Little Nuggets in our Heads

Where do stories come from? How is it that we can think of strange tales in our heads? What is it that triggers the thread in our minds that becomes a story?

Longer stories and novels take more work, of course. Stories like ‘The Adepts’ and the ‘Ruthermore Heidigens’ series need time and effort. But their beginnings come from the same little kernels of thought from which short stories emerge.

This morning I was reading a post from a favourite commenter on ‘FaceBook’ and, at the same time, thinking about the bedroom. The two things together started pulling my head into one direction that was irresistible.

Like this:

I’m cold. Not shivery or numbingly cold but my feet are far from comfortable. The blanket is on the floor, must have kicked it off at some point this morning.

Morning? Is it morning? Who knows? Who can tell?

A glance at the thermometer at the end of the room tells me it is registering 23°. Centigrade. Cold.

Odd that. On our tours up in the cold belt it was -15° outside. If it dropped to -20° it was a cold snap; if it rose to -12° we were having a heat wave. Sort of a local joke. Perhaps only us military will understand that.

We kept our room heated to 17°. If we had it warmer, more comfortable, the fuel cells would run out before the end of the month when the resupply came in. No fuel for heating or cooking for a day or two.

We still had communications providing we kept the batteries warm. They had their own thermal wraps. Inside we should still have to keep our cold weather clothing on to survive. The room was insulated but it didn’t take long for the temperature to drop.

Outside the problem was the wind. Constant wind that burnt the face if you didn’t secure your mask. Of course, you had to unclip the mask to fire your rifle or risk smashing the thin plastic with the recoil of the weapon.

Then you had to clip the mask back on quickly to prevent frostbite on your nose and ears.

That clip was always a problem. We had thin tactical gloves that kept the hands warm—sweaty sometimes, but they were thick enough to hinder feel. We often told our Higher Echelons that another type of fastener would be better. ‘Velcro’, perhaps.

We didn’t need our rifles very much, to be honest. Only to practise at the target runners. I only ever fired my rifle three times in anger. Each time I had to pay for the round fired. No bodies were found so there was no evidence. “Unauthorised Expenditure of Government Ordnance”, it said on the chit that I got every time.

I remember the first time very clearly. We were on patrol in a blizzard. Close to the room; in those conditions you never went farther than the rope that secured you to the room and the next guy in line.

I saw a movement. Hazy, through the snow. Unclipped the mask and brought the rifle up, sights ‘ON’, safety ‘OFF’ and align the sights. Nothing for a few moments.

I muttered into the throat microphone, “Target 017°.”

Somebody, it sounded like Sgt 598, replied softly, “Check, identify, fire.”

The laser finder in the sight turned red just as I saw the blurred shape again. I fired. Certain that I had heard a soft thud I lowered the rifle and clipped the mask back on.

I returned the rifle to a ‘safe’ condition and confirmed ‘kill’ with the Sergeant.

“Good, Trooper 477. We will confirm when the weather clears. Let’s get in.”

It was quiet back in the room. My bunk was on the bottom of the four layers; I was still too junior to get a top bunk where it was warmer up by the ceiling.

We all knew who was junior and who was senior by our numbers. None of us had names. Maybe the Higher Echelons knew our names but nobody else did.

I was on the top bunk now. Two tours in the cold belt and three in the tropics had earned me the right to any bunk I wanted.

I looked at the thermometer again. 23°. Yet it felt cold. Because we were accustomed to 40° outside in the tropical belt.

We were surrounded by jungle. Hot and really humid jungle. Everything was wet. If you weren’t very careful you got fungus and mildew everywhere. There were stories about people dying from the mildew; they got eaten up by it. Stories. Apocryphal, no doubt.

The fence that divided North from South ran through the middle of our room—well, not inside, obviously!

They say the fence went all around the World. We don’t know. We were told to stop anyone going through it. There were 2,000 Volts in the fence. We couldn’t believe anyone would go through it. Nobody told us which direction this ‘enemy’ was supposed to come from. Just ‘stop them’ was the order.

One of our junior members slipped on one of the trails. His rifle touched the fence. He went limp. He was dead. He never sparkled or jumped around, he just went limp. We looked at him for a moment and then removed all his gear. We left the body there. The jungle needed it more than we did.

We often found animals that had bumped into the fence. Dead. Eyes staring at some distant horror. If they were small enough we threw them off the track into the jungle for the jungle to eat. We couldn’t risk eating them ourselves.

One morning we were mowing the track for the target runners. Practise time. We had found a strip between the trees that was, relatively, straight. We kept it clear of vegetation so we could use the target runners there.

A target runner is the size of a tennis ball. From the centre axle on the ball there is a rod each side, the rods are as tall as I am. They are joined at the opposite end to the ball by a horizontal bar. The periphery of the ball has four ‘legs’ a little shorter than the rods. By standing the ball on the rods the ball can be rotated to wind up the spring, letting it go means the ball will now spin the legs and go loping off at quite a high speed. The rods stop the ball spinning.

Nobody wants to be the person to set the ball going.

There is always a clever person who will take a pot-shot at it while the guy releasing the ball is still holding it.

These troopers I work with are not very bright. Some of them are mentally inert. When someone plays a really funny joke like that he finds himself lashed to the end of the bunk beds and the truth beaten into him.

People have died releasing the ball. Usually they are people who have tried the joke. We’ve lost a few troopers like that. Extra rations for us and nobody ever queries their death. Just a number to rub off the board back at HQ.

I pull up my blanket, get snug and rub my eyes. It is time to get out of bed and check my kit—clean the rifle.

Just feel a bit lazy this morning. Morning? Is it morning? Maybe. There are no windows in the room.

Who is making the breakfast today. If it’s morning we need breakfast. There was talk yesterday of beans and eggs on toast with real coffee from the Colony.

Talk. There is always talk. The World is full of rumour.

Most of it is generated by stupidity. One of the Troopers said that his number is 588167, he wondered where the other 580,000 Troopers were. I told him it was unlikely that anyone would be number one. They all looked at me as if I had just fallen out of a tree.

I take a deep breath. More of a sigh really, I suppose.

A sliding sound makes me open my eyes. I feel restrained as if I’m in a box. There’s a bright light in my eyes, I can’t see anything.

The light moves. Still I can see nothing.

“Be calm, be still,” a gentle voice tells me, “Just rest. It takes a while to adjust, 477.”

After a while I sit up and look over to Sgt. 598’s box. It was still sealed.

The young lady in the tight white uniform put her hand on my shoulder, “He didn’t make it. I’m sorry, Cpl.”

I’d been promoted, then.

She was accustomed to seeing us all naked so there was no embarrassment at watching me dress while she wrote down her findings.

“You are assigned two tours in HQ,” she told me, her hand resting gently on my chest.

I smiled back.

“First? Breakfast, please.”

She grinned.

This is a story that has just come straight out of the head. It is rough, no work done on it or editing. Just basic ‘spell-check’.

It would, perhaps, in future form the framework of a ‘proper’ story. Something that could be worked up into something more cohesive, more logical, more... flowing.

Very often, starting with a blank sheet—as with art, is, or can be, daunting. I have said to you before; spoil it. Write or draw anything just to make that virginal white piece of ‘paper’ yours. Now you have conquered it.

It may be that this story, after work on it, will appear as nothing like the story that is written above but it is a start. It is a base from which we can climb higher up the mountain in short, easy stages.

Nobody said that writing, or art in any form, is easy. It takes practise, dedication and support from friends and, most importantly, family.

Many years ago, when I was a Corporal in Her Majesty’s Royal Air Force, a snotty young Flight Lieutenant was the editor of the Station Magazine. Every month I sent in an article (beautifully written, as you may suppose) and a cartoon, which they dutifully published. One month I took in a short story to the ‘Editorial Office’. This young whippersnapper looked at it and asked me what it was. I told him that it is a short story for the Station Magazine.

He laughed. At me!

He said, “I hardly think that a Corporal in the Technical Trades is able to string together sufficient words to form a cohesive sentence let alone write a story that would interest anyone above, say, five years old.”

He laughed again.

Now who is the idiot?

Don’t let others limit your ambitions. You know you better than anyone else.

Your ambition will not be achieved in one bound but many small steps.

Take that first one NOW!