He was in his late 40s, and still getting nowhere on the corporate ladder. He watched his bosses getting away with stealing their customers’ life savings, and wanted in on the action. He became a distributor for a drug cartel, a suit shipping in large quantities, and getting them where they needed to go on the street level. As he moved into the wealthy neighborhoods, he was sexually tempted his teenage children’s new friends, and got them hooked. Eventually he had a stranglehold over this wealthy neighborhood while sending his kids up the ladder.
His father was a world famous musician and poet, and at 17 had released an album that changed rock music forever. Even people who didn’t like the music, had heard of the man. But the father was manic-depressive, and killed himself when his son was little. The boy grew up in his father’s shadow, burdened by his last name, and expectations to follow in his fathers’ steps. As the son’s 17th birthday approached, he felt crushed by the expectations on him.
Bonus idea: the dad’s body was never found, or he was declared dead in a foreign country under mysterious circumstances.
She was revived from her coma to find that 12 years had passed. Her three-year-old was now 15, and a stranger to her. She had nothing in common with her husband, who had been living with his former secretary. The world was different and strange, and the only person she felt any contact with was the secretary/new wife. The new wife felt that after devoting all her time to the child, she was finally waking up from a long nap.
As she got older she came to realize that there were street lights, sewer pipes, and freeway interchanges that were around before she was born, and would last well beyond her death. She found the idea horrible. But she soon realized there were stories and characters that had outlived entire civilizations. So she set about the task of creating stories for the prosaic things that would outlive her. Perhaps one story would outlive the thing itself.
In the late 70s the young con man saw easy pickings amongst the born-again faithful, and soon had his own television flock sending him money. He had women, money, power. In the mid 80s, when a young man from Columbia offered him a way to make even more money, by accepting large donations and funneling them back to a non-profit to benefit Columbian orphans, the preacher was unsure how to react. He now had children he cared for, and a thriving empire. But all that money…
The Ruling Party could admit no mistakes, no errors in judgement. The elites ruled, and the poor struggled to get by. When the rebels attacked The elites’ cloister, killing hundreds, it made world news. The government branded them insane agents of a foreign country, but could not admit to the deaths without seeming weak. They left it to a junior officer to make all the bodies disappear from both the world press and the families of the elite. His dilemma was both moral, and physical. Would the government turn on him if the scheme was discovered?
Was he autistic? Perhaps. But he’d done pretty well for himself, making his way to the state senate. He always practiced his speeches in front of the Frog Prince and Dr. Dodo, his stuffed childhood friends. Froggie always cheered him on enthusiastically, while Dr. Dodo offered good advice. It was the evening before the big speech when he discovered his maid had sent them out to be dry cleaned.
With the rise of a maker culture and random brilliant people creating things in their garage, a government organization comes up with a plan to tap into those independent thinkers. They notice how items from Star Trek: communicators, PADDs, even quantum teleportation, have come about driven by fan love. There are thousands of fans trying to create light sabers, even though they are ridiculous & impractical.They start salting science fiction films with devices they want to see built. They provide the imagination (and some production money for the films) in a long term goal of prodding brilliant fans to create impossibly difficult objects.
He always preferred reading & writing to playing sports. Macho posing made him ill, and watching confident guys pick up girls made it twice as bad. So of course he turned to a more refined world and wrote about things like concerts and culture, art and movies. Unfortunately the only job he could find was reviewing urban street art openings, rock concerts, and horror films. He became famous for pouring his hatred onto the page. He met a kindred soul promoting a swaggering rock singer, and they tried to find a way out of their self-loathing together.
Not all guilds died out in the mechanized era. The Guild of Saint Eloi saw what was coming and took on a more mystic nature, becoming a secret society: the Lord’s Order of Knife-Makers. The charismatic third leader noted the symbology of using small knives to cut larger knives, and took the arm further underground, seeing god as an infinite recursion into the miniscule. They came to worship The Infinite Edge. They are masters of the lasers and light, and enforce their secrecy with deadly silence.
Her dolphins were bored with their routine at the water park, so she asked her brother, a bicycle maker, to make some toys for them. His first attempt was a type of wheeled sled they could swim into and drive around the bottom of their pool. The press was so good, and the dolphins so happy, that they started work on a real bike that they could drive around the park. It had a body-sized tank and water cleaning filters, and a see-saw platform they used to self-propell around the visitors. The park was a huge success and each dolphin had his or her own bike. Until one day the dolphins swam out into the countryside to see the world for themselves.
It was tragic that the Presidential nominee’s son was killed in a car accident before the convention. Then the President’s sister passed away from food poisoning. An agent discovers a link between the two, and as the relatives of both men start dying, he tries to track a killer who seems determined to take out both families, while leaving the the two candidates and their security detail alone.
Ideabird News 8/30/12
Been gone the last week while getting kids back to school and working on a movie script. The last script I wrote involved too many special effects, and is currently beyond my means. This one is two people walking through the beauty of San Francisco. Stayed tuned for news. RIght now I am backfilling, so expect a batch at once. Tony
Our witness to Chinese history tells his children nothing about his past he has buried it completely. His daughter has the opportunity to study in America, and she implores her father to go with her. She knows nothing of his time in the uprising, and knows nothing about it, since the government has buried it so deeply. In San Francisco Chinatown they come across a replica of the Spirit of Democracy statue, and the story comes out.
His imagination never stopped, and it haunted him. He built up stories, movies, songs, plays, operas in his mind, but never had the time to record them. They say that each story is like your own child. Everywhere he went he saw the ghosts of all those children unborn, the stories never told. A number would remind him of a character he meant to write. A sunset would remind him of a film he meant to shoot. He loved those pieces he’d created, but everywhere he was haunted by those dream unwritten. And he knew that even the paltry half-life they had would perish with him.