I'm still not too terribly worried about posting a lot... But just so there's something here, I found this in my random archives of stuff. It's weird. I like it. I wrote it a long time ago. Well, like last year. Or this summer. So not that long ago. I'm rambling.
What Lies in Wait…
It’s getting closer. I swear, every day, that thing – that monster – gets closer to me. It’s like a lion, waiting to pounce. A big, gray, ugly lion with teeth like a whale. A metal whale.
I’ve prayed every day. Every day, morning to night. I mean, there’s not much else to do. I’m on the top. I’m the ugliest – the one with the most scribbles, the most notes. And all of the notes on me are completely irrelevant to Stacy’s writing. Oh the awful mess I’ve gotten myself into. When I was packaged, all I could think was, I can’t wait for what my life will be. And when I was opened by a writer – I can’t express the joy I felt! Stacy loves paper like me. But that thing, that evil thing she owns. I don’t know why such a kind girl would own one.
I’ve watched paper after paper go through it’s maw. It’s eaten them up, torn them asunder, killed them. Painfully, too. Stacy can’t hear them scream. But I can.
It’s awful. When I was young, when I’d only been written on once, I saw my Uncle Curtis descend into the grip of the beast. I couldn’t avert my gaze. It was horrible. Just plain horrible.
Stacy doesn’t think a thing of it. She just – pop! – sticks my friends and family in the shredder and down they go, down they fall, dragged to their deaths, agonizingly slow. Sometimes it breaks, in the middle of a paper, and Stacy has to walk over and smack the thing until it starts up again. It’s terrifying to watch.
But you know what’s more terrifying?
I’m right next to it!
I’ve been here for a week. She was looking for some old notes the other day, the ones with the ideas for the story about the subway and the Nazi, and she moved my pile, which was far away on the opposite side of the room. And she carried all of us, then put us directly next of the shredder, on the top of a file cabinet.
If only she would file me away. If only she had written something good on me. Not some stupid ideas about some kid named Leo and the adventures he has riding the world on his magic motorcycle. That may have been a valid idea, possibly, but the motorcycle talked. Who does that? Who writes a story about a talking motorcycle?
Insane people, that’s who. Not that Stacy isn’t amazing, she’s wonderful, but – oh no. No, no, no! Here she comes! Here she comes!
She’s reaching… reaching… oh. Okay. Not my pile. Albert’s pile, though. She won’t shred Albert. He has some good ideas on him. But – wait, no! There he goes! Oh, the horror! There he goes, sucked into the eternal scrap abyss.
What a waste of a good life. She recycles, mind you. But to shred, then recycle? It’s like beating someone up then giving them some painless poison… it’s so cold-blooded.
Poor, poor Albert. I’ll miss him.
Wait, she’s reaching again – what is it, cleaning day?
Is she headed towards me? She can’t be.
… Yes she is!
No – no, no! She’s picking us up! OH, THE HUMANITY!