I thought me and the rocs were getting along fine, right up until one of them decided to lay her egg on top of my roof. I'm pretty sure it was Gretel, as I call the simple-minded one who never takes proper care of her own eggs and as a result hasn't had any offspring since I've lived here. I didn't reckon I'd like the rotten egg smell of an egg so large, so close, but I knew perfectly well that messing with a roc's egg is one sure way to get the wrath of the entire clan brought down on you, and once that happens, you're not going to live long enough to get out of roc territory. And I didn't want to get out of roc territory. I liked it that they kept out the riffraff, and they didn't appear to mind exchanging a bloody sheepskin of gems for a live sheep every now and then, so it was also a nice little earner for me and my sister's family back east. I wasn't sure if they'd be as angry about me touching the egg given that it was Gretel's, and her eggs never did well, but I didn't want to risk it. I did temporarily consider drilling up through my roof, draining the egg, and letting it dry out so that it would be hollow, but some of these rocs are damn smart, using tools and everything, even if Gretel isn't. My only other option appeared to be making sure that the roc egg didn't spoil. So that's how I became a mama roc.


Inspiration: Picture of a Dali's house with an egg on the roof: http://www.flickr.com/photos/marjoleinvegers/10900576506/
Story potential: High.
Notes: I like the idea of combining weird west with rocs.

She cried, "More!" and they ran and brought her more food. She ate, and she swelled, and still she cried, "More!" They fed her all the cassava and all the manioc and sweet potatoes that were still too small to harvest and she still screamed, "More!" They pulled down all the coconuts and tossed them to her whole, watching her devour them without even cracking the shells. And still she swelled and grew, demanding "More!" Her sister bit her lip, watching, trying to think how to make this stop before her sister swelled so large that nobody could stop her, before the village ran out of food entirely--

Inspiration: "Rebel Yell" - Billy Idol
Story Potential: High--but only if I figure out the twist that makes this an awesome little flash story.
Notes: I don't even know if those food plants all grow together naturally....

She went insane, we thought, when she started living in the doorway of the hotel. It was a fancy one, too, and we never could figure out why they let her stay there, her in her ragged coat, with her shopping cart that held the few things she kept, including the cat carrier that the stray she adopted slept in (she'd removed the door long ago so he could run if young punks decided to mess with her). It wasn't the front door, of course, but we figured even the side door of a fancy hotel would be policed. And yet, they let her stay. More than that. They brought her blankets in the coldest part of winter, and she often ate better than we did--the chef had a particular affection for her.

Inspiration: "Cemetary Polka" by Tom Waits
Story Potential: High.
Notes: Some sort of protection? Or an evolving urban dryad sort of thing? That could be fun to play with. ETA: See also http://penthius.livejournal.com/265882.html for another POV in the same kinda world.

When living is too much, try death for a while! That was the new marketing department concept. Death sat in bony silence at the head of the conference table and stared at the presentation. He scratched his head with one bony finger. One didn't "try" death. He wasn't sure what they were up to. "Brilliant!" exclaimed one of the marketing executives. They couldn't see that Death was there, of course; they probably thought that death was just a brief cessation. "Who doesn't want to take a break, sometimes, a complete absence of stress or thought or anything." Death snorted gently.

Inspiration: "What the F**K" by Carbon/Silicon.
Potential: Medium.
Notes: Cryogenics? Near-death experience? Meh. Whatever.

It was the fate of the children that made the earth dragon so angry he split his mouth wide and swallowed them up. They should never have done what they did, or rather, let the king do what he did. They huddled their few remaining children away in their houses and turned down the king's offer of a golden child to replace their own. It had seemed not such a bad thing to let their children go off to the king's special school--an education, maybe a government post in the future, and one less mouth to feed. There were so many children, most people kept only their heir with them, or sometimes, they sent their heir to learn and kept only a girl child to help--

Inspiration: News about the China earthquake, earlier reference to Midas elsewhere, and thoughts of the Pied Piper.
Potential: High, sort of.
Notes: It's unique enough, all right, but executing it would be tricky, and the story needs to be fleshed out.

Idea - Though in most stories, prophecies and tales told in taverns are always critical, could have multiple confliction/confusing and not important except in that they're not.

http://cloudscudding.livejournal.com/688067.html

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.

Life was saved when the mask was removed, but the question was whether it could still be life entire. The death mask had been made, the breath had been breathed, all had been made ready for the journey to the afterworld. Even the soul may have been sent ahead, no matter that the man still walked and talked and went about his usual life. All agreed that there was something oddly different about him now; this was not only because they had heard of what happened, for at first none were given to know of the circumstances save for the man's wife and his physician. Yet still they observed that there was something odd and different about him. The man's own little daughter, barely old enough to say Mama and Papa, had burst into tears--

Inspiration: ?
Story Potential: High.
Notes: Interesting potential to be a variation on underworld, changeling, and Aboriginal walkabout themes.

The sirens sung their song of warning when the first intruder entered the solar system, but the ears that had been told to hear, to listen, to always go when the sirens called, those ears had stopped their hearing with wax plugs. It was the sirens own fault. Over the years, they had become bored. The centuries and then the millennia wore on, but still they were never allowed to have visitors. Their duty was merely to wait, chained to the rocks, listening for intruders. At first, it made them focus more intently upon their duties, but even that waned when there were no intruders. They took bets among themselves as to what the first peril to make them sound their call would be. An asteroid--

Inspiration: "siren" - the dual meanings in the dictionary
Story Potential: Medium, I suppose. We'll see if it comes back to haunt me.
Notes: I kinda like the idea of teching up the mythology and giving it a solid use.

The globules ruptured beneath her pearly teeth in bittersweet bursts of fruit, shards of frozen strawberries that captured for a lingering moment only, the taste of pomegranates frozen in the nether rivers of Hades. She could close her eyes against the hot sun, try to ignore the warm caresses of the wind, and for a moment she could pretend herself back in that sweetly cold hell, where the light was not bright and glaring against her eyes, the people spoke in whispers that did not hurt her ears, and the cool stone of her bedchamber was more restful than the skittering that came from within her straw-filled mattress. She did not like the upper world. There were too many things, and it was too difficult to track where they were. Her mother could not leave her alone in peace; instead, every time that she opened her eyes, she was the concern in her mother’s eyes, blue as the sky.
Inspiration: Strawberry margarita.
Story Potential: Medium-high?
Notes: I'm hesitant because this is a myth that has been done before any number of times. This also doesn't seem to have any strong impetus. I suppose it would work as the end, after the bargain is made, when she realizes that she would like to go back to Hades.