4 posts tagged with "Lu Xun Style"

Lao Zhang, Zhang Fushun, a man nearing fifty, had recently been feeling like there was a wall in front of him. Not made of brick, nor of cement, but rather as if condensed from the suffocating summer heat of a late evening – transparent, yet tangibly obstructing him, impossible to push through or circumvent.

Back in the day, Lao Zhang was a well-regarded figure in the hutong. Not because of any high office or vast wealth, but for his steadfastness. He'd worked diligently at the non-staple food store for the better part of his life, saving up 400,000 yuan. This 400,000 was the foundation for the latter half of his life, the capital his wife kept mentioning for a bigger refrigerator, for a washing machine with a dryer function, and his own dream of carrying a birdcage, drinking tea, and listening to opera after retirement. The Beijing sun, in his eyes, had once been warm and golden.

Old Wang felt like he was about to merge with his electric scooter, not in that cool Transformers kind of way, but more like a puddle of melted asphalt, sticky and grimy, clinging to the city's skin. He was a delivery driver, one crowned with the title "God of Bad Reviews." This wasn't a crown he chose; it was forced upon him by the algorithm, that formless, colorless digital phantom said to be impartial and just.

Wang Er felt this year's spring was stickier than usual, even the wind carried a dampness, feeling like an unwiped rag against his face. He huddled in his small, north-facing room, staring blankly at the black, square block on the table—what they called a "smartphone." This gadget was his eyes, his ears, and sometimes, it seemed, his brain.

The air in the town was stagnant, as always. The dusty afternoon sun cast a dull glow on the sooty windowpanes of Wang Afu's house. Inside, the air was even heavier. Wang Afu's long sighs and his wife Li Xiujuan's silent resistance stood between them like an invisible wall.