i already asked this today, but i would like more critique on my writing (good or bad, i dont care. just be honest and helpful). For some background info, it takes place in an apocalyptic future, where the climate's gone crazy.
The World’s Too Damn Cold
I walk out of my aged New York apartment building, briefcase in hand, wearing my usual getup: A tattered fur coat with four missing buttons, and snow pants that I bought on sale at that store down the street. As soon as I’m outside, I feel the cold draft stinging my cheeks and watch the white, gentle mist of my breath curl up, then disappear into the air. I rub my chilled hands together, urging friction to warm them up, as I silently curse whoever stole my only pair of gloves last week. I put my hands down, defeated, then pull out my phone. 8:00 AM, July the 7th, 2079, it reads. Negative seventy degrees Farenheit.
Negative seventy degrees… that must be a record. Shaking my head, I walk to the curb, past a malnourished, sleeping homeless man, to wait for the bus that takes me to work. I try to avoid inhaling too much of the dirty morning air as I wait, which right now smells faintly of something burnt. Across the street I see a lady walking her little dog, just like she does every morning. I wave at her, and just like every other morning she quickly looks away as if I’m not there. I hear a loud screech to my left, and advert my attention to the approaching bus. When I enter, a blast of heated air greets me. The driver grunts as I flash him my bus pass, and I take a seat near the back. The bus is unusually full today. People must be here to escape the cold, I think, watching an African American mother three rows ahead hold her baby while scolding an older child, who’s playing on the floor. She notices me looking at her, giving me a dirty look as she sweeps the older child into her arms protectively. I check my phone again, for an excuse to look away. 8:07. I’ll be early, maybe I can stop for coffee along the way.
The bus stops again and more passengers file in. It starts again, then stops a minuet later. More people enter, some having to stand because there’s no room. Now two women are standing in front of me, speaking with grave, hushed voices in a language I don’t recognize. This time when I check the time it reads 8:12. Bored, I look to the television on the wall opposite of me to pass the time. The news is on, and some blonde lady in a suit talks about the temperature. This winter will be the worst ever, she says. The scene changes, and then there’s a man in shorts and a t-shirt. He’s in Singapore, he says to the woman. He stands in an impoverished looking city street, where the temperature is one hundred and thrity-five degrees. In the background I spot a dark-skinned old woman holding a baby while she begs passers-by for money. No one even looks at her.
When the picture cuts back to the woman, she talks more about the weather, then starts reading the names of yesterday’s deaths in The City. Abeley, Bill; she says: Aronsohn, Lily; Baker, Luis. The bus suddenly falls silent as all listen for a familiar name. One elderly man cries out when Hernandez, Camille is read. So does the lady two rows up, but for Wilson, Brent. Nobody tries to comfort them.
After the woman reads Yang, Christine, the rest of us let out the breath we were holding. That was forty-two names. Better than yesterday, at least.
The World’s Too Damn Cold
I walk out of my aged New York apartment building, briefcase in hand, wearing my usual getup: A tattered fur coat with four missing buttons, and snow pants that I bought on sale at that store down the street. As soon as I’m outside, I feel the cold draft stinging my cheeks and watch the white, gentle mist of my breath curl up, then disappear into the air. I rub my chilled hands together, urging friction to warm them up, as I silently curse whoever stole my only pair of gloves last week. I put my hands down, defeated, then pull out my phone. 8:00 AM, July the 7th, 2079, it reads. Negative seventy degrees Farenheit.
Negative seventy degrees… that must be a record. Shaking my head, I walk to the curb, past a malnourished, sleeping homeless man, to wait for the bus that takes me to work. I try to avoid inhaling too much of the dirty morning air as I wait, which right now smells faintly of something burnt. Across the street I see a lady walking her little dog, just like she does every morning. I wave at her, and just like every other morning she quickly looks away as if I’m not there. I hear a loud screech to my left, and advert my attention to the approaching bus. When I enter, a blast of heated air greets me. The driver grunts as I flash him my bus pass, and I take a seat near the back. The bus is unusually full today. People must be here to escape the cold, I think, watching an African American mother three rows ahead hold her baby while scolding an older child, who’s playing on the floor. She notices me looking at her, giving me a dirty look as she sweeps the older child into her arms protectively. I check my phone again, for an excuse to look away. 8:07. I’ll be early, maybe I can stop for coffee along the way.
The bus stops again and more passengers file in. It starts again, then stops a minuet later. More people enter, some having to stand because there’s no room. Now two women are standing in front of me, speaking with grave, hushed voices in a language I don’t recognize. This time when I check the time it reads 8:12. Bored, I look to the television on the wall opposite of me to pass the time. The news is on, and some blonde lady in a suit talks about the temperature. This winter will be the worst ever, she says. The scene changes, and then there’s a man in shorts and a t-shirt. He’s in Singapore, he says to the woman. He stands in an impoverished looking city street, where the temperature is one hundred and thrity-five degrees. In the background I spot a dark-skinned old woman holding a baby while she begs passers-by for money. No one even looks at her.
When the picture cuts back to the woman, she talks more about the weather, then starts reading the names of yesterday’s deaths in The City. Abeley, Bill; she says: Aronsohn, Lily; Baker, Luis. The bus suddenly falls silent as all listen for a familiar name. One elderly man cries out when Hernandez, Camille is read. So does the lady two rows up, but for Wilson, Brent. Nobody tries to comfort them.
After the woman reads Yang, Christine, the rest of us let out the breath we were holding. That was forty-two names. Better than yesterday, at least.