Tiny wisps of paper drifted in the wind, the miniscule inked letters oblivious of their fate. Like so many leaves falling in autumn, the snippets of prose gathered in the only way shredded paper could: haphazardly. The source of this textual confetti lie upon the wooden bench, sunlight glinting off the now-torn cover.
I saw this through horrified eyes. Nearly dropping my glass of still-cool Kool-Aid, I rushed over to the book’s carcass, grasping desperately at the ripped pages in a futile attempt to keep all parts intact. Tears flooded my eyes.
My mother’s dog stood nearby, panting, eyes upon me. A small piece of book cover was caught in the fur of her chin.