It started spitting out half-shredded documents. The top half of a resignation letter, the bottom half of a secret salary negotiation. A fragment of a doctor’s note next to a piece of a romantic haiku someone wrote on a sticky note and meant to throw away. The shredder was curating a gallery of office shame.
The office descended into a pre-digital dark age. Handwritten memos were passed furtively under desks. Conversations were whispered in the break room, far from the shredder’s hungry maw. The beast sat in the corner, humming a low, grating tune that sounded suspiciously like the elevator music played during the annual sexual harassment training. paper jam shredder
Bob stared at the tiny bead of blood. Then he stared at the shredder. The shredder’s green “Ready” light flickered, then turned a deep, pulsing crimson. It started spitting out half-shredded documents