Ladies and Gentlemen, New London Dispatch is Out! Celebrations in Town Square!
The evening is quiet, streets lit up with the yellowed moons of street-lanterns, the sky above once more filled with the acrid, heavy to breathe-in smoke. Thomas grabs at the broom Mother gave him, the wooden handle chipped with old, smelly paint that grits against his reddened hands, cracked and bloodied from the frostbite, with callouses that have broken up and healed with puss that stained the papers, that made the boss-man yell and yank at him.
His tongue instinctively moves to the broken tooth, running around its rough edges that met the sidewalk that day, the taste of dried blood soothing the dull ache.
Thomas could not get his supper if too many newspapers were damaged, and this week, half of them are good for nothing. The bandages given in the infirmary bled through, and till they heal, he has content with the street cleaner duty. It’s still better than rotting in a cell, mind you, especially given the approaching frost.
He peers over the window sill inside one of the tenement buildings, a cheeky fireplace and green fir branches blinking as if to bid him welcome from within. It feels strange, shoveling the heavy snow from around door to door, some of them poorer in design, icy cold wind howling within the frame and the corridor; others - double-glazed, prepped from the inside with cushions that must feel heavenly when laid down to sleep in, oh what Thomas would give to have a make-shift pillow over the wooden plank used at the boss quarters! It would be so wonderful, and so warm, and cozy enough to…
“The hell you think you get to ogle me flat for?” A voice booms from behind him. “Boy, stop dwindling in there, eh!”
The dreamy smile Thomas has plastered across his face immediately falls.
The lady is tall and broad in shoulders, her fat stomach taking the better part of Thomas’ view as she towers over him, her chalky coat trimmed with white soft fur; two little fox faces look down at Thomas, their eye sockets empty but the rotten black teeth still intact, modeled in a joint sneer forever.
The fur spills across her arms filled with various tokens; a greased bag full of meat and bone, fresh green moss, and scraps of fine leather. There is a big drawing of a festooned tree on the newspaper she has clasped to her breast.
She huffs at Thomas, as he bends onto himself, his cheeks hot and ashamed. He snatches the dirty cap from his head and mutters an out-of-breath greeting into his scarf to the boss’ mistress.
“Make way!” She elbows past him without even a nod of her head, the musky odor of her clothes making Thomas’ head spin.
“We’ll see who makes way for whom…” He looks past her and spits at the street, just beside her heel. The broom trembles as his grip hardens, as the cobblestones echo with her footsteps.
New London Dispatch also here.
---
https://store.steampowered.com/app/1601580/Frostpunk_2/
His tongue instinctively moves to the broken tooth, running around its rough edges that met the sidewalk that day, the taste of dried blood soothing the dull ache.
Thomas could not get his supper if too many newspapers were damaged, and this week, half of them are good for nothing. The bandages given in the infirmary bled through, and till they heal, he has content with the street cleaner duty. It’s still better than rotting in a cell, mind you, especially given the approaching frost.
He peers over the window sill inside one of the tenement buildings, a cheeky fireplace and green fir branches blinking as if to bid him welcome from within. It feels strange, shoveling the heavy snow from around door to door, some of them poorer in design, icy cold wind howling within the frame and the corridor; others - double-glazed, prepped from the inside with cushions that must feel heavenly when laid down to sleep in, oh what Thomas would give to have a make-shift pillow over the wooden plank used at the boss quarters! It would be so wonderful, and so warm, and cozy enough to…
“The hell you think you get to ogle me flat for?” A voice booms from behind him. “Boy, stop dwindling in there, eh!”
The dreamy smile Thomas has plastered across his face immediately falls.
The lady is tall and broad in shoulders, her fat stomach taking the better part of Thomas’ view as she towers over him, her chalky coat trimmed with white soft fur; two little fox faces look down at Thomas, their eye sockets empty but the rotten black teeth still intact, modeled in a joint sneer forever.
The fur spills across her arms filled with various tokens; a greased bag full of meat and bone, fresh green moss, and scraps of fine leather. There is a big drawing of a festooned tree on the newspaper she has clasped to her breast.
She huffs at Thomas, as he bends onto himself, his cheeks hot and ashamed. He snatches the dirty cap from his head and mutters an out-of-breath greeting into his scarf to the boss’ mistress.
“Make way!” She elbows past him without even a nod of her head, the musky odor of her clothes making Thomas’ head spin.
“We’ll see who makes way for whom…” He looks past her and spits at the street, just beside her heel. The broom trembles as his grip hardens, as the cobblestones echo with her footsteps.
New London Dispatch also here.
---
https://store.steampowered.com/app/1601580/Frostpunk_2/
