He was making sure the noose was secure when the purple paper mach? blob he had made in the fourth grade rolled off his bookshelf and onto the floor. It settled comfortably next to his bedpost and looked up at him with curious button eyes. He didn’t like the thought of his feet kicking it around as he swung from the ceiling fan, so as it happened, Emmert Dalter was bending down to pick up the little purple blob when it quivered its little black smile of yarn and spoke to him.
“Hi! Why are you killing yourself?” it asked cheerfully.
Emmert froze, his hand stuck outstretched towards the blob as if he was trying out a stylish new nightly exercise. A rather underappreciated spongey bit in the back of his mind considered that the voice of the purple thing was what a bunny would sound like, if a bunny could talk. A rather overrated spongey bit of his mind, however, made him say the following:
“Awuhh.. woh.. whah?“
The blob shifted slightly in a manner that suggested it would be rolling its eyes, if they weren’t made of buttons. “You dink! You think I don’t know what you’re up to with a knot in your face to match the one on that silly jumper cable you’re holding? Tell me why you’re going to kill yourself before I wake up the others!”
Emmert sat down, hard. A thousand things ran through his mind, the most prominent of which was the decided convenience of going completely insane shortly before he hung himself.
“Oh, and let me tell you,” it pipped again, “that yellow cable is totally going to clash with your brown shirt when you’re swinging around from that fan. Do you even remember me?”
It took Emmert a moment to quietly settle into his new reality.
“Yes, I do remember you. I was supposed to be making a walrus for our study on mammals in Mr. Lenton’s class. You’re purple because purple’s my favorite color. You’re a blob because… well, I was never that great with my hands.”
Silence.
“What did you call me?” shrieked the blob.
“Er.. purple?”
“After that!”
“A blob?”
“YES, EMMERT SCOTT DALTER, YOU CALLED ME A BLOB. I AM A SCULPTURED WALRUS, A VERY FINELY SCULPTURED WALRUS I MIGHT ADD, AND I KINDLY ASK YOU TO REMEMBER THAT.”
Emmert was nodding and smiling now; it is human nature to smile at little indignant creatures screaming in tinny voices. In the midst of his amusement, his original plans for the night slipped back into mind. He turned around and started wrapping one end of the cable around the top of the ceiling fan.
blarkgjhxcfhaidcoius I hate writer’s block I hate writing stories I’ll finish this story later when I form a point for it in my mind