She liked the #vespers held in the park. She could actually attend the evening service because it wasn't held on church-guarded holy ground, but she could appreciate nature's peace. The darkness also made it easy to pick up a snack afterward.

Inspiration: vespers
Potential: low
Notes: Eh, it's a vampire thing. Although I like the whimsical nature of the character, this isn't particularly a story idea in itself. And she does appreciate nature and creation, still.

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.

He wanted it to be a memorable sermon, one that would get the attention of the people who hadn't done more than run through a mental chore and grocery list in their mind during church for the last ten years. He figured that would require some props. And somewhere along the line, it became a pretty elaborate scheme involving a chicken suit, some sparkly red undergarments that were large enough to go over the chicken suit, and--well, suffice it to say that he ended up needing a truck to haul all his supplies to the church. Sure enough, as soon as he popped out wearing the chicken suit, he had everyone's undivided attention! The sermon went over pretty well, too, with everyone laughing in the right places and some people looking thoughtful for the first time that he'd seen them. He figured it was remotely possible that he might even be called back to preach at that church again, though you never know what the outcome's going to be when you wear lingerie on the outside while giving a sermon. He thought he might get some phone calls complaining, or maybe some phone calls complimenting his humorous approach. He didn't expect to get many phone calls talking about miracles and blessing him and--sure, maybe he'd always tried to believe that it was possible a single sermon could do so much, but he'd realistically settled down and hoped for the small change that matters most--the ability to change a sinner's heart and set them on the right path, or the ability to strengthen a believer in a time of trial.


Inspiration: Looking for Mondegreens in "Dragostea Din Tei" by O-zone -> Googling "razor sledding dancing" -> this: http://americandigest.org/mt-archives/american_studies/a_small_favor.php
Story potential: medium
Notes: And now he'll be stuck with his chicken suit, poor pastor.

If you feel the sun begin to burn, your time has come. Don't try to run. The sun god stretches everywhere, in time, and he will reach you if he has to scorch and entire village to get them to drag you out, or if he has to bake you alive in the hut you fled into. After you are dead, they will put your body on a platform in the desert to allow it to desiccate and feed the vultures, as is right and proper, and the sun god will eat your withered essence. If you do not run, he might not eat you. He might only kill you if you did something that caused the sun god's justice to be called down upon you. He might just give you a vision. He might drive you mad and make your brain boil with visions that will never end while you live, but which might serve others. He might make you a priest. I don't recommend walking into the desert with no water to seek the sun god. Many do, every year, but he tends to scorn sacrifices he did not want. Some few become priests, but once they do, they realize the sun would have shone on them no matter where they were.


Inspiration: "Narayan" - The Prodigy
Story potential: Low.
Notes: Eh. Setting.

Preston knew the ascension was today--it had appeared mysteriously on his day calendar--and so he dressed with great care, choosing the kelly green sweater vest that he knew accentuated the golden tones to his dark skin, and the gold tie that his mother had gotten him when he first got his latest job. He wasn't entirely clear on how the ascension had appeared on his day calendar, or on why he qualified to ascend. He believed in God but had never been much of a one for organized religion, though he did now and then go to his neighborhood Lutheran church. Every visit he tended to have to explain why he hadn't been there for so long. He thought perhaps the ascension note had been written on his planner as a joke by one of the other partners or his personal assistant, but just in case it wasn't, he wanted to make a good impression on Whoever might be meeting him.


Inspiration: The photo.
Story potential: Low.
Notes: Eh.

"That billboard's going to be a problem," said the middle-aged hausfrau with a pallor to her cheeks and sunken eyes that didn't match the rest of her image. I stared up at the image of the bible on a billboard plastered beside the abandoned church. "It's not a real bible. It doesn't even have any holy words in it. It's just a piece of plastic stretched up there as an advertisement." "Doesn't matter. It provokes thoughts of sanctity in every passerby. That will be enough to wake the church." "Surely it also provokes boredom and irritation?" "Boredom and irritation about sanctity are enough. They always respond to some inner belief in sanctity." I turned away, swearing. "Let the white goat go."


Inspiration: The picture. Why? What did *you* think they were up to?
Story Potential: Low.
Notes: Blahbittyblah.

She was on the walk of stones when she found the key, lying on top of a journal and set in front of her feet as if it had always been there. She hesitated before picking it up. Yes, the paths gave, and that was why they were walked by the devout and the brave or the ambitious and foolish, but most liked best the paths of pearls or the path of flowers. Wealth, ease, those things were cherished. But the full loop always went through the path of stones, and nobody who skipped a path would ever receive a gift. She had heard that anyone who rejected a gift would never receive one again, and (whispered) that things would be taken from them and given to others. But it was the path of stones, and that always caused suffering, although it ended in greater--solidness. Foundations. The power that comes from things other than wealth.


Inspiration: Flickr photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/malrabaal/7026475301/
Story Potential: Medium
Notes: This has potential, it could go places, but it isn't jumping out.

He said the dead would come back to us on Easter morning, and lots of people stocked their pantries and armed themselves for a zombie apocalypse, but it wasn't like that at all. Like I said, a lot of people prepared for a catastrophe. A lot of other people mocked the prophecy--or, like me, didn't even bother to mock it, just wrote it off as another crackpot spouting off in our increasingly religion-led state. So I was shocked when I came down to breakfast Easter morning and saw my mother sitting at our kitchen table, the same table she had sat at and paid bills in the evenings as I was growing up. She looked up and saw me, smiled, and just got up and walked out the door. By the time I ran to the door and threw it open, she was gone. I saw she'd organized my messy correspondence into neat stacks.


Inspiration: Thinking what holiday comes after Christmas. And the personal.
Story Potential: High?
Notes: I want more of a magic realism feel to this "dead coming back to life" idea. More of an influences and remembrances sort of thing. Not sure I can write this now, though. Too close--I might not be able to judge whether what I'm writing is any good or not.

The bell sounded for Matins. Gregory forced himself to look around his cell for the last time. He noticed again how the crack along the wall looked like a sideways mountain range, and the little fluff of straw that the sparrow who made its nest in his window had left behind, the familiar worn wooden lines of the cross above his cot, and the dent in the mattress that had been the bane of his sleep for the last five years, since he was old enough to be moved up from the orphanage when he asked. He bit back a lump in his throat. He would miss it greatly. When he left his cell, the bag with his few worldly possessions over his shoulder, wearing unfamiliar worldly clothing and sturdy boots in place of his sandals, his rosary around his neck, he met Father Petros.

Inspiration: "Requiem Eternam" - Chant, Sarum
Story Potential: High
Notes: I like the idea of a priestly culture where those who are taken in young are forced to go out into the secular world for--oh, I don't know, five years?--before they are allowed to wholly dedicate themselves to a monastic life. And it offers the chance to explore God-in-the-world. Though I'm not sure this strictly would fit into fantasy, but it's certainly not real-world. Hrm. Possibly a problem story.

Earth angel, they call her. She's not of heaven, and so she is allowed to descend to hell. She's not human, and so she cannot be trapped there. She is immortal, and so they cannot kill her. At least not permanently. Sometimes they try, they tear her apart in anger and sorrow at what she reminds them of. Some say that's why the devil allows her entry. She brings with her the whisper of the grace of God, the reminder of all that the damned do not see. Beauty, love--all these things flow from God, and true hell is their absence. She brings back the memories, she hints at the good. She is beautiful. She smiles in a way that might almost be love--.

Inspiration: Earth Angel by Karin.
Story Potential: Low.
Notes: Eh.