|Photo credit: FeatheredTar|
Anyway, here's my attempt at the same assignment.
The whole world spins as I'm snatched from the pile of paper. The horrible freedom and loneliness of missing the page on top of me is over and I imagine my sister below me is now feeling the same.
I feel ink soaking into my fibers. Nice quality ink. Fountain pen. Fine tip, I think. What? You think I don't know these things because I'm just a piece of paper? You pick up quite a bit at the stationery store. We pages whisper amongst ourselves as the building sighs and settles into the empty night.
Ooh! Careful now. No need to cross anything out quite so violently. I can tear, you know. I know what she's thinking. Artistic temperament. Writing the great American novel. Scribbling it, more like.
Ow. Hey! I'm in a whole new shape and the world just flew by. so I'm guessing crumpled and thrown the the trash. Well, that was a disappointment. Not that I expected to have something of major historical importance written on me so I'd be preserved forever. But this? She didn't write a single thing on me worth saving? Sheesh.
It's some comfort to be back among some of my sisters, at least. Ah, the futility of existence. Especially when you're inanimate.