Krauss again

Original:

Outside, white. Large flakes rush down from somewhere, softly but with a purpose. The snow is sinister today, no purity or innocence to speak of. The air cold, especially so with the biting gusts that find the small opening at the neck of the coat, burying themselves inside like so many icicles. This blanket is not cashmere, but a harsher wool, itching and working its way under the skin.

Men trudge about the street, bundled into sweaters, jackets, hats. This one’s leather gloves are useless against the damp, soaked through and frozen into withered talons. His hands are red and raw from his wasted efforts with the shovel, better left for morning. That one braces himself against the storm, the collar up on his jacket, slogging his way. He did not expect the storm. Up the street, a dog laden with ice scratches at a door, whining its plea in vain. The whistle and the white consume the scene; both take on new meaning. The whistle is the terror and the push, the singer and the song, futility. The white is nothing and nothing again. The white is all.

Krauss watches from the window as a tumult of snow falls off the roof. The drawn-back curtains, a handsome red and gold tartan, are reflected in her coffee cup. She takes comfort in the fire in the fireplace. A quiet feline form rests beside her, curled up in an armchair. On the radio, the announcer interrupts her sonata to inform her of what she already knows. All those who are not performing essential services should remain at home. The state’s primary concerns are that all citizens are safe and that unnecessary travel is kept to a minimum. Krauss smiles at her relative good fortune, and sets about making another pot of coffee.

(WC: 301)

~

First Edit:

Outside, the large white flakes rush down. Biting gusts find the small opening at the neck of the coat, icy to the touch. The snow is sinister today.

Men trudge about the street, bundled into sweaters, jackets, hats. This one’s leather gloves are soaked through, frozen into withered talons. That one braces himself against the storm, the collar up on his jacket, slogging his way. Up the street, a dog laden with ice scratches at a door, whining in vain. The whistle and the white consume the scene.

Krauss watches from the window as a tumult of snow falls off the roof. The drawn-back curtains, a handsome red and gold tartan, are reflected in her coffee cup. She takes comfort in the fire in the fireplace. A quiet feline form rests beside her, curled up in an armchair. On the radio, the announcer interrupts her sonata: All those who are not performing essential services should remain at home. The state’s primary concerns are that all citizens are safe and that unnecessary travel is kept to a minimum. Krauss smiles, and sets about making another pot of coffee.

(WC: 187)

~

Second Edit:

Outside, the snow is sinister today.

Cold men trudge about the street. Chilly blasts bury themselves in the small opening at the neck of the coat. Harsh wool scratches their skin. Their leather gloves are frozen into withered talons. A dog shakes ice off its body as it scratches at a door in vain.

A tumult of white falls off the roof, and Krauss closes the curtain. Her cat rests beside her on the armchair. All those who are not performing essential services should remain at home, blares the radio. Krauss shivers, then smiles.

(WC: 88)

~

(Lishian edits)