The Shredder, by Sheila Ash

‘Tis an unforgiving place. Directionally confused, every way the same. The madness of regularity, row after row, pattern repeat after repeat, two this way, two that, two up, two down. A log pile of packed-tight, pointed bevels. Lying flat, I’m nudged across, grazed by their crevasses, a restless guru on a bed of nails. Outer walls encroach at a slow, steady, inexorable pace. Resolutely, this advancing army of swords prods me, their prey. Their double edge serrations shave my soul. This machine annihilates all in its path. Stripped. I am but dust.