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The last one of her kind, she thought to herself as she edged along the precipice. She carried the death of her race in her and so she could not die. She could lose parts of her, even lose the life of this body, but the last one of her race would be reborn and come to finish what she'd started. And the last one reborn would also be the last one of her kind. So it would be, and so it would continue, until the mission was done and the future was secured. Then she might seek a way to be other than the last one of her kind, or so the records said. She tried to think about the idea of not being the One Alone, and her mind could not work its way around the edges of the idea. If she was not the One Alone, what would she be? Such thoughts were foolish fancies that she had been warned against by the --

Inspiration: "The Last Mohican"
Story Potential: Medium? Medium-high? High?
Notes: Trying to think what scenario could be so dire that the whole species couldn't be exposed to it, yet one (exceptional) individual could overcome it and make things safe for the others. Maybe that's why this is high potential--my mind is pulling at the edges of this idea to try and figure it out.
The pruning was overdue and the garden was thick and wild, tangles of thorns and vines wrapping around the fruit trees, weeds crowding out the tulips, peonies rotting over the delicate violets planted at their base. It had been three years since she'd stepped outside her house, and she had not minded the decaying, wild overgrowth. She had rather liked watching it take over the backyard. It was alive and flourishing. At least there was something that was. She had stayed inside, moving through dimming dust-covered windows, wearing old patched clothes as hers gradually wore through, eating the supplies that the grocery brought her or that were in her pantry. The grocery boy had not come this week, and she--

Inspiration: Postponing my own gardening.
Story Potential: High.
Notes: The question is, did something bad happen to the delivery boy? Or the grocery? Or the town? Or civilization as she knows it? I really, really like this set-up, but I'm greatly amused that it could go from cozy mystery to post-apocalyptica quite easily.
It was a long, cold haul on the job, going around the asteroid belt and building up a nice trail of ice-rich meteors to follow him back to the warm orbit where the watership could scoop them up. Not much to do out there, not even for a man as scientifically inclined as himself--the first few trips, he'd busied himself with experiments on plants and animals, seeing how they handled the strains of space. Most of it was repeating research done back in the early days, but he didn't care. Eventually, it ceased to interest him. Though in the beginning he'd watched the distant singing of the black holes on the spectrograph with the same fascination ancient sailors would have given to whale song, it too paled. He'd borrowed--

Inspiration: My tiring work schedule the last couple of weeks, an interesting (if unread as of the writing) article in SciAm about singing black holes, and Billie Holiday.
Story Potential: High, actually.
Notes: At least, I like the character and the themes a story like this could explore.

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penthius

January 2025

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