Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-27905100-20170915032944

The man walks down the road, faceless like the others.

He looks down, checks his watch like the others.

He is late, like the others.

He runs through the crowd of the others, rushing to get to his job where he will sit in his office, stamping out papers that must be restamped and filling out stampers that must be refilled, before receiving another load to do the same. His boss will come in and shout for him to stamp faster, to refill quicker, to make sure it all gets in on the deadline. He will, of course, stamp faster and refill quicker to meet the deadline because that is what he does. He will go home to his wife, he will go home to his kid, he will keep on filling and stamping and doing his paperwork like a good worker should. He will grow old and frail, and still will keep stamping and filling and meeting deadlines and doing paperwork because that it what he does. He will grow old and retire from this, and lose his purpose, and his son will take his place, because that is what people do. He will die unremembered and unspecial, just like the others.

But that is not what happens. For on that fateful day, a speeding driver in an out-of-control truck get between him and his life, because that is what speeding drivers in out-of-control trucks do.

The others quickly fill the gap with another, eager to join their ranks, because that is what they do.

They trod over the weary man’s corpse until there is nothing left but ash.

Been a while since I've posted on here. Oh well. Thanks for the help if you decide to offer it. 