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Gregor Samsa woke one morning from uneasy dreams to find himself transformed into a gigantic metaphor. "What the hell?" thought Gregor. It was no dream. He was pretty sure it was no dream, anyway. Or if it was a dream, it was one of those super-realistic dreams that felt real the entire time, right up until the point where someone would walk in with a polar bear's head and a cat's body, or he and a dinosuar would fly off into space. Gregor decided it best to check, and pinched some baby fat on his arm.

"Ow! Damn it!" cursed Gregor. Okay then, he thought. This was definitely no dream. He looked down at his metaphorical body. His legs were covered by a thin grey threadbare sheet, and so merely looked like legs. It was the rest of him that looked altogether frightening. Gregor squinted at his new form. His torso was... was... was a small barrel heaving in the ocean? Wait. No, no it was... a lumpy field with sparse patches of grass? No, it was... Gregor decided it best not to try and describe what he now looked like. He didn't have all day, and still had to get to work.

There was a sudden loud rapping at the door. "Gregor? Gregor, are you alright?" It was his mother, coming to check on him. This was understandable. In his entire life, Gregor had never been late for work. He checked the clock on his nightstand. Well, never until now.

Gregor tried gamely to get his grotesquely metaphorical body out of bed. His mother continued to rap on the door. "Honey?" she called. "Honey?" He cursed under his breath—to be in his early thirties and still living with his parents. They charged him little in the way of rent, he had to admit, and his morther ironed all of his laundry, which was nice. Still, on the rare occasions when he would bring a girl home to eat schnitzel and talk, his parents could be unbearable. His mother would greet the pair at the door with a plate of cookies, then nudge the poor girl constantly in the ribs, whispering "He's still single, you know," and smiling confidentially. Within an hour she would invariably crumple into a sobby, medication-laden heap at the foot of the stairs, lamenting her lack of grandchildren. His father, on the other hand, already well into his seventh wine cooler and feverishly eyeballing the eighth, would keep a careful watch on Gregor's visitors for any sign that they might be contemplating stealing something. His sweaty hands grasped at a cane like a professional baseball player, his eyes alert, his arms ready to swipe any any hand foolish enough to make a move for his collector plates or enormous tumbler of gin. Gregor had stopped dating months previously, and contented himself instead with building odd little picture frames or, failing that, masturbating furiously whenever the opportunity allowed.

"Don't come in!" screamed Gregor. The sound of his own voice surprised — even frightened — him. Did he really sound like that? It sounded to his ears almost inhuman, rather like the braying of an under-scripted character in a German novella than a flesh and blood man. "I'm indisposed," he gambled. "Don't come in. I'm naked," he finished off lamely, shaking his head.

"Gregor! What's wrong?" The voice of his father. "You'll be late for work, young man."

"And you promised you'd pick up some groceries!" reminded his mother.

"And my smokes," added his father.

"Your boss is here, by the way," said his mother.

"We'll just let him in. Make yourself decent," said his father, taking a determined run at the door and splintering it open with the entire weight of his body. Gregor yelped in terror, pulling his bed covers securely over his metaphorical body. His father ushered his boss in, who removed his top hat and looked briefly around the room before resting his gaze on Gregor.

"Well, well. Turned into a metaphor, have we?" boomed his boss, prowling Gregor's room and kicking absently at bits of soiled clothing with his wingtips. "Can't have that, now, we certainly cannot."

"Sir," fumbled Gregor, clawing for any excuse his brain could invent that would save him his job. "Sir, it is true that I've come down with a touch of the metaphor. It should clear up by tomorrow, I assure you! If you could just..."

"No, sorry, can't have it," his boss interrupted, waving a fat hand in the air like a five-fingered pastry. "Wouldn't look right, you understand, there's a good chap. Looks too arty, like you're writing a book or something. The lads down at the plant — well, they're just not that sort. Not that there's anything wrong with book writing. Some of my best friends are book writing. But all the same we'll have to fire you. Because of the book writing." With this he turned on his heel and scuttled out of the room.

"Good one, Gregor," said his sister, appearing in the doorway.

"Shut up, Gladys," said Gregor. This was fast becoming a very horrible day.

His father re-entered the room. "Someone else to see you, son." He cocked a thumb behind him.

"Oh my, he's so popular today," cooed his mother. "Maybe I'll have grandchildren before I die after all."

"Mom..."

"Your friends, Gregor," said his father, ushering in six thin, pasty 20-year-olds with goatees, black turtleneck sweaters and thin wire-rim glasses. "Don't turn your music up too loud, now."

"But I've never seen any of these people before in—"

"Don't argue with your father, dear," said his mother.

"Greetings, Mr. Samsa," said one of the goateed pasty things. "I hope you do not mind our intrusion. We're studying literature at the university down the road. We were hoping to study your symbolism and critique your faults a bit."

"If that's alright," added another. "We could come back later."

"Go away!" shrieked Gregor.

"Oh, don't mind him," said his mother. "He's just upset because he lost his job. It's his entire reason for living, you know."

"Didn't used to be," grumbled his father, "until he started hanging out with that German writer fella. Now he thinks I'm trying to kill him."

"You are trying to kil me!" Gregor yelled.

"Oh, I tried to kill you once! One time! Grow up, Gregor."

"Everybody leave me alone!"

"You guys go ahead and criticize Gregor all you want," said his father, patting the literature students on the backs and stealing their wallets in one deft, unnoticed manoeuver

The students nodded to one another, then brought out pipes and began stuffing them with tobacco. A match was casually passed between them until all were puffing contentedly, staring at Gregor with a squinty-eyed abandon reserved only for the flagrantly intelligent and the lamentably short-sighted.

"He obviously represents a fear of his father," said one, fiddling with the frayed edges of his tweed jacket.

"I disagree," said a woman with lifeless black hair and thick glasses. "I think he represents a general loathing of the individual's diminishing role in a progressively more alienating society."

"No, that first guy's right," interjected Gregor's father, poking his head in between the two of them. "It's probably me. Here, watch." He helpfully chucked apples at Gregor's head in an attempt to sway the crowd. "Isn't that right, son? Ha ha! He hates it when I do this." The literature students scribbled furiously at notepads. "Hm." "I see." "Fascinating."

"Ow! Jesus, stop that, Dad!" cried Gregor, pulling the sheets once again over his head. "Will all of you just leave? I'm still in my pajamas."

"What do you suppose he means by that?" one of the students asked, stroking his wispy goatee with broad, savage strokes and looking at the others. They quickly huddled into a bickering mob, pausing intermittedly to examine Gregor and take lightning-fast notes.

At great length they turned and faced the bed. "We have come to a conclusion," said the leader, nodding to the others. On cue they jumped into formation around Gregor's bed—hovering over him like pencil-thin, Chaucer-reading vultures. Gregor squeaked in fright. One of the students sneezed, completely destroying the mood and earning him a swift slap to the back of the head.

"Gregor," the leader continued, "after careful scrutiny, we have decided that you have been transformed into a tedious and tiring convention of fiction. You are constantly used to obscure weak ideas under layers upon layers of confusing comparisons nad showy prose. Even John Grisham uses you occasionally."

This was true, Gregor lamented. He silently cursed his gullible tendency to fall under Grisham's charms, only last week having accepted a silk-smooth entreaty to "go get a drink and some dinner" and winding up at his place later.

"As such," the student continued, "we have no choice but to proclaim you a dead metaphor. Sorry." They shuffled somberly out of the room. "That was disappointing," said one of them. "What a horrible read," added another. On his way out the door, the last student looked back briefly to examine Gregor and — sensing the gravity of the situation—cocked an enthusiastic thumbs-up sign at him before leaving. The door slammed shut with a dull whump.

"Hey, have you guys seen my wallet?" he heard one of them ask as their footsteps clomped down the stairwell.

After several minutes of silence his father came forward; he had been standing patiently in the corner throughout the ordeal going through Gregor's things and pocketing change. "How you holding up, son?" he asked, nearing the bed.

"Alright, I suppose," said Gregor, who stared up at the ceiling and enjoyed the quiet for a few moments. After some thought he added, "I think I might go back to bed."

"That's okay, son," his father said, patting him on the back. "Just remember that your mother and I love you very much, and that we've always been very proud of you, and that I sentence you to death."

"Thanks, Dad I — what?" Gregor turned his head to face his father.

"You really need to stop hanging out with that German writer fella," he replied, walking to the door. He turned out the lights and closed the door behind him.

Gregor sat alone in the dark. "What an odd day," he said aloud. He began to feel the slightest pangs of indigestion. Otherwise he felt relatively comfortable.