| The Slave, A Short Story for Proles
He awoke to the sound of his master’s fiendish carillon. Rolling over, he reached his calloused hand from beneath the warm protection offered by his flannel blanket. After his master had been appeased, the slave swung his legs from beneath the covers and stood up, groggy and possessed by a raging thirst. He shuffled to the bathroom, the cold of the floor tiles on his feet wakening him further. He turned on the tap and checked the temperature of the water that issued forth. It was ice cold. He placed his cupped hands under the stream and when they were filled, brought them to his lips, drinking greedily. It took several repetitions of this process for him to slake his thirst. The slave cupped his hands once more, this time not to drink but to splash the frigid water over his face. After wiping the crust of sleep from his eyes, he stared at his reflection in the mirror. He was an ugly man. His eyes were set too deep, his jaw far too angular. He scanned his entire countenance, the inventory of imperfections grew longer with each moment. He then turned his attention to his hands. They were the broken hands of the proletariat, they marked him. No matter how fine he dressed, or what books he had read or could quote, no matter how much knowledge he accumulated, he could never fit in with those that sat above him, his hands gave him away. His fingernails were unkempt, their undersides filled with dirt. His knuckles were dry and cracked, the scars on them betraying the fact that he earned his emolument with his hands. This fact brought scorn from those above him, his hands a badge that identified him as inferior, as a serf. He saw it in their eyes when they watched him and heard it in their voices when they spoke to him. If their homes didn’t need repair, they would not even acknowledge his existence. It was with a great sense of sorrow and hopelessness that the slave began his morning ablutions. He knew he would never have their money or their power and this frustrated him. All that his future held was hard labor. He remembered his master. He peered from his bathroom into his bedroom and gazed upon the face of his master, its mighty hands goading him out the door and off to work. It was not until five o’clock that his master allowed him rest, and that was a long ways off. No time for self-pity. He sighed. He wondered when he would be free of his chains. Never was the answer that he received from within. This reply was accompanied, however, by a thought that brought him a grim satisfaction: Regardless of the fact that those above him possessed more wealth and wielded more power than he, they both served the same master.
__________________ They were offered the choice between becoming kings or the couriers of kings. The way children would, they all wanted to be couriers. Therefore there are only couriers who hurry about the world, shouting to each other -since there are no kings- messages that have become meaningless. They would like to put an end to this miserable life of theirs but they dare not because of their oaths of service.
-Franz Kafka  | 
Heute
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