KAFKA REQUESTS PERMISSION

The ceiling fan squeaked overhead, a faint sound like beetle legs brushing against the dark. Franz Kafka lay on the iron bed in his rented Saigon room, the night thick around him. Outside, a loudspeaker crackled:
“Citizens are reminded to exterminate insects for a civilized living environment.”

He had intended to become an insect—an old habit from his Prague years. But his landlord, a gentle man with gray temples and a bureaucrat’s caution, had been firm when Kafka signed the lease:
“No pets. Especially large insects. Anything that crawls without documentation gets reported.”

Kafka had nodded. He respected rules—not because he trusted them, but because they were the only things pretending to make sense in an absurd world.

That night, a question rose quietly:
Why must I ask permission? Why not simply do it?

He lay face down, breathing evenly, imagining six legs. Nothing happened. His body held on to its humanity with the stubbornness of habit. On the wall, his shadow shifted—slightly curved, slightly hunched—almost insect-like, but not enough to be convincing.

Perhaps I’ve grown too used to asking, he thought. Even to stop being human.

The municipal office occupied a French colonial building whose high windows carried the weight of other people’s histories. Kafka stood in line behind a woman with a cat and a man carrying a tired-looking birdcage.
The sign above window 2 read:
“Pets, Organisms, and Special Cases.”

When his turn came, he leaned toward the glass.
“I’d like to apply for a metamorphosis permit.”

The clerk, middle-aged, deliberate, looked up.
“Metamorphosis?”

“Into an insect.”

“What species?”

“Any. As long as it has legs. And doesn’t require speech.”

She tapped her pen.
“You must specify the species on form TP-47. We require specificity.”

“But I don’t know which kind. I only want to stop being human.”

“That’s not acceptable. Choose: cockroach, beetle, larvae, earthworm.”

Kafka blinked. “Earthworm isn’t an insect.”

She shrugged. “It becomes one for administrative purposes.”

Kafka hesitated.
“Then… an insect that crawls. Doesn’t fly.”

She wrote: Coleoptera family, unspecified genus.
Then paused, a brief smile crossing her face.

“Is this a joke?”

“No.”

“Have you taken anything?”

“Coffee. This morning.”

Her smile faded. She motioned to a colleague. They studied him with the quiet interest reserved for unusual entries in a logbook.

“You need psychiatric clearance.”

“I’m not insane.”

“Every insane person says that.”

“And so does every sane one.”

She stamped a referral slip.
“Hospital. Psychiatric department.”

Outside, a lottery vendor asked why he looked so sad.

“I have to prove I’m not insane.”

She laughed lightly. “Everyone does.”

The hospital smelled of disinfectant and effort. Kafka waited between a trembling young man and a girl staring at the wall as though waiting for it to change. When called, he entered room 7.

Dr. Minh—mid-thirties, wire-rimmed glasses, a kind of quiet fatigue—read the file.

“Mr. Kafka. You want to become an insect.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m tired of performing humanity.”

The doctor nodded.
“I applied last year.”

Kafka looked up. “For what?”

“To become a dove. Waited three months. Rejected.”

“Reason?”

“They said doves symbolize peace. Peace cannot be licensed.”

He gave a small, almost private smile.
“But insects—yes. There’s no symbolism to complicate things.”

“Should I continue with my application?” Kafka asked.

Dr. Minh folded his hands.
“I warn you: once you receive permission, you may not want it anymore.”

“Why?”

“Because desire depends on limits. Remove them, and the desire collapses.”

Still, he signed the certificate:
Mental status stable. Philosophically coherent.

Kafka thanked him.

“Why do you still work here?” he asked.

The doctor shrugged.
“I’m not brave enough to become a dove illegally.”

Two weeks later, Kafka was summoned to room 308.
Ms. Hanh—fifty, composed, three pens clipped to her collar—reviewed his application with an expression calibrated between neutrality and endurance.

“Mr. Kafka,” she said, “you write: ‘to escape the alienated condition of humanity.’ Too abstract. What is your occupation?”

“Writer.”

“Of what?”

“Things people rarely read.”

She nodded once, as if recognizing a familiar tax bracket of souls.

“You become an insect to accomplish what? For whom?”

“To teach humans humility.”

“How?”

“By crawling beneath their feet.”

She typed for a long time.
“I can approve this. But you must submit a report.”

“What report?”

“The Educational Significance and Social Benefits of Insect Metamorphosis. Two thousand words. With citations. Times New Roman, size twelve.”

Kafka stared.
“I must justify why I want to become an insect?”

“Yes. Here, even absurdity requires rationale.”

“But if I explain it… I won’t want it anymore.”

She gave a knowing, almost sympathetic smile.
“That is often the case.”

Kafka returned to his room.
The cursor blinked—a small, patient authority.

Outside, the loudspeaker announced:
“Citizens are reminded to submit documentation on time.”

By 3 A.M., the report was finished.
Twenty-three hundred words.
Sartre, Marx, neat conclusions.

He read it and felt a faint dislocation, as if the document had been written by someone adjacent to him.

He sent it anyway.

A month later, room 401.
A long table.
Five reviewers.
Portraits on the wall watching with a distant, colonial calm.

The chairman held Kafka’s report.
“Well written,” he said. “‘Metamorphosis as revolutionary pedagogy.’ Interesting.”

“Thank you.”

“But tell me—do you believe what you wrote?”

Kafka hesitated.
The chairman waved the question away.

“We don’t evaluate sincerity. Only documentation.”

He signed the form.
“The board approves your application.”

Kafka blinked.
“Approves?”

“Yes. You have permission to metamorphose. Effective immediately.”

“But… so easily?”

The chairman leaned back, his voice soft.
“Because anyone who seeks permission to become an insect is already an insect. The permit simply removes the guilt.”

He shook Kafka’s hand.
“We encourage controlled creativity. It keeps things orderly.”

Kafka returned at dusk.
His landlord smiled.
“See? Anything is possible with proper documentation.”

Kafka climbed the stairs, closed the door, removed his shirt.
Placed the permit on his chest.
The red stamp glowed faintly, as though warmed by its own authority.

He curled up.
Held his breath.
Imagined six legs.

Nothing changed.

He looked in the mirror:
a documented man, approved to stop being himself.

Then it came quietly:
I don’t need to become an insect. I already am one.

From the first queue at window 2, to the hospital corridor, to the report he rationalized at 3 A.M.—he had already been transforming. The request was the metamorphosis.

He laughed softly.
Not bitter.
Just aware.

He left the permit on the table.
Didn’t tear it.
Didn’t burn it.

He lay down again.
His shadow on the wall formed the same shape as that first night—only now, it no longer felt accidental.

No need to transform.
He had been crawling all along.

The ceiling fan turned slowly, the sound like quiet legs against the ceiling of existence.

Then silence.

I am Ngu Yên (Nguyen Hien Tien), a Vietnamese American poet, fiction writer, and essayist living in Houston, Texas. Born in Bình Định and raised in Nha Trang, I emigrated to the United States in 1975. My work has appeared widely in Vietnamese diaspora journals in the U.S., Canada, Australia, and France, as well as on major Vietnamese literary websites. I often write about memory, migration, aging, political hauntings, and the unstable border between reality and representation.