Paper One A4 Novels & Stories

"We've made several copies already. Enough, in fact, to fill countless bookshelves." I took the paper, its texture rough and earthy, a stark contrast to the pristine, polished sheets I was accustomed to seeing in the capital or at Brightwing Academy. It was the color of rich, dark soil, as if steeped in mud or coffee, a testament to its humble origins. Yet, despite its unassuming appearance, the paper was surprisingly durable. Anything written upon it remained clear and legible, a testament to its practicality.

Somewhere out there, someone was deciding between rent and medicine; someone else was naming their child; someone else was signing a contract and believing a signature meant control. I touched the glass—the childish gesture tourists performed, proof they’d been somewhere high enough to pretend to hold the world. Cold bled through to my palm. I thought of Elias’ grin, the word he’d chosen with such pleasure: tricks. I thought of Cassian’s warning and filed it with the others labeled inconvenient. Then I thought of paper—how it cut, how it burned, how something so thin could carry a future the weight of a building. The file with its bold, teasing tab sat there like a dare translated into stati

I opened the cover and found some documents piled up on top of each other and it looked like hundreds of papers "What is she doing with so much paper?" I said to myself and brought five out of them. I placed them on the bed gently so they wouldn't get rough and I would have to face Ary's wrath I read through the papers but I don't look like anything related to college nor did it look like any resume I kept on reading each line and I see it was like a background check or something related. I read further to see the name of the person who Ary has his background report on but I can't seem to understand how it was written. The paper was already old and looked like she had it for years so the ink

I used the specialized font trying to make everything perfect. At nine-forty-five, I was done I brought the printed copies to his office, I had made sure to use a ruler to ensure the staples at were a perfect 45-degrees just like the manual said. I handed him the files and he took it, his eyes scanning the first page. “You used 24- pound paper.” He said most definitely and I blinked. “I… I used the paper in the tray.” I whispered. “Master files are meant to be printed on 32-pound bright white paper.” He replied tossing the paper at me. “This feels like news sprint, flimsy and unprofessional. Redo it.” He said casually and I gaped at him.

And like that, we were in front of my quarters at the east end of the long walkway. “Let’s get in,” he said. “Wow, a huge flat screen television, and is that a game console?” he asked, with a hint of excitement. “Yeah, it is a Playbox series R pro infinity edition” “What the heck is that!? What type of naming sense is that?” he replied, laughing hysterically. “Okay now, let’s get to class”. Then he said; “System, take us to the realm of infinity.”

I looked at it. A stack — proper writing paper, the kind from the eastern mill that the Council used, cream-colored and faintly textured, in a quantity that was not a gesture but a logistical statement. Three hundred sheets, by my count. Wrapped in oilcloth against the damp of the road. The matching envelopes in a separate bundle. A second smaller bundle of the soft pencils I preferred over pens for drafts. I looked at him. "You're going to need it," he said. He went back to his study.

He'd read it three times already, and has already marked it to hell with his red pen. "Quiet," he murmurs flatly, eyes not budging from the paper. "Yours is next." Derek's paper is only five pages. It’s supposed to be eight. And mine is ten.

"No, you don't understand. I need you to TYPE two thousand copies." My jaw dropped. "Each paper must be fifty page long, Times New Romans, font size 11, 12, and so on. Keep increasing the font size for each paper and use a different font for each letter. I need it delivered unfailingly to me by the end of today." What?! "B... But Mr Winston. Sir!" He was sitting back at his seat now and focusing on his computer, paying me no heed. He.. he wanted me to TYPE TWO THOUSAND copies of the SAME 50 PAGED letter?!