#89. Forgotten Ideas, Imagination-Compost, and a New Haunting Short Story

Hello imaginative people. I’m Anna Tizard and this is episode 89 of Brainstoryum.
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There’s a feeling of change in the air. It’s not quite the end of summer, but in old Blighty we’ve had some long-awaited rain and it’s been a bit blowy. This is actually my favourite time of year: the cross-over period between end of summer and beginning of autumn. In retrospect, I think that might have influenced the short story I wrote and read out in the last show, which I’ll probably call The Shadow Harvest. It had an autumnal about it. At the time, I was stuck in a heatwave, being bitten by mozzies, hiding indoors whilst glugging who knows how many pints of water. I’m not so good in the heat. Sometimes all you can do is imagine your way out of a situation.
 
Anyway, a sense of change, a sense of newness, is stirring. And I finally got round to tidying my writing desk. Sort of. Just a bit. I have a disturbing number of A4 notepads which have built up over time, and it’s starting to put me off handwriting, like, ever. I usually only handwrite things in their early stages, but still. I’d got to the point where I couldn’t see my actual desk! Some pads just needed to be labelled up and put away. Others… I managed to chuck some out, but it was difficult. Sometimes it was difficult recognising some of the things I’d written. Before bunging these notepads in the bin, I salvaged some of the more curious phrases I don’t remember ever writing, including:
 
“The day it rained upwards.”
 
“Whispers in a quiet suburbia.”
 
“SHE LIED!” (All in capitals with an exclamation mark. No idea who that was, but apparently, I felt betrayed by this character.)
 
“It opened an eye and lifted one of its heads.”
 
I also found the phrases “The sniffable library”, “evil gnomes” and “the power of cheese”. No idea what I was thinking those days. It’s almost like you’re spying on another version of yourself. Thoughts you’ve had but don’t remember having.
 
Then a scribbled note: “Creativity = making shapes from the unknown.” I quite like that.
 
In the chaos—because when you tidy up, the irony is that you often create more mess before you can reach some kind of new order—a moment of serendipity: I accidentally tore off the corner of a really tea-stained, crumpled page, and discovered the raggedy edge had the word “edge” written on it, and nothing else. (It’s like it was meant to be! In a weird way.)
 
To handwrite or not to handwrite? That is the question. In some ways, it becomes a sort of void I’m throwing thoughts into, because not all of them get picked up. Once I start typing on my laptop, ideas start to morph and change, and become something different than what they started out as. You pick up on one or two ideas, and as you type, they start to sprout in whole new directions, with the rest of the original ideas you scribbled down potentially getting forgotten, lost.
 
Will I ever write about evil gnomes? Will ever really know the power of cheese? Perhaps not in the way that I’d originally envisaged. Those moments have passed and become lost in time.
 
Does it matter? Probably not, as thrown-away or forgotten ideas end up being a sort of invisible, mental compost to sink down into your unconscious mind and hopefully nourish whatever sprouts next. But it is a weird and messy process, and I think I just need to get better at labelling stuff. Also, the initial brainstorms I do for very early ideas: I should just score a line through the page when I’m finished with them, so it’ll be so much easier to make a quick, confident decision in future—oh yes, that’s okay to throw out. I don’t need to trawl through these piles of pads trying to work out, “What I was thinking…?”
 
Let me know what you think about handwriting versus typing. Does either one give you more of a creative or inspirational edge? I’d love to hear from you on this topic. Especially if you have any tips on staying organised and preventing loss of material through… well, sheer chaos like my desk tends to be. Get in touch and let me know your thoughts.
 
From the compost of forgotten ideas to new stirrings, new shoots emerging… But first I must share with you my talented listeners’ responses to a writing prompt that came out of the Socks of Destiny in the last show. 

Image by Ivana Tomášková - Writing (Pixabay)

The weird word combination that cropped up was “the dreaming sea mist.” I was very tempted to try and write a story based on this word combination in episode 88, it really struck me, but then I got distracted by “the shadowy lamp”, and once I got caught up in that idea, I had to follow the white rabbit all the way down the hole, and left the dreaming sea mist behind. Again, is this to become a forgotten bit of imagination-compost, to sink to the bottom and nourish the roots of another, future story? Who knows?
 
But how could I not suggest this enticing phrase to my listeners, and see what they’d come up with? I was not disappointed:
 
Nick Vracar wrote:
 
“Bailey had wanted to come home to her sleepy seaside town. She had to get away from the city, to relax, to reconnect with herself. When the mist rolled in she felt the hairs on her arms stand up, like she was being watched. When the mist came her dreams felt so vivid, so real.”
 
Very atmospheric. It brings a whole new meaning to ‘sleepy seaside town’. This scene really taps into the possibility of mists merging with dreams, and how that might feel. Thank you, Nick.
 
Alessandro Bozzo wrote a poem:
 
“I close my eyes and slumber there inside the dreaming mist.
The darkness takes me unaware inside the dreaming mist.
 
The starlight shimmers silently despite the dreaming mist.
The moonlight softly calls to me despite the dreaming mist.
 
I sense my soul as it floats away inhaling the dreaming mist.
I feel the others who've gone astray inhaling the dreaming mist.
 
I am grounded back to reality as I exhale the dreaming mist.
Astounded by my own mortality as I exhale the dreaming mist.
 
I awaken steeped in the sadness of those taken by the dreaming mist.
To sleep once more would be madness for I'll be taken by the dreaming mist.”
 
Just… hypnotic. And the change at the end as you zone out of the mist. Amazing, I love this. Thank you, Alessandro.
 
Mostly Paul aka Quantum Fairy on Bsky wrote:
 
“Focusing intently on a breaker, Ali watched the mist dispersing at the crest of the wave. The mist shimmered as if made of hundreds of fireflies, a telltale signature of a dreaming sea mist. The shimmering prompted Ali to alert the dreamfolk. Men and women rushed to their boats, their children trailing behind and carrying jars filled with spiders. While the men rowed toward the salty haze, the women spun nets from spider silk to capture the dreams in the webs before the mist returned to the sea, and its dreams lost to the depths.”
 
Now, this one has some curious world-building going on. Spider silk to catch dreams? I’m intrigued by these dreamfolk. When you first mentioned jars I wondered if they would be used to store the dreams. Again, a strange and striking idea unfolding about dreams being made of a real fabric. It’s so dreampunk. Thank you, Mostly Paul.
 
And finally:
 
Dale Tudge (known as Dale Tudge Humor on Bsky (for good reason) wrote:

(Laughing.) Thank you so much Dale Tudge, I am crying slightly!
 
Thank you to everyone who sent ideas, it’s fantastic—what an incredible range of ideas people have from the atmospheric and spooky to crazy humor.
 
And now it is time to reach into the Socks of Destiny.

 *SOCKS OF DESTINY ORGAN JINGLE*

This part of the show is un-transpose-able! There's much giggling and rustling as I pull words at random from the Socks of Destiny to create the following three sentences:

1. "The dreadful dormitory launched into a diatribe against the mouldy auditorium."
2. "The antiquated ice cream fenced in the buzzing diner."
3. "The lush spy perfected the craft of the vexed mathematician."

I then use the "pause button" (at length!) to draft a short story, using one of these as my chosen writing prompt. Here goes:

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The voice came deep and loud, and from everywhere at once.

“I know why you’re here. And you’ll never get rid of it.”

Mel stiffened where she lay. A minute ago, the worst thing about this dormitory was the knuckle of bed springs digging into her spine, while the candles flickered in anticipation.
But now the thing had spoken, by far the worst thing was staying in position, lying rigid, when every nerve in her body screamed, ‘Jump up!’

Mel glanced down. The nun nodded from her position on the floor, cross-legged on a cushion. Her black habit sunk so deep into the darkness that she was almost invisible, but Mel saw the finger that went to her lips, and the tiny nod.

Let the voice speak, Sister Maryanne had warned her, as she’d gathered candles and a torch, and a second bracelet of prayer beads which Mel slipped on with reluctant gratefulness. After all, she was hardly religious material. A property developer looking to turn this long-abandoned, sprawling campus of a boarding school into luxury housing, she’d realised from the long list of failed attempts to do so that something was amiss.

Just… not quite as amiss as this.

The candles wavered, where the nun had set them at intervals around the bed, as if to ward off the presence that shouted into the dusty tunnel of empty beds.

“…never get rid of it…”

Mel cringed, willing time to unwind itself, so she could go back and listen to the nun’s warnings properly this time, and decide not to come here. To just give up.

“The voice must wear itself out,” Sister Maryanne had urged, while Mel marvelled at the speed of the old woman, hurrying ahead on buckled, arthritic legs, her habit spilling behind her. “If you are to have any chance of expelling it, or the other issue in the assembly hall, then you must wait, and listen. Patience is a virtue…”

She twisted round to smile at Mel. “Courage, in the face of the unknown.”

The ‘other issue in the assembly hall’. Yes, that’s where it had all begun. The blue-black mould that kept creeping back, no matter how many times it was wiped off, sprayed, chemically treated—with no sign of moisture as its source.

But now, prostrate on this bed, which would surely whine with the slightest movement, it wasn’t patience that held Mel in place. It was absolute terror. Terror that froze the breath in her lungs while her heart hammered on regardless in her chest, in her ears.

The voice was… everywhere. It seemed more physical than the metal base of the bed, than the greasy-looking walls, than the stone-cold floor.

“Dirty, despicable creatures, messing up the place with their mud-caked shoes, their sticky little fingers. Then those old women, they think they’re kind but their stern faces could melt candle wax, sweeping about the dormitory as if the hems of their habits might clean it up. Nothing, nothing can make this place clean…”

Image by Tama66 (Peter H) on Pixabay

Through the adrenaline-tremors that threatened to creak the bed springs, Mel squeezed her eyes shut and tried to process these words logically. It was just as the sister said. First, a rant about the children. Next, the nuns. How long before it moved onto the thing inside the assembly hall?

“The thing…” Mel muttered between a juddering jaw. She caught herself, biting her tongue to stop, her mouth so dry she couldn’t even swallow.

The voice stopped.

The pause grew and swelled like a balloon. Its thoughts thumbing the darkness. A presence seeking, scouring the room, as if more keenly aware of Mel now, and trying to work out what to do with her.

“The thing in the auditorium”, it leaned down and whispered, close and urgent, as if the sound might reach down Mel’s collar. Words crawled over her skin, like little legs down her neck.

“The thing in the auditorium. Yes, that is a monstrosity indeed. How it infects the place. It was a bad day those spores entered the auditorium…”

Inwardly squirming against the closeness of the voice, Mel scrambled against the pressing terror to grasp at these shreds of information. Spores? And why did it say the ‘auditorium’, rather than just ‘assembly hall’? Was this a clue as to where the root cause lay—somewhere in the seating area rather than the podium itself? Not that that narrowed things down very much…

 *** 
 
I’m sorry! I had to stop there. What next? I’m not sure—yet. This story needs some more time. Mel needs time to work things out, if she can, with that voice breathing down her neck. But suffice to say, that this is how “The dreadful dormitory launched into a diatribe against the mouldy auditorium”.
 
The question may be, how badly does Mel want to get rid of this mysterious mould from the auditorium so she can make a nice, tidy sum from developing the haunted boarding school into a housing complex. And: what is this mould? What about the voice, too? It struck me as odd, quite unusual, that there are two ghosts here, and one is bitching about the other. Mel actually needs the one, at least for a little while, to give her clues as to how to get rid of the other. But then what? Can she really hope to exorcise both?
 
So many questions: but these are all ways in to the rest of the story. It’s partly the not-knowing, and the wanting to know, that pulls me further into the story. Just like when I’m reading someone else’s story, the mystery crooks its finger at me and that’s why I have to follow.
 
Now, it only remains for me to decide which word combination from today’s Exquisite Corpses I should suggest to you for your ideas. There were some pretty strange ones today, including a lush spy and a vexed mathematician. But I feel more intrigued by the “buzzing diner”. I nearly had a go at writing that one, so it feels like an unexplored avenue to me, and I’d like to know what you’d make of it. What would cause a diner, or something inside a diner, to buzz? Are we talking an electrical fault that no-one can seem to fix; or an infestation, or something more mysterious, sinister?
 
You know what to do: hit the contact button at annatizard.com and send me a paragraph or a poem before next Friday. I can’t wait to hear from you.
 
But before I go, let me leave you with one final phrase I came across during my notepad clear-out, scribbled sideways in a margin, in case this gets you in the mood for inspiration:

"To deliberately dwell in stillness and let the deep waters of your mind grow quiet: You can hear so much more, even if you only manage it for a few minutes. The silence is full of mysteries.”
 
Until next time, go forth and be inspired!
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