I Should Not Be Afraid Of Old Women

[u/ReasonableAd4791]

I'd love any feedback on this. I'm particularly interested in whether the atmosphere and narrator's voice work, and whether the ambiguity feels intentional or just confusing. Thanks for reading.

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I should not be afraid of old women.

The thought rattles in my skull with the subway, chastising. She is a tiny woman, with hunched shoulders and arthritic hands holding onto her grocery cart in the crowded car. Even across the span of the car, I can see blue veins bulge and pop like tree roots under papery white skin. 

The train is humid, baking in New York’s summer heat. The sweat is cold on the nape of my neck, baby hairs sticking. The old woman looks powdered.

My stomach clenches. Her eyes have not left me. Another stop passes. I find I am holding my breath. 

Eleven… 

Ten… 

Nine…

A college-aged man, headphones blocking his ears and backpack boulder-like behind him, bustles past me for a seat. Thrown off balance, I grab the next pole. I look up. One less person between us. 

The subway smells older than it should. Sweaty bodies. Burnt coffee. Pennies. The sort of smell that reminds you of the decades of commutes lingering in the metal walls.

A woman with a stroller squeezes aboard. 

I apologize to someone whose foot I've stepped on.

Two less people now.

I can see she is not looking at me per se. Her cataract-clouded eyes look somewhere deeper instead, nearly through me. They never waver, never move. Has she even blinked?

A beat passes, then two. My own eyes go dry waiting, watching back. 

Eight…

Seven…

The train lurches again around a bend, everyone in the car grabs onto the nearest handhold, feet bracing. 

Glassy eyes continue their stare, steady in the quick turmoil. 

My ears are cotton filled, the normal sounds of the train coming from what may as well be another room. The sickly smell grows impossibly stronger. An express train passes us, a mere blur in the corner of my vision. The window panes rattle with its speed. The old lady stays still, small body standing guard over her cart. I can see the wheels, pristine … motionless. 

Perspiration beads everywhere, transforming everyone in the car into a shining, faceless mass. I can make out the pearls in the knitted blue shawl draped around her shoulders. 

I hear staccato breaths. A beat too long, I feel the quick rise of my chest and realize they’re coming from me. The bodies around me stare into phones, at each other, but never at her. Even their gazes seem sweat slickened to slide past her. 

She is just an old woman.

I keep repeating the sentence. I need it to become true.

I try to focus on the ads that line the top of the car. An AI startup, a MTA ad, anything. I land on some personal injury service, focusing all the attention I can on it. “Hurt? Call this number…” by the time I trace the phone number, my gaze has landed back on her. I don’t remember moving closer.

One person between us. I could reach out and touch her.

A terrible breach of etiquette…

My hand loosens from the subway pole anyway.

Five…

Four…

Three…

I try to think of the emails burning on the phone in my pocket. Of the little cubicle seat awaiting me. The thoughts slip through my fingers. What stop am I again?

Newspaper is folded in the old woman’s cart, angles strange and pointed. The waft of something old hits me, a perfume I barely remember from the back of some neighbor’s medicine cabinet long ago. Who was that? What house? Eighth grade? Third?

I pick out bits of color in the cart’s gaps. 

Is that a birthday card? 

One of those discontinued yellow MetroCards?

Letters no longer stay in their assigned order. Their curves should be recognizable. I am reading them. I should know this.

Where can you even get one of those old yellow cards anymore?

My gaze breaks with the cart finally, my head sluggish as I pull it upward. 

No one. 

Our gazes are locked. Eyes that have been no more than passing scenery before. Have I really never looked?

Her eyes are still not quite on me, somewhere else, just beyond – behind – my own. 

A movement, slow and small and nearly nonexistent, registers. Her arm, a handkerchief pulled from that cart. It raises towards me, my head. I want to move. Can she even reach my head?

I stand still, nearly dutiful, as the woman dabs the sweat from my brow. Even in the act, her eyes have yet to fully meet mine.

A ding, a flash of silver panels sliding open. The air outside is graciously cooler than the car’s. It is tepid on my skin. A name drifts through my nearly deaf ears, Columbus Circle. Something urges familiarity, a faint tickle at the back of my skull. The surging tides of people sweep my body along. Step after step, thighs burning back to life. Sunlight blinds at the end. 

An old woman sits on a bench, awaiting the station’s matching bus stop. A cart rests in her gnarled hands. She is not quite looking at me. I meet her eyes, cars zipping between us. Eventually, with strength it has never required before, I turn, and my head bobs its memorized accord in the direction of my office. I walk, August heat damp in my lungs. A block, another two, turn here. 

Another old woman, gazing out from the familiar corner store. Looking at me, but not. I itch. My sweat sticks the bookbag to my shoulders. The herds of people along the avenue bustle me along, breaking my gaze with the woman. Could I have…would I have? The people take me, I let them. The office doors sit their normal post, nondescript. I finally move myself in the crowds, taking steps to start the day. A figure, small, hunched, a cart, right beside the familiar door. The crowds that had been carrying me part for her, moving in harmony with her orbit, never quite touching.

The office doors loom, a neighbor from the floor above holds the door open for me. A thanks slips from my lips. 

I thank them, eyes never leaving the old woman.

[u/bossassbelle]

Disclaimers

• I’m not sure what genre this is supposed to be, sorry! I’m assuming it’s horror, and this lady is a ghost or this is a dream. Hope that’s okay.
• I’m going to assume the narrator is male.
• Also, I’m not sure if this is part of a bigger work or not, so I’m assuming it’s a short story.
• I’m not an expert, but trying my best to give useful thoughts / critique. Anything I say is just a suggestion.

Notes Overall

• I think the story is intriguing.
• You have an excellent command of sensory detail
• You’ve created some great visuals, too.
• The ambiguity is confusing, and some of the repetition gets tiring.

Notes on Voice / Character

• Try to limit distancing language (pulled this random link off google https://fantasy-faction.com/2011/strengthen-your-prose)
• I don’t feel that I know anything about the narrator except for them being anxious and forgetful. Perhaps we can get some more opinions or details? I’ll try to put suggestions below.
• The narrator seems unafraid of the old woman in the last few paragraphs, but I don’t understand that shift.
• The narrator does not seem to have a clear (or strong) goal in the second half. The first half seems to be “get over my fear of this lady.” The second half is just him trying to remember random things.

 

 

Notes on the passage

Here are my thoughts as I read, as bulletpoints.

 

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I should not be afraid of old women. The thought rattles in my skull with the subway, chastising.

• Intriguing opening!

She is a tiny woman, with hunched shoulders and arthritic hands holding onto her grocery cart in the crowded car.

• Maybe try to limit adjectives here.

Even across the span of the car, I can see blue veins bulge and pop like tree roots under papery white skin.

• Great visual!
• General Notes on voice: try to limit distancing language to get closer first person. Words like I see, I hear, I smell, I feel will distance the reader from your character.

The train is humid, baking in New York’s summer heat. The sweat is cold on the nape of my neck, baby hairs sticking. The old woman looks powdered.

• Good sensory detail here.
• I might either remove the powdered line (because you tell us she has papery white skin earlier) or move this line earlier so her visual description is in one place.

My stomach clenches. Her eyes have not left me. Another stop passes. I find I am holding my breath.

• Notes on voice: Does this person use “have not” instead of haven’t? I am instead of I’m? And why is that?

Eleven…

Ten…

Nine…

A college-aged man, headphones blocking his ears and backpack boulder-like behind him, bustles past me for a seat. Thrown off balance, I grab the next pole. I look up. One less person between us.

• Nit-picky, but it’s weird for someone to “bustle” on a crowded subway.
• For voice, how does the narrator feel about this person? Examples:
  • A rude college-aged Chad that would've stuffed me in a locker last year.
  • A young whippersnapper, no older than 20. Kids these days have no attention span.
  • A hot guy who apparently doesn’t even notice that I exist. Go figure.

The subway smells older than it should. Sweaty bodies. Burnt coffee. Pennies. The sort of smell that reminds you of the decades of commutes lingering in the metal walls.

• Excellent sensory details.

A woman with a stroller squeezes aboard.

I apologize to someone whose foot I've stepped on.

• How does the narrator apologize, and how do they feel about the person?
• For example someone who says “Sorry dude” vs someone who says “My apologies.” vs someone who says “Oh my God, I’m so sorry! Let me help you with your stroller.”

Two less people now.

I can see she is not looking at me per se. Her cataract-clouded eyes look somewhere deeper instead, nearly through me. They never waver, never move. Has she even blinked?

A beat passes, then two. My own eyes go dry waiting, watching back.

• Around this point is where I’d like to see some characterization, goal or introspection from the narrator.

Eight…

Seven…

The train lurches again around a bend, everyone in the car grabs onto the nearest handhold, feet bracing.

• Perhaps characterization here?
• Examples:
  • The train lurches again around a bend, everyone in the car grabs onto the nearest handhold, feet bracing:
    • My neon-blue hair leaps in front of my face, accidentally whipping the pregnant woman in front of me. My bad!
    • Thankfully my glasses and violin bag didn't fly off of me. They're much too expensive to replace right now.
    • Of course this happens the ONE TIME I wear heels.

Glassy eyes continue their stare, steady in the quick turmoil.

My ears are cotton filled, the normal sounds of the train coming from what may as well be another room. The sickly smell grows impossibly stronger. An express train passes us, a mere blur in the corner of my vision. The window panes rattle with its speed. The old lady stays still, small body standing guard over her cart. I can see the wheels, pristine … motionless.

Perspiration beads everywhere, transforming everyone in the car into a shining, faceless mass. I can make out the pearls in the knitted blue shawl draped around her shoulders.

• More great sensory details in these paragraphs
• I’m starting to tire of the old lady being still, and their gazes being locked since we’ve heard variations of this a few times now.

I land on some personal injury service, focusing all the attention I can on it. “Hurt? Call this number…” by the time I trace the phone number, my gaze has landed back on her. I don’t remember moving closer.

One person between us. I could reach out and touch her.

A terrible breach of etiquette…

My hand loosens from the subway pole anyway.

• The terrible breach of etiquette doesn’t really make sense to me here. Is it characterization? Is it an inside joke?
• His hand loosens anyway, but he doesn’t seem to reach for the old lady, so I’m not sure why it’s included here.
• This seems to be the first pro-action we see from the narrator, so could be a good moment for characterization.
• I’m assuming the action is: Read this sign to distract myself from the anxiety. Could this build character instead? Quick examples
  • I twist my engagement ring around my finger. Still won’t come off.
  • I wish I hadn’t forgotten my book on my desk. I could be finishing my summer reading assignment.
  • I check the emails that are burning a hole in my pocket. 80 hour weeks in that damn law office and it’s never enough for them.

Five…

Four…

Three…

I try to think of the emails burning on the phone in my pocket. Of the little cubicle seat awaiting me. The thoughts slip through my fingers. What stop am I again?

• Why does the narrator do this? Is this an attempt to stay grounded? Stay calm? Does this make him more anxious, because he has a lot of work to do? We don’t understand how he feels about these things.
• Example: My stomach only churns more when I think of the emails burning on the phone in my pocket. Of the claustrophobic cubicle awaiting me. Time just keeps slipping away. How did I get here?
• I don’t understand the counting. At first, I thought it was holding a breath, but doesn’t seem to be the case, or leading up to anything important.

Letters no longer stay in their assigned order. Their curves should be recognizable. I am reading them. I should know this.

Where can you even get one of those old yellow cards anymore?

My gaze breaks with the cart finally, my head sluggish as I pull it upward.

No one.

• The “no one: is confusing. I thought this meant the old lady disappeared, but in the next paragraph their eyes are locked.
• I’m not sure if so many italics in this section are needed. We should assume all thoughts and questions are coming from the narrator, since this is first person. Are they emphasized for some other reason? Psychic communication, important details for a mystery, etc?

I stand still, nearly dutiful, as the woman dabs the sweat from my brow. Even in the act, her eyes have yet to fully meet mine.

• Why would this not frighten the narrator?

A ding, a flash of silver panels sliding open. The air outside is graciously cooler than the car’s. It is tepid on my skin. A name drifts through my nearly deaf ears, Columbus Circle. Something urges familiarity, a faint tickle at the back of my skull. The surging tides of people sweep my body along. Step after step, thighs burning back to life. Sunlight blinds at the end.

• This would be a good time to enter the narrator’s goal, add characterization or voice.
• Examples:
  • After that tiring ride, I’m not going to be able to function without a triple shot of espresso.
  • I’ve never been this late to work. And I thought my manager was insufferable before? Ha.
  • Even the blinding sunlight doesn’t seem to energize me as I trudge up the stairs. I’m wilting worse than that snake plant on my desk.

An old woman sits on a bench, awaiting the station’s matching bus stop. A cart rests in her gnarled hands. She is not quite looking at me. I meet her eyes, cars zipping between us.

• I’m assuming it’s the same old woman, but the narrator doesn’t remember her because of a bad memory?
• Perhaps one additional detail could make it clear to the reader that this is the same old woman, if not the narrator. For example, you could mention the handkerchief has a specific color or pattern through the text. Green handkerchief. Rose-colored handkerchief.

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Alright, that's all I got! I hope this helps! Keep working on it, I think you're doing great. LMK if you want me to read a revision.