Dancing on snowflakes is not as easy as you might think to look at the snow fairies. They don't usually share statistics, but I know for a fact that a good third of would-be snow fairies die in the training process. Some even die after they are officially accepted. Those breathtaking plunges you see sometimes in the middle of a blizzard? Yeah. Dead at the end. The others usually come after them and clean up the tiny broken bodies before you see. It's that important to preserve the wonder and magic of the snow fairies. Without that, they wouldn't have any power or creds. It's a harder life than it looks like to the outside tourists, though. Fairies in general have it pretty hard, since they've got those lovely wings and we expect to see them do things like flying--which is, I've been told, frankly impossible unless the fairy genera in question has built up a hefty belief balance. And it's hard to build up a belief balance unless you can fly, if you're a fairy. Catch-22. Of course, the hiding in the woods and shyly peeking out from behind things is a traditional path, too.


Inspiration: I have no clue.
Story Potential: Low.
Notes: Setting, really.

"Snowshoe through fairytale woods," the brochure said. It sounded delightful. Fairytales are good, right? So my wife and I booked our vacation in the Icelandic resort, packed the kids off to the grandparents, and headed out the door with dreams of open, vast expanses of snow, toasty fires, and overstuffed feather comforters waiting for us at the end of the night. We never expected to be fighting for our lives--being *severely* out of fighting shape, no matter my weekly handball game and her daily jogging--and we didn't expect the rewards we got at the end of it either, and I'm not talking about the gold. Although the gold was nice, or will be nice, if we can ever get a pawnbroker to accept it.


Inspiration: A line in a NYT travel article: "Once a week, the trails are groomed to perfection, and the lodges’ caretakers will shuttle your belongings forward, leaving you free to cross-country ski or snowshoe through the fairy tale woods unencumbered."
Story Potential: High.
Notes: Mostly, I like the idea of these protagonists dealing with something like that. I suppose that makes me old.

The spring melt was so lovely that at first she didn't notice the snow. Almost all the snow was gone from the ground, the sun was shining, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Crocuses stuck their heads out of the ground quizzically. Buds formed on tree limbs. Robins hopped around murdering worms. In general, a gorgeous, perfectly normal spring day. Until the snow. At first it fell in small flakes that she ignored, but then the flakes became large as a hand-mirror, gorgeous and ornate, and she gasped and turned to run back to the village. But it was as if she was caught in a maze of mirrors, sharp and glinting snowflakes plummeted to earth around her and shattered--

Inspiration: Wishful thinking, and the view outside my study window.
Story Potential: Medium.
Notes: Snow Queens have to come from somewhere, right?

Snow on the branches formed a pattern of interconnecting avenues that she stared through as though they were a forest of probabilities, and to her they were. The snow ate at her skin and she heard a howl of rage behind her, but she tilted her head to one side and saw the lattice of black branches against a white sky shift, slightly, enough that she knew where to step to go in. Her feet were numb but her step was sure, and she walked into the winter maze without hesitation. Another shout behind her, "No, Tanya, don't--!" Her father, come to the rescue too late. On time to save her from the others, too late to save her from herself. A wall of ice--

Inspiration: Leftover snippet of a Christmas card that I've been using as a bookmark, showing just branches of a snowy forest.
Story Potential: High?
Notes: I like the idea of a seasonal maze that does--something. I'm thinking like shaman selection or the like, but I don't know. But this almost isn't a story. But something about it pulls me...I blame it on being Minnesotan.

It was the twelfth day of Christmas, and signs of stress were beginning to show. "How much longer do you think she'll need this?" she asked between gritted teeth.

The psych nanny in her skull answered, "A large number of days longer, I would guess.. This is something she feels she lacked after her parents died, and it represents all the happy things that she wanted and couldn't have."

"And how long do you think it will actually be necessary?"

"All that time. Though at a certain point, she will probably start becoming angry with the toys and the perceived hollowness. What she really wants is her parents, and there's no bringing them back for Christmas."


Inspiration: Writing down the date -- 12/01/2009. Twelve.
Story Potential: High, mostly because of the Christmas angle.
Notes: Or is there? Time to think about technology and science and psychology. Hrm--the ghost of families past? Spiritual experience brain centers? (Nah.) Dead stars movie technology? A little Katherine Hepburn with her mother? A little Cary Grant with her father?

Shifting the heating pads made different patches of her body warm, for a while. She tried to trick her mind into believing that it was the same as if she was warm all over, but she failed. As soon as she moved a heating pad, the empty spot chilled down. It took only a little bit before she started to lose feeling. She couldn't sleep; if she did, she knew she'd die. Instead, she spent delirious half-waking, half-sleeping hours shifting around the heating packs. Only the packs at her neck and her hands stayed the same--the arteries in the neck meant that that was the best place to spread warmth throughout the body, and, well, without the use of her hands she wouldn't be able to keep shifting the packs--

Inspiration: Maybe my own obsession with keeping warm is showing. Right now, I've got a cup of hot tea + heated slippers + a heat pad for my lap.
Story Potential: Low.
Notes: Nothing wrong with this little sketch--in fact it's kinda interesting--but it alone does not a story make.

The ice was endless in all directions. Though she strained her eyes, she couldn't see the horizon. Behind her, the white parachute splayed across the ice. She snarled. Trust them to have thought of even that tiny detail--a parachute that was orange or green or yellow or red might have been spotted from satellite or by some other strange visitor. A white parachute? Wouldn't be noticed at all. If she was going to escape, it was going to be on her own. She felt a strong urge to shake her fist at the departing plane, but she thought that might give them some satisfaction. IT must be an emotional thing for them or some sort of weird testing ritual, but she was human, and she bloody well didn't appreciate being dumped on--

Inspiration: From my day calendar - "How to Survive If You Are Stranded on an Iceberg"
Story Potential: Low.
Notes: Heh. Kinda entertaining, but let's face it, it's kinda tough to write interesting antarctic fiction without a ton of research, and sustaining that for a short story wouldn't be worthwhile.

Snow fell on the domed city, and at first everybody loved it. They could look up, and see snowbanks climbing up the sides, spreading strange patterns of crystals across the dome edges, anywhere that a little abrasion had made the dome less than egg-perfectly smooth. The snow kept falling. When the snow started to arc over the top of the dome, warnings were put out so that people knew not to panic. The emergency reserve lights, in addition to regular night lighting, would be used, and the snowstorm must surely pass soon. They were warned of the signs of claustrophobia or light-deprivation derangement, and they were told to report to the nearest headshrinker at the first signs, to avoid problems--

Inspiration: Could it be...the over two feet of snow outside and still falling?
Story Potential: Low, but it's an interesting setting.
Notes: I wanted to do something with snow, but fantasy snow-type settings are really, really overdone. This is a bit different. I like it, though I don't think it developed into anything as I did this, which is unfortunate.