A scrap of blue cloth twisted in a thorn bush, that was all it appeared to be, and who knew how such a thing could come to be? It could have blown away from somewhere else until it got stuck. It could have fallen from the pack of a passing peddler. It could have been torn from the bright blue dress of a shepherdess who was attempting to be more scenic than most. He knew all these possibilities, but he also knew, without a doubt, that it had been torn from the hem of her shirt. He remembered her laughing about how thin the fabric had got when she was sitting by the fire attempting to mend it. She complained that she wouldn't get even one more year’s wear out of it, and it was all the fault of that peddler for selling substandard cloth, and that the only place it was fit to wear these days was out on the range where nobody could see her. He plucked the scrap of blue cloth out of the bush with trembling fingers and turned it to and fro in his palm to see if he could identify anything else. Sure enough, it was of fabric so thin that you might be able to read through it, and he recognized the neat stitches trying to hold it together along the edge. She always crossed her end stitches to help tie down the thread, a thing that he'd--


Inspiration: "Blue thorn" search on Flickr -> http://www.flickr.com/photos/davidselvam/4476355874/
Story potential: Low.
Notes: Nothing unique and interesting enough on its own here for me.

The sound of the saw against the violin music sent her into shivering catatonic shock as she cowered in her "dressing room." The violin music stopped. There were screams, and the smash of a valuable instrument plummeting to the ground. The thump of desperately running feet. She sagged against the wall and pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes. Another "co-star" failed. She wondered how much longer this could possibly go on. At least--at least while "the director" was looking for the violin accompanist, she didn't have to worry about failing him again.


Inspiration: "Romance" - Apocalyptica
Story Potential: Low.
Notes: Meh. Same old serial killer stuff. Not too interesting.

She waved the bill under his nose. "Remember when you promised you'd pay this on time? Well, you didn't, so now you've nowhere to live. Neither have I, but at least I'm not going to live with you!" She threw the envelope at his feet, spat on the ground, turned to go, and then spun around and kicked him squarely in the balls as an afterthought. He doubled over and groaned. She slammed his own door shut in his face. Well, he supposed it wasn't his door anymore, now that the bill collectors were apparently going to take everything away from him as soon as possible. He uncurled slowly, painfully pulling himself to his feet. H glanced around his apartment. If the bill collectors were coming, they'd try to take anything of value. Fortunately, he kept nothing like that here. This was just a dump--

Inspiration: Oh, just feeling a titch irritated over credit card bills and the way certain imperiled credit card companies are planning on jacking their rates up.
Story Potential: Low.
Notes: This is, of course, not his real identity, or his main apartment--maybe that's why he couldn't pay the bill? Regardless, not fantastic.

Idea - A murder story in reverse (murder at the end instead of the beginning), beginning with a premeditation. Filter in small details throughout plot as premeditated details come in, have "detective" character watching. Murder would occur at the very end, and detecting would come before. Does that make it a thriller?

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

The old beanbag chair in the corner was comfortable and warm. It smelled faintly of feet, and a little bit like patchouli, and mostly like home--long-cooked stew, laundry, and teenage sweat. She huddled in it, keeping her eyes closed, trying to pretend that she was still home. The new house didn't smell right. It was all disinfectant and fresh paint, with a metallic tang underneath that she just didn't like. It was strongest in her room. She'd actually gone sniffing at the corners, like a dog, like Sadie would have if she could have come with them. Maybe another dog had marked the room and that was why it smelled funny, she'd thought. But it wasn't strongest in the corners. It was strongest right against the wall farthest away from the door--

Inspiration: Somebody posted on the Twin Cities lj requested a beanbag chair.
Story Potential: Low.
Notes: Because, c'mon, Something Terrible Happened Here isn't that interesting to play with. Though a dog that came back from the dead to protect her family could be a bit of fun. But overall, no.

The inner beauty was on display, he saw, as he stared over the ballroom at the latest crop of young hopefuls. Their scores danced above their heads: deportment, intelligence, grades, extracurricular activities, outside interests, musical compositions, links to their compositions, their writing, their yearnings for their mates. He sighed. He'd seen every ambition expressed before, seen every odd and interesting talent expressly selected to make the person stand out above the rest. He'd even been briefly enthralled by a hammer dulcimer player, until he saw her staring with hatred at the instrument when he'd surprised her at her practice. He could never see her in the same light--

Inspiration: Hmm, what was it? I was reading something about displaying inner beauty, I think.
Story Potential: High, at least as a gimmick.
Notes: I kind of like the idea of this, though as a set-up for what, I'm not entirely certain. Starts with him being intrigued by a girl who puts up nothing, or as little as possible, but is the start to romance, intrigue, or horror? Or all three?

He stared at notification on his desk in dull horror. Security breaches...more than one of them.... security breaches pouring in from floors ten through fourteen. He switched to the cameras and got quick glimpses of people shifting though the floors before the cameras went blank. He'd signed on for the job as head of security. He'd thought that he'd accepted what that meant. He'd known that if there was ever a security breach, he was to enact the containment procedure. He had never thought that would happen. He didn't know what exactly this government warehouse protected. That wasn't his job to know. It was only his job to make sure that nobody else could find out, much less tamper with it. He'd been so damn proud of his security walls, too....

Inspiration: Phil's musing for me, based on a dream he'd had.
Story Potential: High.
Notes: Mostly putting this in here so I don't forget to write this story eventually. Note to self: reference story idea file.

The damage done was irreversible, the surgeons had said, as she listened in bleak disbelief. She didn't really doubt them. She'd felt every blow, every slice of the knife, after all. It had felt permanent in the dreams, and she had no reason to doubt that it was permanent. Some part of her had clung to the hope that because it had been in the dream chamber, it would not last in the outside world. Instead, the reverse was true, the experts all agreed. It could not be corrected outside of the dreams. So she would need to go back into the dream chamber to have it fixed. Not a problem, right? Most adults chose to--

Inspiration: Not sure, but I mistyped 'dreams'--meant to say something like at the time, and then decided that 'dreams' made it more interesting.
Story Potential: High. Maybe. Maybe medium-high.
Finished Length: ? I should really get rid of this part of the notes as it is so rarely useful.
Notes: Yeah, so she's all traumatized and stuff and doesn't want to enter the dream world, which has all kinds of ramifications for the society that she lives in, and then somebody else is actually killed, and well, yeah. Ok, so it's novel-length.

A mosquito landed on his skin, and he gritted his teeth and ignored it. It sucked until he thought he could feel the pull through all his veins, but he didn't move a muscle. He had waited too long to get into position, belly-crawling by slow increments, moving less than an inch in fifteen minutes. He was suited up and kitted out, his rifle snugged next to his cheek and pointed at the target. He was a professional. He would not slap that damn mosquito, no matter how much he wanted to. He looked through the scope. In the green phosphorescence that night became when seen through his night-sights, he saw her moving around her apartment. Naked. He pursed his lips and whistled. Very nice.


Inspiration: All my damn mosquito bites.
Story Potential: High. Not because of this, but because of the various things my imagination took from it.
Finished Length: Short story...er, by which I mean probably novel.
Notes: Either she isn't the target, or she is, but he doesn't get to shoot her because he's about to get stung by a bug that isn't a mosquito, is actually a robot, and conks him out. This could be played straight as a thriller, or it could be sci-fi. I thought I was going to start with him getting bit by a robot bluebottle, but no...mosquitos pushed their way in where they weren't wanted, just like always.