The Train Compartment - Part One

[Bassim]

Please would you proofread my short story:

It was about eight in the morning when I entered the train compartment. It was another busy morning with hundreds of commuters who looked like madmen running up and down the platform, carrying their bags, briefcases, baguette sandwiches wrapped in transparent plastic and white plastic glasses with coffee.

Many of them looked tired and exhausted and I wondered how many of them were already sick, but deluded themselves and continued their stressful way of living until one day someone find them lifeless.

Many of these people were spending more time commuting than with their own children, wives, husbands and friends, and they probably knew more about the interior and exterior of the carriages than the characters of their partners.

For me these travels were like a torture. If this had been some warm country in the south where people were open and talkative I would have probably felt fine, but now I was surrounded with shy and distant people who usually avoided any contact with a stranger, but when they were drunk. However, early in the morning they were all sober and that meant that they were like automatons wearing the same masks without any distinctive facial expressions. A blank staring somewhere in the distance would be the closest description of my fellow passengers.

To tell the truth there were some of them who became friends, but that would usually happen first after years of commuting. Hundreds of exchanged silent glances and looks which would one day finally result in a talk about weather conditions or a train which was late for a few minutes.
I had an impression that the people were in a cramp, eagerly waiting for the train to come to its final destination, its door to open and let them jump outside, away from everybody, even from themselves.

The first time I made my trip, I did not know anything about these unwritten rules and believing I was in a company of ordinary human beings, I said aloud, “What a beautiful day today!” My fellow passengers reacted as if I had uttered a blasphemy or insulted the King. They stopped for a moment their reading of the papers and books, the pens stopped writing and the fingers typing on the laptops. They stared at me with such hatred and incredulity that I felt cold shivers down my spine.
To be continued..

[Gillnetter]

Please would you proofread my short story:

It was about eight in the morning when I entered the train compartment. It was another busy morning with hundreds of commuters who looked like madmen running up and down the platform, carrying their bags, briefcases, baguette sandwiches wrapped in transparent plastic and white plastic glasses with coffee. (Coffee is usually not served in glasses as the heat will burn the hands. I believe that a better term is styrofoam cups.)

Many of them looked tired and exhausted and I wondered how many of them were already sick, but deluded themselves and continued their stressful way of living until one day someone find them lifeless.

Many of these people were spending more time commuting than with their own children, wives, husbands and friends, and they probably knew more about the interior and exterior of the carriages than the characters of their partners.

For me, these travels were like a torture. If this had been some warm country in the south, where people were open and talkative I would have probably felt fine, but now I was surrounded with shy and distant people who usually avoided any contact with a stranger, but when they were drunk. However, early in the morning they were all sober and that meant that they were like automatons wearing the same masks without any distinctive facial expressions. A blank staring somewhere in the distance would be the closest description of my fellow passengers.

To tell the truth, there were some of them who became friends, but that would usually happen first after years of commuting. Hundreds of exchanged silent glances and looks which would one day finally result in a talk about weather conditions or a train which was late for a few minutes. (How about, "...which was a few minutes late.")

I had an impression that the people were in a cramp, eagerly waiting for the train to come to its final destination, its door to open and let them jump outside, away from everybody, even from themselves.
(I'm unsure of what you mean by, "in a cramp". If they were cramped it means that there was not enough room. If they had a cramp it means that their muscles were contracting.)

The first time I made my the trip, I did not know anything about these unwritten rules, and believing I was in a company of ordinary human beings, I said aloud, “What a beautiful day today!” My fellow passengers reacted as if I had uttered a blasphemy or insulted the King. They stopped for a moment their reading of the papers and books, the pens stopped writing and the fingers typing on the laptops (They stopped their reading of the papers and books for a moment, their pens stopped writing and their fingers stopped typing on their laptops.). They stared at me with such hatred and incredulity that I felt cold shivers down my spine.
To be continued..

Strictly speaking, this is not a short story - it is a scene. This scene would fit into a short story. I believe that the shortest short story I ever read is, "The last man on Earth stared at the jail door. It was locked."

[Bassim]

Dear Gill.
Thank you very much for helping me.

I wanted to say "they had a cramp..."

Regarding the term "short story", I can say that this is only the first part and the second part will follow soon.