Short Story Project - 7th March

Sam impatiently read through the intelligence reports again. The feeling had begun as a gentle nibbling at the back of his mind, but that nibbling slowly became a gnawing. Then, as if this imaginary, now what would best describe it? Thing? This imaginary thing seemed satisfied with the taste, and it began biting out chunks of his mind. At the end of it all, Sam was not sure whether he was feeling light-headed or heavy-headed.

Sam re-read the paragraph he thought he had understood. By themselves, the words made perfect sense, but strung together into a sentence and into a paragraph, Sam only saw squiggles and line breaks. And that gnawing was still eating into him.

Munch, munch.

The light-headed/heavy-headed sensation left Sam confused. This confusion made him more irritable. This irritable nature made him lose concentration. This went against his very nature of being focused and hardworking. And that added to the gnawing going on in his mind, worsening his light-headed/heavy-headed sensation. It was a vicious cycle.

Munch, munch.

Why, Sam? What would you get out of it? Sam disregarded the thoughts, trying to convince himself that they belonged with the gnawing. He had to look through the intell reports. He had to find a weakness in the enemy formation. He had to find out why Col. Chua had been so cold lately. He had to find out the optimal weapon mix for his suit. He had to recalibrate its gyroscopic actuators. He had to deal with all the problems in the world.

Munch, munch.

“ARGH!” Sam stood up, grabbed the chair he was sitting on and tossed it across the briefing room. He pulled at his flight-suit pockets, pulling them in every direction. (In hindsight, he wondered what good that could have done to release his anger.) He kicked another chair away, then stomped towards the wall, driving his fist into the cool, metallic surface. The wall did not yield to his punch but instead sent a jarring shock through his skeletal structure into his cranium. What the f**k are you doing, Sam? Who the hell do you think you are? You’re not some superman, you’re just a boy. You’re just a lonely teenager who can’t even read a paragraph of the intell report properly, dammit. Silly boy. You think you can even punch through this Effiminium wall? Get a grip. You’ll have these bruises on your knuckles for a few days just to remind you what a silly person you are. Sam sobbed. His knuckles throbbed with pain; nerve endings firing electrical signals wildly. He couldn’t punch through a wall. He had to remember that. He had to write it down. He had to write a letter to his family. -Jimmy