Writing Prompt #3

Write from the point of view of a stack of paper a few inches from the shredder…

The metallic jaws gnashed together as the sleek, dirtied paper slid inside. The wrinkled hands feeding it in didn’t even flinch. They methodically picked a piece from the pile next to me. Without Hesitation. GGGRRRZZZZ, it roared. The hands, mere ashen, dull from what may have been years of cigarette smoking, a white tan line existed where a ring once rested, puckering up the chubby flesh around it. Sad hands. Sad hands that were about to reach the end of the pile beside me. GGGRRRZZZZ, the hellish droning continued. I could feel the air thinning around me, next, my entity , my purpose of once carrying important data would be extinguished with one swoop of this hand. The slot would appear where I’d meet my untimely end. The razor edges would grip me, I’d be split into unfathomable pieces. Back to the earth. Back to where I came from.

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