Whenever I had trouble trying to sleep, when the sound of the waves alone failed to lull me to sleep, I would leave my bed and walk down to the bluffs where the wind-whistlers sat. I don't know who they were--or are, I suppose--because the ceramic whistling masks they wore covered their faces entirely. Even their ability to see was navigated by mirrors through a labyrinth of pipes. You could not simply glance at their eyes and know. And yet I never saw one lying fallen, broken on the shore, never saw one trip as it (and I would say he or she except it is impossible to tell) moved around. They wore the masks when they came out of the temple, and so you could never know if the people you saw go in went in simply to pray for luck or good trades or good weather or if they themselves were wind-whistlers. Enough went in that I was certain couldn't possibly be, that it was impossible to tell.


Inspiration: "Brain Stew" by Green Day + unsettling photo of person in windwhistler mask sitting beside some body of water: http://www.flickr.com/photos/67105066@N07/12435334803/in/explore-2014-02-10
Story potential: High.
Notes: Just--a weird obliteration of self, in order to find self. Has resonance.

A little fanfare greeted them when his ship sailed broken-winged into the port. He set his jaw grimly when he saw the midget bandleader and the assortment of ragamuffins dressed up in new band uniforms and provided uniforms. Only the midget appeared unfazed by their assignment. The musicians had a glint of desperation in their eyes that made him wonder if some cruel puppet-master had suggested that if they did a bad job, their payment would be much less favorable than the handful of coins that would have bought their services. If their services were bought, and not simply impressed from the streets or the jails. The noises they made were about as awful as one might expect from drunkards and bums rousted out and handed instruments they'd never played before, never seen before except in the occasional procession that passed them by. Except--the captain paused, as one of the small, bent figures in the back raised a trumpet to his lips and let a pure, clarion string of notes fly free to hang in the air, as pretty and perfect as any court musician might have managed.


Inspiration: Daniel Merriam's "A Little Fanfare"
Story potential: High.
Notes: The implied politics and twisted nature of this world are appealing. Because this is all a mockery of his failure, except....

The jukebox was playing my tune when I walked into the bar, and that right there should have been enough to make me turn around and walk back out. But I like my tune. That's why it's my tune. It puts some extra swagger in my Levi's and some extra oomph in my smile. Least, that's what I judge from the way the barflies react when I walk in during my song. The rest of the time, I get about the same up-and-down as you'd see in a normal bar setting, followed by--well, followed by whatever their inclination is. Subtle smiles from the working girls who don't want to be too blatant, a little too much desperate hope in the eyes of the older women at the bar, and quick dismissal from the good-looking girls who really are just there for a drink and maybe a quick flirtation if the right handsome young guy walks in. I ain't him. But sometimes, when my tune's playing, I look like something a lot more interesting. Call it the blessing that my fairy godmother gave me in my cradle, or the curse that the wicked fairy laid on me. I have soundtracks. Not just for entering bars, either, though my job interview soundtrack hasn't helped me much except to distract whoever it is who can't figure out why the radio won't stop playing that long and somber song. That it's somber might tell you a little something about how my job history goes. I got a job doing long-haul work across the continental, and that's good enough for me. It does mean I walk into a lot of bars,though. Not much else to do when you're on the return with an empty load and no deadlines, or when you're waiting in a city for the load promised to show up in a week. You better not be wasting gas driving around, that's for sure! So usually it's visiting the bar that's near the hotel, or taking a bus into the downtown, if there is one. A bus or a downtown, that is.


Inspiration: Pit Stop (Take Me Home) - Lovage
Story potential: Medium
Notes: Eh.

Fiddling up a storm. There’s a reason for that expression, and although it may have started with the quick and fickle summer storms that any really well-trained fiddler could call up, it also extends to the big, heavy, man-killing winter storms. When I was just a little girl, not even full grown, my grand-pappy pulled me aside and warned me about what could be fiddled up, and as part of that warning, he taught me how. Storms are some of it. There's other things, too. Many of them even I've been smart enough not to try (like calling up the Devil for a contest, for one!), but I've had a rough life at times and sometimes I've let that make me do things that I wish I could call back. There's no fiddle charm for that one, though. The winter storm I called up, for once, didn’t kill anybody--well, not anybody who didn't deserve it. You could say it saved a bunch of folks, even, and you'd be right. Of course, I think the preacher suspects what happened, since he was there when I called it up, and I know a whole bunch of well-meaning folks keep nagging me to do it again, to play like I did that day of the big snowstorm, the one where there was a jailbreak and that school bus of little kids almost got took. Well enough, and all that, but of course it becomes awkward over time when I keep insisting that I don’t' know what they're talking about and that they hear me play every day. And then it got on YouTube, and the weirdness really started.


Inspiration: http://www.flickr.com/photos/closetartist/6767805131/
Story potential: High.
Notes: And this is one of those "didn't do any writing all day and mustn't break the chain" freewriting ideas. Yeah. Well, whatever gets the job done.

When you see the man in black sitting at the bar, don't go sit down next to him. If you hear him tell somebody he's a record producer, don't listen. If you've got a gig in the bar, leave. Blow it off. You don't want the man in black to come to your attention. If you're about to leave, carrying your guitar, and the man in black looks over his shoulder at you and he's got this expression in his eyes that you know just means he's seen you and he really wants to hear you and this i your one big shot, run for your life. Why do they call him the man in black? He claims to be a big fan of Johnny Cash, and to wear black in his honor, but when he says it he gets this funny smile around the corners of his mouth, kinda like your Uncle Buck did when he was talking about the big fish that got away. It's a strange world, you should know that. You've seen some things at gigs. Don't let the man in black buy you a drink and talk you up. Especially don't let him pull out a contract and hand it to you. Don't expect to smell brimstone or see his eyes flash red or anything like that. This isn't that kind of deal. He might be a devil and he might be after your soul, but if there's that language in the contract it disappears when you show any signs of reading all the way through it. Nope, it's a standard abusive recording-industry contract, and don't you forget it. But then once you've signed on, he's got you buying at the company store, and he can send you anywhere he wants with any kind of people he wants. And if you notice that all the roadies and hangers on and even your PR agent and everybody around you is doing some hardcore drugs but functioning just fine, it might be hard to stay clean. And if he sends ten truly gorgeous strippers inside your private limousine with the tinted windows with you, because that’s the impression they want to make on the fans, and the strippers start to make advances, and you're not actually paying them anyway, and nobody will know, and there's no way your girlfriend back home would ever find out--well, that's another way he's getting you to sell your soul. If he tells you he's arranged a remunerative private performance for somebody you find out committed some serious human rights violations, it's easy to tell yourself that you're just there to perform.


Inspiration: Sheet of stamps with Johnny Cash on them.
Story potential: Low.
Notes: Eh. This is heading away from the paranormal angle, and is generally not very interesting to me.

Slow blues can get the blood slowing, make a man sit and think. And drink another whiskey while he remembers the woman he left behind and ignores the broad sitting next to him. Fast jazz can get a man up and dancing, thinking thoughts of what a success his future will be, thinking about how he can get his competitors before they get him. Marlowe knew how to play both kinds of jazz, which most jazz players did, and he understood how they worked, which most jazz players did not. Beside that, he knew how to play other kinds of jazz that most musicians didn’t even know existed, but most players had experienced at one time or another. He could play a jazz that would make a man hunger after things lost or never had, a hunger--


Inspiration: "Silver" - Bonobo
Story Potential: Low
Notes: There's nothing particularly wrong with this, it's just not very original. Been done a million different times, a million different ways. Could be a nice side character in a story, though--but not the main feature.

The jazz dancers slid across the stage, as the man in the red spotlight with the sax played. Shish. Boom. Bah. Feathers and sequins rattled out onto the stage, and watchers cheered and raised their sarsaparillas. Bellow the stage, the booze cabinet was getting busy business too, to the reassuring rat-a-tat of the dancer's heels above. If a raid occurred, the quick stop of the dance would be warning enough, or so they thought. they'd counted without madame Tourmaline, raider extraordinaire--and jazz dancer. Under those fluffy feathers was a .32 pistol in her garter belt, and every tap she made with her heels sounded out the stage floor to figure out where the--

Inspiration: "Sugar Rum Cherry" - Duke Ellington
Story Potential: Low.
Notes: Ayiiee, this is bad!

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 long, low wail of a saxophone echoed in the halls of the space station, leaving a lonely feeling behind it. He shivered. Who had the bright idea to program the AI to provide "appropriate atmospheric music"? Maybe they were just thinking for parties and birthdays and such, but the AI had taken it a step further. And since mostly space was a lonely, empty place, all it did was make it worse. Out here, atmosphere was something you fought against. And some idiot went and made it emphasized! He walked down the hall and bounced a little on the balls of his feet, humming---

Inspiration: Some sax on the radio.
Story Potential: Low.
Notes: I like the setting, but I don't see a story here.