'Alright, stompers take your places! Ready'¦.and'¦.STOMP!'
Thus began the Seventh Annual Midget Stomping Challenge at the state fair. I'd spent all night shining my stomping boots and paid special attention to the spurs which I cleaned with cat urine. Cat urine, according to midget stomping forums, was the best spur polish available and the only reason I had a cat. The most difficult part of the evening was trying to get the cat to pee in a vial.
All the while my composition book rested on my desk at home, entertaining ghosts and collecting cat hair. It haunted me. It glared at me with its accusing, non-existent eyes when I came through the door, reeking of urine and midget blood. It didn't care that in my hands was the 1st place trophy.
'You know, I've been text messaging you for hours,' the composition book said.
Sheepishly I stuttered, 'I, uh, didn't have my phone on me. It was in the car.'
'Of course it was,' the composition book said in that infuriating, smarmy, papery voice.
'You know'¦.I don't deserve this! I'll write in you when I'm good and ready!'
The composition book pulled its robe across its chest and lit a cigarette.
'I called my mom. She'll be staying for the weekend. My dad says I'm wasting my time with you. I mean, he only contains the outline of Fahrenheit 451 so it's not like he would know.'
I looked away. I couldn't face it. How could I compete with Ray Bradbury? So far I'd only written a half-assed attempt at a short story about a superhero named Papercut and a shopping list in the composition book.
'Just go away,' I said, 'I'll sleep on the couch.'
The composition book laughed. It snubbed out the cigarette and said, 'You do that. If you don't mind I'm going to take The Stand with me to bed.'
'You're a monster!'
*
Three days later and little had changed. The composition book began tearing pieces of itself and leaving notes for me.
I could have been the next 1984. One note read.
Joseph Heller is spinning in his grave. Read another.
It was beginning to affect all aspects of my life. It would call me at work and recite Pablo Neruda poetry until I hung up. It took an ad out in the paper seeking 'Intelligent writer who will not waste good paper with shopping lists and stupid stories about superheroes who inflict paper cuts.'
I'd had enough.
My eyes were vermillion from lack of sleep and the bags beneath them looked like bruises. I purchased a bottle of Jose Cuervo and downed ΒΌ of it on the front porch.
I burst through the door with the fury of a thousand disenfranchised writer's fueling me. There it was, watching Book-TV as usual.
I grabbed my favorite pen from the coffee table, then thought better of it. I retrieved a Crayola crayon from my bedroom.
'What are you doing with that?' the composition book asked as it muted the TV.
'I'm going to create my masterpiece,' I said, slaver trailing from either corner of my mouth.
I subdued the composition book with little trouble and began. I began to write the worst, depressingly absurd poetry with even more terrible illustrations.
'No! No! You can't do this! I was going to be great! Noooooo!'
The caterpillar in the tree
The caterpillar smiled at me
He is my friend
I love him until the end
96 pages later and the composition book stopped struggling.
'You'¦bastard'¦' it said, breathless.
'You know, this gives me a really good idea for a story,' I said.
