*The Pointless Writer*
has a life you're completely uninterested in. But it's okay because I can write. No abbreviations. No shoddy grammar (though I'm not immune to mistakes). Just quality writing on sometimes completely pointless topics.
UnPoints of Note
1. I write when fancy takes. Sometimes, fancy takes many months of leave.
Life as an 'A' Level Paper
It’s a ridiculously hot world. The people around me do not seem to have grasped the concept of personal space, infringing on mine in the warmest possible way. I feel thin and flimsy, and am crushed on both sides by other Flimsies, but I don’t crinkle because we are all so hot it is impossible to.
Bit by bit we cool off, and I hear annoyed whispers as the uppermost sheets start to crinkle as we, as a stack, are bumped violently into all sorts of unknown creatures by the being that made us. My edges soften under the pressure of the being’s hands. I feel so fragile.
Life in the stack is a short one. We are packaged into bundles and wrapped up. I’ve never been on top, so I’ve never seen sunlight, and I don’t understand the uppermost sheets’ complaints about the darkness.
There seems to be no movement for an eternity.
And then, terror! We are fed into a grinding, noisy machine that devours us! But inside, things don’t seem so bad. I am tickled by rollers and splashed at with ink. It’s hot, almost like when we first came to be.
It is almost with regret that I leave the machine. I have been tattooed. That was quite an exciting experience. We all rustle in irritation as we are roughly neatened. Aargh! A searing pain explodes from one of my corners. I realise that we have been joined by a mysterious metal being, a powerful one that causes our consciousnesses to merge.
I feel… Larger. More powerful. Less fragile. I am more. I’m a stack!
As I ponder, I realise my tattoos are not random. As I dwell on them, they form words, sentences, questions.
After another eternity, with many other beings who claim to have the same tattoos as me, I see light again. I am thumped roughly onto a hard plastic surface. I listen to the air conditioners whirr. I feel the air currents sweep across my grainy surface. I flap when something walks past me briskly, bringing with it a terrible wind.
Before long, I hear a terrifying growl and I quake in an ensuing gush of air. More beings than I have ever met shuffle ominously into the huge cavern I have been placed in. A scraping sound nearly scares the words off my page. And heat seeps through my pages as a being sits before me, overshadowing me, blocking out part of the bright light. Nervous sweaty palms rest themselves on my cover page. Disgusting. I’m damp.
The being inconsiderately rustles my pages and does not even have the decency to neaten me properly. Eventually he lifts my cover page again, and after a pause, starts tickling me with a pen. Blue ink stains me, dancing with my black tattoos. Here and there the being angrily inks out the blue tattoos. I ponder the dancing of the black and blue tattoos, and admire the dancers that go together, and hate the ones that don’t. Now and then, the being strikes out the mismatched blue dancers, and replaces them with the right ones. And I am pleased.
Write write write. Scratch scratch tickle. Ink strike ink. The being flips through me and writes a lot less. He flips through me again, watching the dancers dance. He flips through me a third time. I’m getting irritated because I’m tired of being flipped. I want to be neatened.
A booming vibration passes through my atoms. The being shuffles me back into place feverishly, violently. I wait and wait and wait, as I’ve always done. I’m picked up and squished together with another paper. Before long, we form a stack, comparable with the one I was first a part of.