I thought me and the rocs were getting along fine, right up until one of them decided to lay her egg on top of my roof. I'm pretty sure it was Gretel, as I call the simple-minded one who never takes proper care of her own eggs and as a result hasn't had any offspring since I've lived here. I didn't reckon I'd like the rotten egg smell of an egg so large, so close, but I knew perfectly well that messing with a roc's egg is one sure way to get the wrath of the entire clan brought down on you, and once that happens, you're not going to live long enough to get out of roc territory. And I didn't want to get out of roc territory. I liked it that they kept out the riffraff, and they didn't appear to mind exchanging a bloody sheepskin of gems for a live sheep every now and then, so it was also a nice little earner for me and my sister's family back east. I wasn't sure if they'd be as angry about me touching the egg given that it was Gretel's, and her eggs never did well, but I didn't want to risk it. I did temporarily consider drilling up through my roof, draining the egg, and letting it dry out so that it would be hollow, but some of these rocs are damn smart, using tools and everything, even if Gretel isn't. My only other option appeared to be making sure that the roc egg didn't spoil. So that's how I became a mama roc.


Inspiration: Picture of a Dali's house with an egg on the roof: http://www.flickr.com/photos/marjoleinvegers/10900576506/
Story potential: High.
Notes: I like the idea of combining weird west with rocs.

My name is Kid Callahan. Ask anyone and they'll tell you. What does Kid mean around her? Just about what it means anywhere else--a reasonably young man who's good with a gun. (I may have been a bit of a showoff when I was younger--I got the nickname when I was six and decided to show off by shooting an apple off my teacher's head. I guess it didn't help that I tied the teacher to a chair first, though I maintain it was safer for all of us to make sure he was in one place. Problem is, I don't want to be a fast gun now that I've reached the advanced age of twenty-five. I never killed anyone. But men lookin to make a name for themselves keep hearing that blasted "Kid" and taking it into their heads to come here and try to draw down on me.


Inspiration: "Bawitdaba" - Kid Rock
Story Potential: Low.
Notes: Gah. My brain really must not be working yet this morning.

The last man took his last drink of whiskey, looked around the saloon that he'd taken over as his home--in the early days, because he figured that if anybody else was alive and came through town, they'd for sure stop there, unless they were Seventh Day Adventists, in which case he didn't want to meet them anyway. In the later days, it was because he liked not having to walk very far to get his liquor. The booze helped. Sometime, when he drank so much he thought he'd die the next day, he even saw people. But that was dangerous, and he knew it, and he was the last man alive because he didn't do things that were risky like that, because he played the odds and knew how to actually build things and kill things and generally survive.

Inspiration: "Last Man Standing" by Hybrid, Phil staggering around this morning.
Story Potential: High.
Notes: And that's his motive for going traveling. No booze.

The click of the hammer pulling back made him smile. He'd got them then, and he knew it. They, of course, suffered from the natural misapprehension that they'd got him--or who they thought he was, a rich merchant traveling to see his squaw far out of town. He wondered what Frozen Deer thought of this whole scheme. She'd shaken her head at the incomprehensibility of the things he'd found important when he explained what he was doing. The bandits hadn't killed any of his kin or family, they hadn't killed the buffalo he hunted. She understood why he'd do it for the money, but part of what her job was was making sure that everybody had a guilty feeling when they took that as a reason for doing anything. And she knew that he'd see right through the shaking of her head. He'd been apprenticed to her for almost ten years, now, since he wandered into camp as a boy of a hair shy of fifteen, blood on his hands--

Inspiration: "Wind It Up" - Barenaked Ladies
Story Potential: Medium
Notes: If I *did* write it, I'd have to get rid of the Native American stuff--I'm so unqualified to get the culture and the mores and the mysticism and work it properly in with the sort of urban fantasy/new weird/western that this is.

Anybody who says "Virtue is its own reward" hasn't lived in our part of the world, and they don't know Virtue. Neither has anybody who thinks Virtue would be a pretty name for a girl. Virtue's kinda touchy about that, and since he's entirely capable of expressing his displeasure lethally, most people 'round here just stay away from the notion of naming girls after abstract qualities entirely. Boys, too, just to be safe. Word has it that Virtue's mother had born three boys and was dead-set determined on getting a girl next. So when Virtue happened to be born a boy, she did her best to turn him into a girl. She dressed him like a girl, called him 'she', insisted Virtue help with the cleaning and the cooking, and generally did her best to destroy any trace of manhood that the growing boy might have acquired. The only part of it that stuck is a lingering affection for the color pink.

Inspiration: That opening line and the idea that Virtue was a guy just popped into my head.
Story Potential: Medium.
Notes: It's a highly entertaining idea for a character, and that character might just be enough to carry a story. Could be pretty much any genre--western, sci-fi, adventure, etc.

The lock opened smoothly beneath he pressure of the key. He smiled. The skeleton key had been one of his best purchases, though he had not realized it at the time. He'd stepped off the train with only a single gold piece in his pocket. He'd planned to purchase clothing more suited to his new life, but when the old woman hobbled up to him, key extended, he'd bought it before he even knew what he was doing. He'd reached into his pocket and handed over the gold coin, taking the plain silver skeleton key from the woman's hand. She'd bit the coin, nodded, and given his a cracked smile before scuttling back into the alley that she came from. As soon as she was gone, of course, he came to his senses. He was penniless in a strange city. He couldn't afford--

Inspiration: Loci. Lock.
Story Potential: High. This could be fun.
Notes: He isn't stealing using the key. That would be too easy, and if he was that sort of person, the key would never have come to him in the first place. He is not pure protag, either--there's a fair share of the unpleasant about him. Not entirely sure what he is doing with the key. Seeing this almost as a Western-fantasy, too...not sure if that's just because it would be easier for me to write. Takes place in an earlier time, definitely.

The snick of a razor being stropped made him bolt upright in his bunk. It was just one-eyed Carly, sharpening his razor above a bowl of soapy water, but he could relax. He knew the sound of the razor too damn well. "Carly, d'ya mind?" he asked. "Rough enough getting sleep after having been out on the range all week. I got used to the sound of the crickets and not the flatulent outbursts of my bunkmates." Carly laughed. "Cityfolk," he said. "You'll get used to it. Reckon we all will." He flopped back on his bunk and stared at the ceiling. Cityfolk, he was, all right, but it had been a long time since he went into the city. The city was where they were, in among the train stations with their clouds of smoke and down in the sewers.

Inspiration: None.
Story Potential: Medium-high
Finished Length: Short story.
Notes: A Western horror short story! What will they think of next?