that looked much like I imagined mine were. I'd stuck with this guy because he seemed like great fun, bought several rounds of drinks, and had somehow conjured up a bevy of the most beautiful and friendly women I'd ever met. But this whole drinking the sea thing had me worried. There weren't fish flopping around and dying, like I'd have thought, but there were several guys on yachts out in the middle of the new desert, hollering their lungs out. This could get unpleasant if they guessed that I'd somehow had anything to do--

Inspiration: "Big Strong Man" by Carbon Leaf
Story Potential: Low.
Notes: Eh. Hijinks with a god! Woo!

Pandora opened the box, as she'd been told. It was on orders. He'd handed it to her, explained exactly what was inside, and said that it was god's will that she open this box. Then he'd warned her that she was going to be a fable until the end of time, and example of what happened when one went snooping and disobeyed orders. She'd listened in that weird half-formed self that was what existed before existence, and she'd struggled to wonder why. She gave up the struggle, unused as she was to any resistance, newly formed from the plasma of the gods. She didn't question. She went down to earth, lived dully through her role, and finally opened the box. All the devils flew out, and she stood dumbly in front of them as they paraded themselves before her eyes. Part--

Inspiration: Opening up Pandora to start getting my music.
Story Potential: Low.
Notes: And with self-awareness comes irritation, scapegoat through the centuries, blech. Boring.

Your mission for this year is to worship Odin. He stared at the fortune cookie in his hand, his eyebrows raised. Well, that was a new one to him. Usually they just told him his lucky numbers, or said he'd meet a handsome stranger (that one had turned out to be his boss). They weren't prone to delivering marching orders. Of course, a long time ago he'd started following or searching out the ways that fortune cookies told him. It started when he was maybe 22, just out of college, and a fortune cookie had told him that the sky would empty over his head. He'd happened to lookup at just the right time to see a window-washer spill his bucket fifteen stories above. A quick sprint into the doorway of the building had kept his new interview suit from being ruined.

Inspiration: cvalenti talking about worshiping Odin, myself looking at a cleaning mission, and remembering gunn being unhappy with a fortune that gave her a direct order.
Story Potential: High.
Notes: Neat. Super-neat. Nifty, maybe-a-novel-length good idea neat. My main concern with it is whether it would tread too close to territory owned by Terry Pratchett, Neil Gaimon, and Tim Powers. Of course, I'm a firm believer that there are no "too old" ideas, just tired writers.