Competing with Ghosts

My publisher approved of everything. The two of our entries got submitted to an online page where readers could vote on which short piece came out better. The prompt was to write something involving babies and lost socks. This prompt came into mind as I saw a mother carrying her crying baby down the street with a sock missing.
My take on the prompt resulted in a very short story about the mother and baby searching for the sock, but a bird took it to use it for its nest.
John, on the other hand, use the sock as an analogy for lost dreams, then had the baby and mother preform on a stage a dramatic burial of the sock, all the while a crowd of masked babies watched from afar. Once the ritual was over, the mother handed back the sock to the baby.

Most people agreed that John had the better idea, but a rougher execution compared to my finely written piece of boredom.
The result is that, yet again, I have lost to John Smyth. Any and all reasons for trying to beat him now should be rationally thrown out the window. What George said when we first met holds a lot of merit now.

I can’t beat him.

But I can continue to use him.
I would have never even tried to come up with such a take on a prompt. This one test has shown me that John has untapped creative potential.
James stands by the door that leads out of the work room as I pace around. He does not speak to me this time. Again, do I appear that angry?
    “James, what would you suggest I do here?”
    “Do you have plans of your own?”
He responds in a normal tone, meaning he is not scared of a potential outburst of rage from me.
    “I plan on using him for the further development of my story.”
    “Ah. You did say that you were lacking in ideas. He might break through.”
    “That’s right. So, from now on, instead of taking his place I’ll be working alongside him.”
This is an announcement that he needs to hear. This is something I have to say, because if I say it then it is real. My intent has been made real through these vocal chords of mine, and someone has beared witness to them.
    “Your father will disapprove of this. Do keep in mind that he will return soon to have another meeting with you.”
    “I am aware, thank you.”
And that is how the morning began. It continued with my non-rushed routine, and ended with me arriving at the university.

The usual routine that I went by in the university was interrupted by several passerbys, one of which was a woman of posh nature.
    “Why good morning, Miss Bedwyn.”
    “Good morning to you too.”
    “Is it true that you’re the owner of John Smyth?”
A shock went through my spine when those words reached my eardrums. Owner?
    “Could you elaborate on what you mean by ‘owner’?
    “Huh? I thought the title was self explanatory. Then let me ask you clearly. Do you own John Smyth?”
    “I do not.”
She stepped back with a slight look of disgust masked by a friendly smile.
    “Oh. I see. Well, pardon my mistake. I hope you have a pleasant day, Miss Bedwyn.”
    “You too.”
Her friendly expression dropped to one of confusion as she turned around and walked away.
More passerbys interrupted my walk to ask me the same question. I had to painstakingly tell everyone that I did not, in fact, own John Smyth.

I almost told this fact to John Smyth himself, as he unexpetidly showed up in my path.

    “Oh, it’s Alice.”
    “Speak of the devil. Listen, I have another competition proposal for you.”
With all of the talk about John and my ownership of him, I almost lost sight of what I wanted to do with him today.
    “What is today’s challenge?”
He asks with a hint of casualness so irritating you could smell him not taking this proposal seriously.
Well, I will. This is necessary for my existence as a creator. I cannot walk this path alone, so you are being roped into it as the best person on this campus. Be grateful.

…
He agreed to it. Of course he did. The location of the battleground would be the abandoned classroom yet again. Once he accepted, he left in his usual style of not really caring about the current situation. It’s extremely off-putting how despite how challenge hungry he is, he still acts like it’s nothing to him. It’s weird. He’s weird. This whole situation is weird and it’s because of him.
More passerbys assaulted my right to walk freely to my class. Some even congratulated me for obtaining John before George did. This statement almost made by brain explode when I first processed it and the implications behind it.
He’s viewed as a hard worker to own and exploit. Another resource to extract.
If all these people are asking my about him, then am I a part of the problem?
I want to use him for my own ends too, but not like that. I don’t want to own him.
This brings to mind a question so profound it makes me drown out all of the comments at conversation coming in around me.

This is clearly a role John has taken up. He willingly chose to become the public facing star that he is. But he has never even suggested a reason as to why he’s doing this. If he does not want to become a underling of the elite, then why is he trying so hard to get all this exposure? What is it that he wants from the end of his four years?

JUST WHAT IS HIS DEAL?

Anger and frustration over this problem that cannot be solved immediately or through thinking served as the fuel I needed to accelerate my pace into my next class.
The day passed me by due to my anger.

Before I knew it, I was slamming open the abandoned classroom door once more. The movement was so fierce that I feared I might have damaged the wall. Thankfully, it looked stable. As did John, who was unphased by this sudden entrance of mime.
This time there was no George to be found in the room.
John did a small wave and addressed my entrance.
    “Hi.”
The way he seemingly did not care about my sudden enterence did piss me off a little, but I managed to hold it in.
    “Apologies John. Kept you waiting, huh?”
    “Yes, you did.”
After closing the door much gently to compensate for my earlier handling of it, I approached John’s desk, who this time sat near the windows at the top of the classroom.
    “So, what’s the scenario this time?”
He asked this as I was reaching for my spare laptop.
    “I want you to write about-.”

…
We set the time for this challenge to be another two hours, agreeing that early finishes are not allowed this time. Since no one can focus for two full hours, we interrupt our writing with short drink breaks.
During one that I spontaneously took, I glanced over at John.
His war on the laptop’s keyboard remained uninterrupted by my sudden staring. That constant patter of the keys was frequently interrupted by sudden second breaks, as if he was contemplating what to write next.
However, he did have the look of someone being stabbed in the gut. Is he not enjoying this? His last work did not indicate that such a task would bring him pain, so why is he looking like this now? Is it the prompt?

    “Hey.”
It was a spontaneous urge that I acted upon. I did not think those words would come out, but they did.
They might as well not have come out at all, with how they did not warrant a reaction from John. He remained painfully locked on the screen of the laptop.
    “Hey.”
I intentionally repeated my words in a more commanding tone.
His key presses continue to ring out across the room.
    “Do you have any regrets?”
Any outside interference remained blocked off.
    “Any fears?”
Nothing can break through that barrier of his.
    “Any aspirations?”

…
The sounds of typing continue. That pained expression continues.
Just what is his deal?
Seeing this for the futile effort that it is, I returned to typing out my version of the prompt.

…
“Annnd done.”
The alarm we set began to ring, we both sighed and stretched at the same time. It’s odd that this happened again. We even looked at eachother at the same time. His face still remained contorted in various painted feelings.
He wasn’t like this when I challenged him to the accounting or business exams. This must be the way to push him into opening up.

    “Thanks John, I’ll upload it again.”
    “Thank you for your time Alice.”
Without saying much, he left the room in a ghostly manner, as if something was haunting him.