There's no place like home. There are a lot of cliches surrounding that idea. It's the place where they have to drag you back! It's where you'll find out who you really are, after leaving to find yourself and only eventually coming back. It's the place that you'll look for for the rest of your days. What most people don't talk about outside the context of family is that it's the place that has a certain kind of people, the kind you grew up, the kind who act in ways that you can predict without having to stop and think about it and second-guess. I grew up on the Mining Station 4201, and those of you who were reading the newsfeeds about twenty years ago are probably wincing now. Yes, that one. The one that the terrorists blew up as an opening strike. How many casualties was it? Lots. Lots and lots. Well, we fought that war, found their home base, and destroyed it before I was 17. Don't expect that to cheer me up. As far as I'm concerned, all that means is that we murdered another whole bunch of people, same as they did to us. I saw the victory vids before the admin got smart and cleaned them up. There were bodies of kids and noncombatants in there, too, same as at 4201.


Inspiration: "Low Place Like Home" - Sneaker Pimps
Story potential: Medium
Notes: Meanwhile, all mining's become automated, so how to go about recreating home?

You can't see the stars so much in the sky anymore, but it's not because of light pollution or smog. Nope. They've decided to come down and see what all the fuss about being human is. You've probably heard that lovely poetic quote about all of us being starstuff? Sounds fine until you see the wandering stars lighting up the eyes of what will be a human husk once its abandoned. Sounds romantic until you see the dark eye of the abyss shining out of that cop who pulled you over for a traffic stop and just seems to be far too amused about the whole process. They don't really get the human thing, you see. The stars wander around being dazzled by flesh and sensation and gravity acting upon them directly, right up until they step in front of a bus or walk into a pool and don't know how to swim or do some other incredibly foolish thing. The dark stars, though, they seem to have a bit more purpose--


Inspiration: "Wandering Star" - Kid Beyond
Story Potential: Low.
Notes: Nice imagery and all, but it just doesn't make sense!

"Your synapses are very sparkly," the G'klon trade ambassador told him very seriously. "Should you wish to discuss this opportunity further, you should reach us at our embassy." "Ah--thank you?" Ted said, not sure if he'd been complimented, threatened, offered a job, or all of the above. The G'klon were weird, not least because you could never tell what rank or status a person you were talking to was. One day it would be one thing, and the next, that person would e doing something else. It was disconcerting, was what. He decided that if it was a job offer, he still wasn't interested; he was doing just fine in the interstellar catering business, thankyouverymuch. The one thing his stint as a reservist had qualified him for was space-jobs. Too bad he didn't have any of the qualifications for the top notch gigs--but he got paid a whole lot more as a waiter up here than he would down there.


Inspiration: LJ's prompt: "What compliment did you receive last?"
Story Potential: Low.
Notes: Polite introduction of the body-snatchers....

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.

It's not the darkness and the cold of space that gets to you, you know. I mean, depending on where you are, space isn't that cold--too hot, in fact!--and the darkness is just like a beautiful background for stars and planets and all kinds of other gorgeous things. No. And it certainly isn't the silence, because that's the thing, see--it isn't. Silent. Nope. The constant hiss of recirculated air, and heaven help you if it stops, the sound of your coworkers breathing, that background white noise electronic hum that natural noises kinda help you tune out. That's there all the time. That hum. And it gets louder and louder sometimes, so's you wish that one annoying guy would tell that one annoying story one more time, just to get the hum out. People talking cuts it, somewhat. Not enough, not if you've been up there long enough.

Inspiration: "In Continuum" by Laraaji
Story Potential: Low.
Notes: Not really a story here. Strong voice, though.

They chanted the ship into ignition, a hundred-deep ring of monks, cowls off, heads tilted up to the ignition fire and the glory of God. Across the world, monks mirrored the circle in town squares, chanting the fire ascending and the miracle of planet birth to be. Children set off firecrackers that soared into the sky like tiny messages. On the mountain tops, peasants shielded their eyes and squinted to see if they could spot the ignition flare.

Inspiration: Listening to "Ave Maria" on Pandora while an ad showing a coffee cup juddering about on top of a car was playing.
Story Potential: High.
Notes: I'm not sure what this story is--except awesome.

The shipboard life was not a glamorous one, at least not on a ship like this. He'd signed on with dreams of being--if not a passenger--at least one of the servants, so suave and polished, that he'd seen on the advids. He'd known, intellectually, that he wouldn't find a job like that at a small port, and that even if he did he wouldn't qualify for it, but he hadn't really let go of the dream. And assistant ship accountant had seemed a respectable enough position, if not something like head steward or coordinator or--well, he wasn't actually sure what all the titles were. He hadn't expected it to mean shoving around cargo in the hold and counting things. He'd bought nice suits special before he--

Inspiration: Listening to The Vor Game, in a bit about spaceships.
Potential: Medium.
Notes: I like the character, but this needs something else to make it interesting. Oh, and obviously, as assistant accountant he discovers something terribly awry.

She was staring at the radar readings, more than a little confused to pick up something the shape of an octopus with horns...if that octopus was the size of Texas and rapidly heading towards earth. "Um, boss?" she said, watching the display warily, as if it might change the instant she took her eyes away. "I don't know if somebody's playing a joke on me here, but I think you should see this. Now." Her boss strode over, took one look at the screen, and spun around and ran to the wall, where he pushed a large blue button under a large "Do Not Touch" sign. Then he picked up the telephone from the desk nearby and, without dialing a number, said, "Case Cthulhu is active. Repeat, Case Cthulhu."

Inspiration: A woot.com t-shirt marked with an octopus with horns.
Story Potential: Low. Silly? I don't know.
Notes: Cthulhu...in...SPAAAAAAAAAAACE.

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.

In space, no-one can hear you scream. Except for the twat on the other end of your intercom, the one who persuaded you to do a one-only spacewalk on the outside of the ship because he thought he saw "something weird" and he's going to stay inside to give you directions. Right. She sighed, more than entirely expecting that he was about to sever her umbilical airline and go straight for the main base himself. All the heavy lifting was done. He could get in, sell the ore they'd harvested, and laugh all the way to the bank. There were always spacers looking for a berth, and maybe this time he'd get lucky and find a not-hideous one who didn't recoil when he offered to bunk together, one who would be happy to play second fiddle to a man who she now suspected only had the ship because--

Inspiration: Ah, I've been reading some space opera lately, and I really like it.
Story Potential: High, if only because this can go so many directions.
Notes: Does he? Doesn't he? What comes next?