She thought it was about the coolest thing ever that he rode his bike home after school. He always hitched a ride in tagging along behind the bus to be pulled along by its slipstream, or he drove up into his dad's hauler and his dad dropped him off, if he was about to go on a long-distance drive, but home he rode unapologetically alone. Most of the guys woulda used it as an excuse to get the pretty girls to talk to them or let them give rides to escort them home. Not him. He never asked, and they could hardly ask themselves! It was a perplexity to them, that he always rode alone.

Inspiration: Thinking about somebody saying something is the coolest thing ever.
Story Potential: Low. So low.
Notes: Migod, are those even words being strung together?

The net came down on his hand with all the force that a full bunch of fish could muster. He screamed, but it was lost in the swearing of the men above when one of them dropped his side of the net and the full torrent of fish poured out onto the deck beside the ship. He screamed again, as he felt the serrated scales of the fish slash open his hand as they poured past it, crushing it and opening up the flesh. In one painful moment, he went from visiting the docks in hopes of becoming a sailor, to being cursed to never sail again. It was all he'd done, all his family had done, but--

Inspiration: Talk about some sports figure who got his hand tangled in a net.
Story Potential: Low.
Notes: And he became very bitter until, late in life, some massive realization opened up his life and made it worthwhile again. The end. See ya on the bestseller list!

One more brushstroke, he thought, and the painting would be perfect. He glanced anxiously up at the print hanging on his wall. Yes, it was exactly the light color of that last brushstroke that made the great one's works stand out above the rest. Carefully, he dipped his brush into a shade of vivid pink just two tones brighter than the rest of the flower that he'd been painting and brushed it across the last petal, angling the brush to give the impression of a careless dash of light. He stood back. It still looked planned. He hadn't gotten it to be careless-looking enough. He'd failed yet again. His shoulders slumped and he set the brush aside.

Inspiration: 'epigone'
Story Potential: Low.
Notes: Might make an interesting side-note for an otherwise really impressive character, though.

She dug into the curry with her fingers, lifting strands of spinach and bamboo shoots to her lips. It was delicious sliding down, even though it was cold and had been sitting in the fridge for nearly a week. That was her safety margin: one week at the back of the fridge. One week and he wouldn't care if she ate it because he was going to throw it out soon anyway. So far, her system had worked; she hadn't been beaten for stealing food since she figured out the safety margin. Of course, she had gotten food poisoning once, but she hadn't died of it, so that was all right. Better than all right, actually--he'd gone so far as to take her to a doctor and she'd been able to stare at the city through the taxicab's windows.

Inspiration: I loves me some curry.
Story Potential: Medium.
Notes: Everything's in the bit.

The scent of lilacs drifted in through the open window, curled around the room, and settled beside Lila's pillow like a cat come home after a successful night's hunt. She rose in the lilac-scented dawn and drifted to her wardrobe, where she pulled out a light purple dress and slipped it over her shoulders. The sundress was old and worn, but she knew that when the scent came calling she should not turn it back unheeded. Her calloused heels rapped against the worn wooden floor as she walked to the door and pulled it open. She hesitated for a moment in the doorway. The same familiar scents were there: the dusty odor of dry-rot in the wood, the smell of dust never quite cleaned away, lemon polish, and the scent of the bread that had been baked yesterday.


Inspiration: "smell-feast"
Story Potential: Erm. It intrigues me, the idea of doing for scent sort of what "Periwinkle Eyes" did for color. It probably isn't really high potential, but I'm going to say it is, because I want to write this someday.
Finished Length: Short story.
Notes: Don't forget the standard Smalltown, USA details.