The newspapers started to crawl.
"Shuffle-scrape-scruff-scripp," the bundles scraped along the table, then it *fwump*ed to the floor. The papers sat there for a moment, top pages flapping and waving in what should be a breeze, but no breeze was causing the papers to move.
Which they did again.
INCHING, then: scrunching worm-style, the newsprint rearing up thickly and agitating like tendrils (the world's bulkiest, flattest, and stacked tendrils), quick-glimpsed photos and columns and ads and public notices
I imagined the sheets rearing up in an arch, and from the arch maybe then there'd be screaming. A grey-ish black-ish white-ish horrified mouth.
Newspapers have no voicebox, I thought. That's an insane thought, I thought.
The crawling continued. Slow enough for me to keep well ahead of it, and to look at it. Glossy coupon inserts had started to slide out the back. They lay in the papers' wake, like ridiculously high-fiber bread crumbs. Also flat glossy bread crumbs.
You really just decided they're "flat glossy bread crumbs"?, I thought.
Still inching. And then, somehow, turning, the folded part of the paper moving to face me, a print-inch at a time. Wrinkled words in a headline on the fold told me that RATS, WASTE IN NEWEST BUILDING DOWNTOWN, which didn't seem like the whole story and which probably wasn't. The the top of the paper reared up once more and told me PROJECT AUDIT REVEALS RATS, WASTE IN NEWEST BUILDING DOWNTOWN, and that made more sense. I hadn't read the paper yet. I wasn't going to stick around to read beyond the headline.
Then the newspaper roared.
How the hell it made a noise, I didn't wait to find out. 8/30/2016 Edit: Slight revision to it, after I found this story in my records. Slightly fewer words.