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Time to purge the inactive, he decided grimly. It had been 40 days since the last purge, and after the expected relaxation, all should be back to their normal rhythms. Some were not. Maybe they thought it would be another year until the next purge, or maybe they were ill or injured--and if that was the case, they needed to be assessed for treatment and diagnosed for duration. He knew some idiots didn't go in for treatment for fear of being diagnosed. Did they think they'd somehow be able to sneak through the next purge? It was a fool's move. He took a deep breath--the purges were his least favorite part of being shift-captain, though they happened less frequently than births and joinings--and slammed his fist down on the red button. All across the ship, partitions sank down, trapping people in the sections--


Inspiration: Oh, an article online about how companies kept sending email to inactive accounts.
Story Potential: Low.
Notes: Meh.
The twist came when she thought she was about ready o give up. The sweet at the end of the race (or the threat, depending on if you were a news camera or someone running the damned race--and she meant damned in the most literal sense). Her little daughter, waving proudly to Mommy from the finish line. And god! but she hated them for taking her out, where she would see what happened when Mommy didn't win. There were a row of children at the finish line. She heard the woman behind her give a grunt of pain at the sight. And what would those children grow up with, seeing their mothers die in front of them? She knew they wouldn't shield the children's eyes: tears made such good television.

Inspiration: Um...a Halloween background and a running shoe ad.
Story Potential: Medium.
Notes: Eh. Nothing new here.
The personality altering drugs were kicking in, and he hated it. Of course, he hated everything--which was why he was on these damn drugs. He hated himself enough to decide they were worth while, at least for a while, at least long enough for him to make the documentary of the two sides of him, altered by drugs and unaltered. Kind of a Jekyll and Hyde sort of thing, though he supposed it was a Dr. Hyde and Mr. Jekyll instead of the other way around. Not that he was that bad, despite what his ex-wife said. He'd never hit her or anything like that, he just didn't much like her some days--not that that made her special. He didn't expect, however, the way that the drugs made him want to go out into the world and document *it* instead of himself.

Inspiration: "Depression Medication May Offer Mood Lift Via Personality Shift" (http://www.sciencenews.org/view/generic/id/50522/title/Depression_medication_may_offer_mood_lift_via_personality_shift)
Story Potential: Medium?
Notes: I dunno. This kinda fits in with the whole how people react to close quarters, need to work with the *world* community to survive, figuring out how "tribe" works in the brain sort of ideas, but it doesn't gel.
He had the music genome as ordered, but his lead soprano mother and his violinist father were frustrated by the path that it took. Even though they brought him the best vocal instructors, sent him to all the music camps he had time for, and frequently took field trips to music stores, he remained obstinately uninterested in the sound of music, making or even listening (as a last desperate hope, they'd taken him to a music critic to see if perhaps the boy found that interesting). Instead, he listened to silence. He played with pots, banging them together with no particular rhythm, in order to create a blessed silence when he stopped. It was--unnerving.

Inspiration: Pandora's "music genome" project loading.
Story Potential: High.
Notes: But this voice is all wrong for it. This could work well as a serious hard sci-fi story about sound and silences and maybe communicating with aliens, maybe something else--philosophical? population-density-related? (careful not to be preachy there)

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penthius

January 2025

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