The Paper Tower
There was, and there was not, a tower on the edge of the Kingdom built entirely of paper.
It swayed in the wind—not enough to fall, just enough to never fully settle.
The Raven approached cautiously. The tower was made from scrolls and parchments of every kind: crisp, curled, highlighted, footnoted, and endlessly restructured. It pulsed with effort.
Every few seconds, a page would flutter down from the higher levels, only to be caught by a team of birds in vests and lanyards who clipped it, stamped it, and passed it upward again.
At the entrance sat a Peacock, reviewing a scroll with dazzling intensity.
Welcome,” he said, without looking up. “Please note that all thoughts, ideas, objections, clarifications, counterpoints, and instincts must be documented in advance—preferably in writing. Unless, of course, it requires a more detailed report.
“A detailed report?” the Raven asked.
“Oh yes,” the Peacock said proudly. “You’ll need a pre-read for the pre-meeting before we meet to review the pre-read for the actual meeting.”
The Raven blinked.
Another bird swooped by carrying three copies of the Preliminary Input Alignment Template and whispered, “I’m late for the draft review of the draft of the draft. I’m leading a section on leading sections.”
Inside, the tower buzzed.
One level was entirely devoted to feedback loops. Another to retrospectives of prior retrospectives. A heron sat in the corner with five colored quills writing five versions of the same summary, each tailored to a different stakeholder persona. A crow was diagramming a sentence that had been edited twenty-seven times and now meant nothing at all.
“This is… a lot,” said the Raven.
“Thank you,” the Peacock beamed. “Our review metrics have never been stronger.”
She walked deeper. Past a wall where rejected ideas were neatly filed under “parking lot.” Past a room of birds practicing how to ask smart questions to appear curious but not critical. Past a gilded frame holding a scroll titled Narrative Clarity: A Reflection with no content at all.
She stopped at the center of the tower.
The floor here was made of shredded complaints and discarded incident documents. It dipped slightly when she stepped on it.
She opened her wing and pulled out a weathered page she’d been carrying for seasons. It was simple. Honest. It captured ideas she once shared—ideas that were ignored until someone else, later, said them louder.
She slid it into the wall between two pristine documents labeled Vision and Next Steps.
Then she turned and left.
As she stepped into the light, a single page slipped free from the top of the tower and spiraled down behind her.
She didn’t look back.
She didn’t need to.
Endless feedback. Performed reflection. Clarity lost to polish.
© 2025 Sarah Dooley. Story and images by the author. All rights reserved.
