Reaching quotas, performance targets, changes, improvements, the web was weaved around Gregor Samsa, and metamorphosis had came gradually. Gently excluded he was trapped inside the pull of: “more”, “better”, “faster”.
He found himself apart, even shunned. He grew silent as the syllables he uttered could not be weaved to comprehension. For every day he became a shell, a shadow, a burden for his family; his inside waned as the last ember slowly flickered.
Forgotten, dead, a travelling salesman sacrificed on the altar of his alienation, left behind was just the legacy of sweet relief as the shadows of his presence disappeared.
This week my idea came to me directly. I have never read Kafka’s novella, but it is still so well known, so I expect I will not be the only one who pick up on that…
Rochelle Wissoff-Fields hosts the prompt of Friday-Fictioneers weekly, and we are all expected to write a story of 100 words or so (I always try to do it exactly in 100 words..)
December 17, 2014