overload

She crouches, one protective arm held up to shield her face. They fly through the air towards her, small ones, fat ones, long ones. She falls sideways to avoid the largest one, which thumps at her feet and stares up at her.

'Please,' she whimpers, 'I'd just like the afternoon off. I want to go for a walk in the sunshine.'

The faceless throwers laugh at her request and remind her she only has herself to blame. They tell her she earned Polish monthly minimum wage in three days this month and congratulate her on her inability to say no. How hard is it to say no? they laugh. They continue to throw the work.

She looks around and notices the piles around her, the piles of small pieces, little jobs she took on without hesistating because 'they won't take long.' She glances across at the longer bits, the writing and editing and proofreading that need time and effort. Then she notices she is sitting on the biggest pile, an imminent deadline with jaws wide open that threaten to swallow her.

She starts to slip, towards the gaping mouth, and tries desperately to get a grip on something stable. Her hands grasp at papers, everything falls and she cries out for help, but it is futile. She slides down the hole, never to be seen again.