When the sun set, the city rose up. When we were kids, our moms would take us out to the pier to watch the city rise up. They would tell us all sorts of tales about what the city was, whether it was magical or terrible or both, but all the tales would end with the same moral: don't go there. Even the good stories, the ones about enchantments and magic and fairy princesses, emphasized the sadness and the way that nobody who ever went there ever left. Some of the stories said it was because the visitors ate or drank something, but when I was a little older and started reading the books in the library, I stumbled across an old book of fairy tales and there it was. Does that mean the city was made by real fairies, or just that the idea of somebody being trapped by their own appetite was derived from those old stories? Could be either, I guess. At any rate, I never was one of the kids who dreamed of the city, who imagined going there and returning rich and famous and with all the girls smiling at them because they had done what nobody else does. Every year a kid or two leaves to "go to the city." They never come back. Truth, I suspect a handful of the disappearances of kids or adults isn’t because of the city at all, but it's easier to point a finger at that mysterious thing that rises up at sunset every winter night and say, "They did it," then it is to suspect someone else of murder or worse, or to think that your husband or wife or child simply left to go somewhere more mundane. Then one winter, it was my sister's middle child who disappeared.


Inspiration: Photo of a city along the shoreline that is almost invisible in the twilight. http://www.flickr.com/photos/pitgreenwood/12083163145/
Story potential: High.
Notes: Not sure what the city is, but it isn't what's expected. And by the same token, this protagonist isn't what the city would expect.

"And what does he do? Or is he another of those who won't be specific about his job?"

"No, he will be very specific--much more specific than you want. Believe me, you do not want to know."

"Why--does he steal children?" he joked.

"No," the man in question said jovially, "only young women over 18."


Inspiration: I was cooking, and this conversation unrolled in my head, so I wrote it down on the back of a printed bus schedule.
Story Potential: High? Medium-high?
Notes: Russia, fairyland, female trafficking, crap it's a book.

The work load was getting a little too much, she thought. So many dimensions, so much dusting of crystal balls and learning of new languages, so much reading of hearts desire and granting a twisted version--she wasn't getting old, precisely (one didn't, in the Shop), but she was beginning to feel stretched. She needed an assistant. So she began to keep a careful eye on the customers who entered her shop (for of course she could never leave), and especially on their children. It took her some time to find one she thought would serve, but as soon as she did she implemented her plan to kidnap him. First, she read the parent's true desire: to be rich and famous and to leave this small town.

Inspiration: Let's just say I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed with work today.
Potential: Medium.
Notes: And--I'm not sure where the story would go from here that wouldn't be hackneyed. Though I like the idea of kidnapping an assistant!

The edges were sharp. Sharp were edges. The light diffuse. She could not see. It was around the corner, but there was no corner. Sometimes she thought there was a corner. Corner she saw in the distance, but no. It was always a wall. She wished for the police, but the law couldn't help her. She could find no help. Her cell phone didn't work. She expected her captor to appear to crow over her. Here she was alone. The pilot of the Enola Gay wouldn't have been so isolated. It was a cube.

Inspiration: structure
Story Potential: Low.
Notes: The movie did it way better. Also, playing around with cubing and reversing is not a game to try playing while doing a freewriting no-pauses exercise.