4 posts tagged with "absurdist fiction"

The first time K. distinctly felt something was wrong was on what should have been a Friday afternoon. Sunlight slanted through the blinds, casting long, tired patches of light on the floor. The air was thick with the false sense of ease that heralded the coming weekend. However, when he habitually glanced at the wall calendar, he found the mark next to the date wasn't pointing to a day off, but rather a symbol he had never seen before – scrawled, yet possessing a certain official authority. It resembled a distorted character for 'work', tightly enclosed in a circle. He rubbed his eyes, but the symbol stubbornly remained.

"Isn't... isn't today Friday?" he muttered, his voice barely audible, as if afraid of disturbing something.

When Wang Ming first heard the news about the "Sanbengzi shortage," he paid it no mind. It was just a simply constructed, even somewhat clumsy three-wheeled motorcycle, seemingly out of place in the vast, efficient, future-bound city he inhabited. However, within days, the news spread like a silent plague. First, it was neighbors whispering in the hallway, then colleagues exchanging anxious glances in the office pantry, and finally, even the old man selling savory crepes on the street corner added worriedly while making change, "Heard they're going crazy for them over in America, probably means we'll run out here too."

K received the notice on a Tuesday morning. It wasn't handed to him directly but was, as usual, tucked amidst the endless pile of documents on his desk, as if it inherently belonged there. A thin sheet of paper, the printing slightly blurred, exuding the smell of cheap ink and some indefinable official odor. K was an ordinary customs calculation clerk in the Tax Building, responsible for processing import duties for goods from specific regions. He had held this job for many years, long accustomed to the monotony of numbers and the tediousness of regulations, precise as clockwork, and just as devoid of life.

The first time he woke up at half-past two in the morning, he thought it was just a coincidence. Outside the window, the city slumbered in a thin halo of light, neon signs like dying stars flickering their last weary colors. He glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table; the red numerals "02:30" were like a brand, clearly seared onto his retinas. Thirsty, he thought, then got up for a glass of water, lay back down, and quickly fell asleep again.