98 posts tagged with "Society"

Wang Laowu, known as "Old Man Wang," wasn't ancient, just past sixty, his back a bit stooped, like the old walnut tree at the village entrance—looking withered but still sturdy-boned. He'd spent over half his life scraping a living from this yellow earth in eastern Henan, knowing the dirt clods better than his own kin. The village, Wangjia Gada, wasn't large, just a few dozen households where chickens and dogs were familiar sounds. Life flowed like the river at the village edge—seemingly moving, yet always the same old routines, undisturbed by waves.

That sidewalk, it's kind of interesting. Right on that old street near my place, next to an old wall covered in greasy ivy. At first, nobody paid it any mind. People just hugged the wall or walked on the curb, tiptoeing around bikes. Later, some busybody measured it and announced, "Hey, this thing's only ten centimeters wide." Ten centimeters, comrades, what does that even mean? It means my size 42 worn-out leather shoes, the ones I've worn for years until the soles are almost gone, couldn't even fit sideways. Placed vertically, you'd have to twist your ankle at a bizarre angle.

The way my husband disappeared was like a drop of water falling on scorching asphalt on a summer afternoon – a sizzle, then evaporated without a trace. No argument, no warning, not even a hastily scribbled farewell note. He just vanished, along with his running shoes by the entryway, a few neatly ironed shirts in the closet, and the seven years we had shared. That was four years ago.

K first noticed the number on the scrolling screen of the commuter subway. A golden yellow number, accompanied by an up or down arrow of the same color, flickered quietly in the crowded, dim carriage. Initially, it was just another fragment in the stream of information, no different from the weather forecast, advertising slogans, or public service announcements. He wasn't even sure what it represented, only vaguely aware it had something to do with the "gold price," a distant and precious metal.

However, the number seemed to have a certain stickiness. The next day, it appeared on the display screen in the office elevator. The number had changed, the arrow pointing downwards, as if carrying a hint of dejection. When he went to the convenience store for a sandwich at noon, the small TV by the cashier was also broadcasting financial news, and that golden number caught his eye again, the arrow jumping upwards fiercely. K felt a strange unease, as if this number was silently seeping into every corner of his life. He didn't own any gold, nor did he care about investments. His salary was just enough to maintain a life that was neither good nor bad, occupying a cubicle in the huge office building like most of his colleagues, processing endless documents that seemed to point towards some grand goal, though what exactly it was, no one could say for sure.

Shi Lei felt like a firefly in this vast cavern, tiny, yet compelled to glow—though his light merely illuminated a small cracker smeared with foie gras or strawberry jam. The membership warehouse club where he worked, named 'Giant Warehouse' (Ju Cang), resembled a mountain range built of steel and concrete, piled high with a dazzling array of goods cascading from ceiling to floor, forming colorful cliffs. People pushed enormous shopping carts, like vessels on a river, navigating the canyons of this mountain range, their faces wearing a mixture of curiosity and possessiveness.

The sky was gloomy, like someone's grandmother had died, holding back a torrent of tears. But the "Juxian Teahouse" at the entrance of the old Beijing hutong was as lively as a boiling pot.

The list appeared on a gloomy morning, like a judgment handed down from the sky, silently landing on the principal's desk. A thin sheet of A4 paper, printed with more than a dozen names, all students of the school. Behind each name, in red ink, two startling words were marked: "Fallen to death."

Old Li felt like he was going crazy.

I found out on a Tuesday afternoon. On the radio, an announcer read the news in a flat tone: Wannian County, Jiangxi, would no longer be hiring English teachers starting in 2025. I was making coffee, and the hissing of the boiling water mixed with the announcer's voice, like some kind of old jazz.

I put down the moka pot and went to the window. Outside, the rain was relentless. The gray sky was like a giant, damp old newspaper, the words on it blurred. I thought of my English teacher, a middle-aged man who liked to wear plaid shirts and gold-rimmed glasses. He always played Beatles songs during breaks. He said they were memories of his youth. And now, English, along with those songs, seemed to be disappearing from this small county.

Old Liu has no other hobbies in his life, he just loves watching football. To be precise, it's watching the national football team. It's not because they play so well, but on the contrary, because they play so badly. So bad it reaches a certain realm, so bad it develops a certain style, so bad it's addictive, like knowing it's bitter wine, but still wanting to drink it all.