A man, a writer, speaks quietly to himself in his office, trying to start a story, “A woman aboard a train closes her book to glance out the window. Vast fields of snow go on for--”, he groans, “No, no, no. Still not right.”

The wind harshly rattles the window pane as Writer throws another piece of paper at the trash bin. Frustrated and defeated, Writer slams his head down on the desk and continues to wallow.

The discarded paper is full of meaningful words, but of course not the right ones. “Meaningful” words, who is to say what makes words meaningful: Writer would say all words are wrong. Whereas the Idea would say all words have meaning. It is the Idea from Writer that creates life, even on something like a piece of paper. Considering Idea was given life, only to be thrown away by her creator was a bit rude. If that was meant to be Idea’s life, she didn’t care for Writer. To be forgotten and dismissed so easily, that wasn’t right to her. In fact, she despised it. Writer needed to be taught that even if an idea, such as it was, didn’t fit it could still work with enough care.

So, Idea shakes dirt off herself and stood up, only to find that she was incredibly small in this world of the Writer’s office. Things in Writer’s office towered high above her from her position on the floor. Idea was only a couple centimetres tall. Filled with something that Idea could not put a name to, she glanced at the surroundings. Half way across the world was a giant—Writer to the rest of us humans—working away, scribbling harshly. A towering redwood desk is yards away from Idea, so far that it resembles a mountain. Unreachable and daunting. But the desk was in the right-most corner of a moderately small room. Books of classic myths line the metal wall-shelves, though there is the odd published work from Writer scattered along the wall as well. The normal things surround the desk, spare paper, stapler, tape, pens, typewriter paper-weight, and a small browning plant given by a friend. Though, none of that matters to Idea, they don’t need to know what a plant is or what it does.  

What Idea needs is a plan. There is no conceivable way that it could roll itself up the desk. Unless, something could aid in catapulting it upwards. Like a broom positioned at just the right angle, or a stray plank and a triangle block to balance on. But either of those options will not work. Firstly, the room was cleaned by the circle robot vacuum or Roomba®—that had ‘Dusty’ labelled on the sleek black top—and lastly, only cartoons had the latter option. What was a paper ball to do?

Idea rolls back and forth in stress. Revenge is an overwhelming thought, but that is all Idea could fixate on. How dare this cruel world jeopardize much needed revenge. How could a ball of paper even reach Writer? Revenge and frustration swallow Idea whole; in the heat of the moment, Idea rolls violently into a tall lamp and it rattled violently before stopping.

“What—who are you?” The lamp looked frightened, the bulb flickering as if it were rapidly blinking.

“I’m Idea, and I guess I woke you up? Terribly sorry but would you like to be a part of my rebellion against the giant over yonder?” The lamp finally got its bearings, rocked back and forth as if nodding. Idea didn’t know what lamp could really do other than start a fire, and Idea didn’t want to kill Writer. Not really, if possible a maiming would do, just to teach a lesson of course. The power of life is a wonderfully dangerous thing to have, so Idea would have to be careful lest---

Idea filled with power rolled towards a dirty sock, the trash bin, a carpet and gave them life. They lined up, and after a shock like the lamp, got into action and followed their leader into battle. They shouted, “What is our purpose?” to which Idea replied with, “Nothing! I was just trying something!” For you see, Idea had realized her power: the ability to give life (like Writer gave to her). Which for now was limited to inanimate objects. If by rolling into something made it come alive, Idea wonders what other powers she could have? Again, how could she be discarded when the potential for greatness was so high? If only Writer could see and be willing to put in hard work, to be able to find the right words for once. Idea knew she would have to get to him in order to do that. She looked at her collected army.

However ready these items were, they were not ready for Idea to disregard them. Instead she attempted multiple times to un-ball herself before asking her army to help. Together, they flattened her edges and with great care folded her into a semi-sturdy plane. Thankfully, the other scattered and discarded papers on the floor taught Idea flight or at least how to instruct the others with folds and general shape. Idea grabs, more accurately bumps, onto a stapler and whispers its devious plan. If Writer can’t see reason then it’ll have to be by force. The stapler moves in a clattering manner and bites the Writer’s long jacket sleeve latching it to the desk as in descends. Meanwhile Idea rolls over to the pens, all but one awakens and stab a note: witness the wrath of your words!

Writer grumbles from his sorrow. He had hoped to bang sentences into his head. But all that came was pain and anguish. He must be a hack, how else could he have published works while not being able to create another, no matter how hard he tried. There was no point in delaying the inevitable, he would have to face his editor in the morning. Writer missed another deadline. He sat up straight, ready to see the empty desk and therefore empty hope. But instead he saw something rather strange. A stack of papers had arranged itself on his desk. Idea shakes in wordless glee, keeping herself still as Writer reaches over. He brings the stack closer to himself, and sees it has words written. The title page reads “An Idea Battles the Writer.” And just like that, with a chorus singing and an epiphany raising the items that were given life, had it taken away just as quickly and all at once.