Everybody expects bar stools to be built #sturdy, to support regular patrons and quickly end irregular fights. In Pat's bar, you might notice the extra-wide windowsills and wonder why. It's because of the vampire bats' conservation of mass.

Inspiration: sturdy
Potential: Low. As a setting, this is just funny to me.
Notes: Magic makes them fly, but it doesn't make them light. Urban fantasy or possibly humorous regular low fantasy.

If a sparkly rainbow unicorn pokes its head in your window, throwing a toaster at it is a perfectly natural response. Good thing I did, too.


Inspiration: This is what happens when I resolve to write at least a sentence a day, and it's 11:16 PM
Story potential: Medium.
Notes: Catchy, urban fantasy-ish, gets people hooked, but I'm not sure I'm interested in it.

The green man moved into the city slowly, not sure how or if he'd be able to find a home. He shifted himself thin through weeds that grew up in the cracks of the sidewalks, and he spread himself in great leaps across the trees that dotted the streets. He scowled at a highway and a bridge with nothing living on it, but the green dash of graffiti that spread across it like a growing vine was, he found, close enough to allow contact. That was the key, when he figured it out. The graffiti might not be a truly living, growing thing like what he was used to, but it did grow and spread, it was temporary, and he supposed it would even mostly go away in the winter, going into hibernation until the weather was good again. He found a garage with some ancient, ugly graffiti on it. It would only remain because the owner was too lazy to clean anything off. He could take up undisturbed residence here, if he chose. He did so choose. He had plans for this city, after all.


Inspiration: Photo of a Green Man graffiti painting on a garage door, at http://www.flickr.com/photos/shirleysvision/12802481225/in/explore-2014-02-26
Story potential: High.
Notes: High mostly because what plans would a Green Man have? Note: tone not good. Need something more personal, probably from a human POV, to open.

Passing through the pillars was never his favorite part of the job. He put it off for a couple of minutes by stopping at a coffee shop and getting a mocha latte to go. He justified it to himself by saying that the coffee inside was non-existent, the tea was some weird herbal crap, and coffee (and chocolate) *were* on the approved list, so it would be okay. And he deserved a treat, or as many treats as he could get today, because by the end of the workday he'd be...well, he'd deserve another treat. He remembered the tree nymphs that he'd had to deal with on his last "Out Day" as they called them at the agency and shuddered. Then he remembered the dyspeptic--


Inspiration: Photo of suited man holding coffee, walking through a series of stainless steel pillars. http://www.flickr.com/photos/bonnevillekid/11801952233/
Story potential: Medium.
Notes: I'd like this to be more of a "practical approach is good" story instead of a "stuffed-shirt mundane gets rumpled" story. And it would be tricky to get this right so it doesn't descend into the cliched and cutesy.

Who hunts in the middle of a crowd, without being seen? There are a lot of answers to that question, but it boils down to "someone in the service industry." Taxi driver, waiter, secretary, hairdresser...all the service industries, or servants before there *were* real service industry workers. It's an easy way to figure out where I should aim my career, devote my talents, and pickup side jobs along the way to prepare for the next time I need to shift personas. Following the trail of illegal immigrants is also a good way, although some of the jobs they take I can't, not without sticking out like a sore thumb. I envy the Chinese immigrants and the string of Chinese restaurant jobs that trail across America. Being a traveling farmhand that goes where there's seasonal work is only a real option for those times when I look like a total and thorough bum, and when I do, people are less willing to bet that I'll actually work instead of earning just enough for a bottle and then sleeping under their grapevines.


Inspiration: Rewatching Sherlock, A Study in Pink.
Story potential: High.
Notes: The minimum wage life is an interesting side to various kinds of urban fantasy hidden world lives, if you think about it. Could really add a different POV to it. Theoretically, I could even get a couple of part time, minimum wage jobs to get more background.

Fame and good ideas and success travel together, grouped by particles that most people can't see, and even fewer figure out how to take advantage of. That's me. I guess you could call me a muse, but don't get any weird ideas about sleeping with me or keeping me locked in the attic. That is *so* not on. You think I don't see the other currents, that I couldn't point you in directions that would end up with you dying hunched over a toilet like Elvis? Yeah, I still think his muse shouldn't have done that, but he must have done something to really piss her off. I don't know details. It's not like there's a muse guild or anything--though maybe there should be! But no, the guy I muse for is more like a brother to me. Known him since Kindergarten, when he was the one who would always stand up to the bullies (and get knocked down for it), known him since he picked up his first instrument. That's right, I said first. That's his part of the deal. He has to listen to me, and he has to practice and work like anything or I won't help him out. I don't mean to sound like his nursemaid. It's not like that either. He's got more drive than a highway at rush hour. Or something. Like I said, I'm not the one creating here. But that's part of why I think we can go far. He does all the things that you're supposed to do in order to become really, really great. I'm just...marketing. And connections. And luck.


Inspiration: http://www.flickr.com/photos/d-annie/10690522175/
Story potential: High.
Notes: And then she has to step out of her comfort zone. Plus--magic! The music part of this would be a challenge for me, though.

If you knew what you were looking for, you could spot the ones who were under demonic influences (as the genteel put it) or the headfucked ones (as the general public knew them). Something blue, worn on them, close to their skin but still always visible, was one of the rules. Once everybody figured that part out, you'd be surprised how fast all the kids clothes in baby blue disappeared. Later, of course, we learned that it had to be a blue stone, or something that had once been part of a blue stone. Some clothing dye processes counted, and some demons apparently went to the trouble of manufacturing stone-blue ties just to mess with the general people who couldn't be sure without asking (or even after asking--demons aren't exactly known for telling the truth, after all!) if the person they were dealing with was under the influence. Cufflinks were very popular, as were earrings, necklaces, and other jewelry. It's sort of a pity. I inherited a sapphire necklace from my great-grandmother. It's stunning. But I could never wear it in public, because everyone would assume certain things about me. And I've overheard some of the things that men walk up and brazenly ask a demon-influenced woman. It's like they forget that there's a woman in there at all; they just think she's a meat-puppet, and if they think she’s an attractive meat-puppet, well, then they ask the puppeteer.


Inspiration: Woot.com's picture of blue cufflinks + "Control" - Traci Lords
Story potential: High. An interesting take on the urban fantasy demon trope.
Notes: And yeah, it means something pretty significant that her great-grandmother had a sapphire necklace after all. And somehow that comes to affect her, but not in the way that these deals usually end.

I have only one blurred photo of my dad, from the year he met my mother. This is also the year that he left her and disappeared forever, from our lives and (as I would discover when I went looking) from the world itself, to all appearances. In the photo, he's of middling age, not quite young anymore but not old either, though his hairline has started creeping back at his temples. He wears a punk leather jacket, and he's shooting a photo with an antique brownie camera. The camera is the only thing left of him, and my mother presented it to me ceremoniously at my high school graduation. I've never used it. I'm not really a camera freak, and even if I was, I'm too broke to afford specialty film and the cost of developing the photos. Cellphone photos snapped and sent through Instagram is more my style, if I have a style. I guess I do. I try not to be one of those people who only posts pictures of their food and their friends having more fun than they are. I take pictures of the people that other people look past. Homeless people, crazy-talking guys on street corners, the dangerous-looking thugs who hang out at the corners, that people look away from in case they look back. Like looking away from trouble would ever help anything. I don't get a whole lot of comments on my snapshots, though once some lady who ran an art gallery in a hairdressing saloon said that she'd do an exhibit for me, if I wanted. At the time, I mostly wanted a job sweeping up hair, and I sure didn't have the money to get big prints made of my crappy little cellphone photos. It's not like I have a top-of-the-line cell, either. I'm lucky the thing even has a camera. Forget megapixels and sensor size, it could be a shadow box for as modern as it is.


Inspiration: http://www.flickr.com/photos/gauthierdumonde/9901186963/
Story potential: High.
Notes: I do like where this is going. And it positively reeks of symbolic resonance.

The jukebox was playing my tune when I walked into the bar, and that right there should have been enough to make me turn around and walk back out. But I like my tune. That's why it's my tune. It puts some extra swagger in my Levi's and some extra oomph in my smile. Least, that's what I judge from the way the barflies react when I walk in during my song. The rest of the time, I get about the same up-and-down as you'd see in a normal bar setting, followed by--well, followed by whatever their inclination is. Subtle smiles from the working girls who don't want to be too blatant, a little too much desperate hope in the eyes of the older women at the bar, and quick dismissal from the good-looking girls who really are just there for a drink and maybe a quick flirtation if the right handsome young guy walks in. I ain't him. But sometimes, when my tune's playing, I look like something a lot more interesting. Call it the blessing that my fairy godmother gave me in my cradle, or the curse that the wicked fairy laid on me. I have soundtracks. Not just for entering bars, either, though my job interview soundtrack hasn't helped me much except to distract whoever it is who can't figure out why the radio won't stop playing that long and somber song. That it's somber might tell you a little something about how my job history goes. I got a job doing long-haul work across the continental, and that's good enough for me. It does mean I walk into a lot of bars,though. Not much else to do when you're on the return with an empty load and no deadlines, or when you're waiting in a city for the load promised to show up in a week. You better not be wasting gas driving around, that's for sure! So usually it's visiting the bar that's near the hotel, or taking a bus into the downtown, if there is one. A bus or a downtown, that is.


Inspiration: Pit Stop (Take Me Home) - Lovage
Story potential: Medium
Notes: Eh.

"Due to the nature of the child's parents, it would seem to make only good sense that her custody is divided equally between the two parents, given what the medical professionals involved have explained regarding her...particular...needs. They assure me that with time it will become evident with which parent she should reside, but until that time, it is important to provide equal time, given various assurances of her safety regarding...manifestations of her nature...in either location." She sat there, trying to pretend that she didn't even know this family that the judge was talking about, but it was no good. On one side sat her earth-walking mother, wearing fancy high heels as fi to emphasize that she could, her skin tanned from the time she spent outdoors but her hair coiffed to such perfection that it made it clear most of that time was not spent in saltwater. On the other side sat her water-living dad, his hair a sun-bleached tangle that glinted now and then with a strand of pearls or precious metals tangled in it, his clothes the easily shed, waterproof kind, and a pitcher of water large enough for a meeting of twelve sitting in front of him--half-drunk. It would be seawater, too, she knew. She liked seawater well enough to drink, herself.


Inspiration: "Harbour Lecou" - Great Big Sea
Story potential: Medium
Notes: What happens when a merman and a human woman really, really don't love each other anymore.... I like the character of the daughter, though.