Prompt: Write from the point of view of a stack of paper a few inches from the shredder.
I settled slowly into place, feeling heavier than I ever had. They put me there in view of my fate - right in sight of my execution. I wanted to float away, but that's hard for a piece of cardstock.
If only I was tissue paper, brightly striped lime tissue paper. Light enough to be picked up by the slightest breath of air and carried away from the whirring of my death, the clatter of my destiny.
So I sat there, unavoidably heavy, anticipating the crunching, crumpling pain that would slowly consume me and turn me into little shreds of nothing as they fed the machine. I waited my turn, imagining what it would be like to simply fall off the table and drift away.