by Jeremy Finn
The 23 Stops
of
Subway Line 7
By
Jeremy J. Finn
Christmas, 2012
[email protected]
Cover design by Jamason J. Finn
First edition 2013 by 3Kings Publishing
Dedicated to
My brother
Jamason Finn
Who is a spark to imagination.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
1 The Stolen Second 11
2 Listening to the Heart of Nature 17
3 Samsara 27
4 The Other Side of the Tori 39
5 The Screaming Fields 55
6 Unseen Burdens 73
7 Something Left Behind 83
8 The Predators Among Us 95
9 La Tierra de los Chupacabras 105
10 Love is but a Memory 115
11 The Dangers of Creative Writing 129
12 The Deepest Sorrow 139
13 The History of Tea 145
14 The Red Candle 163
15 Twilight of the Innocents 185
16 Pride is a Boulder 189
17 Absorbing Little Alice 199
18 A Visitor from the Forest 205
19 And the Beat Goes On… 213
20 Caller I.D. 219
21 Love is Thicker than Blood 225
22 Ever Closer 235
23 The Year that Wasn’t 243
INTRODUCTION
Short stories are often more fun to write, in my opinion, than longer books. You don't need to worry much about character development or keeping track of all your little facts and story lines. I found them particularly easy to write because I am a bit of a daydreamer and daydreams often translate well into short stories. Something I see on the street or in a picture on an advertisement may spawn an idea in my mind that provides fertile ground for a story. Properly guided and explored, the imagination is a wonderful thing. I have not found anyone who said it better than a certain wise old chap in conversation with a doubtful little girl,
Kris: “Do you know what the imagination is?”
Mary: “Oh, sure. That’s when you see things, but they’re not really there.”
Kris: “Well, that can be caused by other things too. No, to me the imagination is a place all by itself – a separate country. Now, you’ve heard of the French nation, the British nation. Well, this is the imagination. It’s a wonderful place…It’s rather simple. Of course, it takes practice.”
-from Miracle on 34th Street
This collection was not planned so much as it just happened. I have come to realize I cannot set my own agenda for writing. I really have to just write what I feel at the moment. As a result, I took a significant pause from working on book three of the trilogy I have spent eight years on and spent the better part of a year composing these. Hopefully, now that the collection is complete I will have the inspiration to return to the book.
Besides just writing these stories off an imaginative whim, I started to compel myself to write different genres and take on challenges. Some of the stories reflect my values and beliefs while some I merely wrote for fun. For some reason, I realized I have a tendency to lean toward twists of the unusual and unexpected endings. Perhaps this is the result of too much Amazing Stories, Twilight Zone and Alfred Hitchcock in my formative years. My brother, who designed the cover art, played a big role in encouraging my imagination as well.
As for the title and theme of the book, I thought it would be interesting to tie the stories together in some way. There is a famous series of woodblock prints from 1833 called The Fifty-three Stations of the Tokaido by Utagawa Hiroshige. It celebrates a famous road that ran from Edo (Tokyo) to Kyoto and had fifty-three rest stations along the way. Each woodblock print captures one of the stations. This was a popular road and spawned a famous story as well about the adventures of a few young travelers on the road. So, I thought modernizing the idea with a subway line that passes through twenty-three stops would be an interesting way to conceptually tie together a series of short stories. Each one is different, but they are strung together by a common thread the reader travels down (this theme does not literally manifest in the stories). Subways, at least good ones, are a very Asian thing too, in my opinion. So, there is yet another subtle connection to the Tokaido. They have played a significant role in my life as well. For about five years the subways of Seoul served as my primary means of transportation, and for nearly ten months, the closest association I had with my future wife’s house was the subway stop where I knew she lived (in Korea, you typically do not go anywhere near the girl’s home until you are ready for marriage). I also had the pleasure of twice vomiting on the subway due to food poisoning. Once was on the eve of the turn of the millennium in a car packed solid with Koreans. You will have to ask me about that story sometime if you have not heard it already. It turned out to be one of the key influential factors in my choice to ask my wife to marry me.
I must warn the reader that, while there is nothing morally offensive in these stories, I allowed myself the creative freedom to pour my thoughts and beliefs into them. This may come across as offensive to some who do not share similar beliefs and values. However, to leave my feelings and deep beliefs out of my writing would make it boring and difficult to write. That is also why I added an insight paragraph to the end of each story. I have often wished I knew why the author wrote something or chose a theme, name, etc. Now, at least for mine, you will have that insight. Pause after you read each story and think about the intent and symbology. Then, read the insight.
So, I hope you enjoy these stories. If you would like, please send me an email ([email protected]) and tell me which one was your favorite and why - at which stop would you get off? I would be interested to know. Also, if you feel inclined to write your own short story, I would love to read it. Now get your ticket out and pass through the turnstiles because the next train is coming into the station...
THE STOLEN SECOND
Yoshi Tomoshita opened his eyes and the world crashed in on him in the space of a second. His mind ignited and he knew he was lying in bed early on a Wednesday morning. It was a terrible epiphany as he dreaded waking early and facing all the difficult, menial tasks that lie ahead. Yoshi had the potential to be a diligent youth and was certainly smart, but brains without character will do little good, and he had not yet discovered those intangible qualities that would hopefully someday make him an admirable individual.
It was pitch black at this early hour, and he lay facing the flashing digital red numbers of his annoying alarm clock. Each second they flashed. Each second seemed to pass so quickly as he longed to stay in the warmth of his blankets spread on the tatami floor mats. Why couldn't they be minutes, or better yet hours?
Finally, Yoshi dug deep into his hidden potential and managed to squeeze out just enough obligation to duty to force himself to sit up. He sat upright on his futon for a few minutes watching the numbers on his clock and feeling his dreams slip rapidly from his memory like a sand castle assaulted by the rising tide. He stumbled through his morning routine and staggered out the door onto the lamp-lit streets of the city. It was a bustling town, but few were out this early.
Yoshi glanced at his watch as he walked quickly down the sidewalk speckled with patches of artificial light from storefronts and street lights. He was cutting it close, so he picked up a light jog. By the time he reached the dojo, he broke a light sweat and his mood had grown more demure. He never really wanted to learn Aikido in the first place. His parents insisted he do it to develop discipline, and they certainly seemed to
have picked an appropriate sensei for such an intent.
Jogging up the wooden steps to the old, clay-tiled building, Yoshi heard the master call the group to attention just as he reached for the door. His heart sunk, but he knew stalling would only make matters worse. So, he carefully slid the door open with a creak that echoed in the silent room. His fellow students sat on their folded legs in rows meditating before the aged sensei. The older man sat still and showed no signs of acknowledging Yoshi's tardiness, but he knew the teacher was well aware. Yoshi shuffled into a position in the last row and clasped his hands in meditation. Suddenly the sensei clapped and everyone opened their eyes. They went through the usual bows and then the sensei issued instructions for the morning practice. Most of the students would spar or practice forms, but Yoshi and two others were called to receive special instructions.
As the small group approached the bald man in a simple robe, he watched them silently. After giving orders to sweep the floor twice over and clean it with hand towels three times, he dismissed them. Yoshi remained for a moment, though, when the master put a hand on his shoulder.
"You will complete your chores with your fellows and then I have another task for you," the elder instructed. Yoshi knew it was some kind of punishment for being late.
"Sensei, I was only a second late!" he protested. "What's the big deal?"
The teacher raised in eyebrow in silent condemnation. "Yoshi, a second can mean the difference between life and death," the man remarked. His tone had a finality to it that expressed an end to their conversation. "Now go. Your peers are working while you idle about."
Yoshi sighed but obeyed. The man was hard, unfeeling and often frustrating, yet there was something about him Yoshi admired and probably even wished to emulate. Of course, his pride prevented him from admitting this to himself. After the floors glistened and the older students had completed their exercises, the sensei called them together again and beckoned each one to kneel by his side for a brief pointer on what to work on or improve. Of course, Yoshi was last.
"Yoshi, I have a bowl of rice in the kitchen. I want you to take my chopsticks and transfer the rice to an empty bowl one grain at a time. When you are finished, you may leave," he directed.
"Sensei," Yoshi whined, "that's useless work! I feel like all we do here is useless. I mean, I have been coming to this dojo for five months and all I do is clean the floors! How is that going to make me a better fighter?"
"You cannot fight another until you learn how to fight yourself," the sensei explained cryptically. "With each grain you move, consider the value of the second it takes to drop it into the other bowl."
Yoshi sighed deeply and allowed a slight roll of his eyes. He knew he had to obey, though. His parents would be worse if he quit Aikido. He would likely be sent to boarding school. So, he dragged himself to the kitchen and was unpleasantly surprised by the size of the rice bowl waiting for him on the table. The funny thing was, the other bowl he was supposed to transfer the rice into was half as big. Sensei often did odd things like this, apparently to teach him some kind of lesson, but Yoshi rarely even tried to figure out the crazy old man's mysteries.
About an hour later, Yoshi had succeeded in mashing the rice down and piling it high one grain at a time. His fingers ached and he would probably have a blister where the chopsticks pressed against them, but he was finally free. He stopped quickly where the master sat before a bowl of tea on a low table and asked permission to leave.
"What did you learn today, Yoshi?" his sensei asked as he always did.
"I don't know," Yoshi replied impatiently. "I guess how long it takes to move 3,465 grains of rice from one bowl to another."
"You counted then?" he replied curiously. "But there is more to learn. Please dwell on this today."
"Yes, sensei," Yoshi bowed his head and turned to leave. He glanced back at the old man on his way out the door. He was still sitting before his low table, expressionless and starting at a spot on the ground beyond the table. Yoshi could read in his gaze deep thought and perhaps concern, but shook off his cares as he focused on where he could grab a bite to eat for breakfast on his way to school.
He skipped down the stairs and walked rapidly through the narrow street. There were more people and cars out now bustling about as the sun just began to edge up above the horizon far to the east. First, his sense of smell caught a waft of delicious egg sandwich sprinkled with sugar and laced with ketchup. Then, his sense of hearing overrode that distraction. A distant, deep roar seemed to be growing rapidly. He began to pick out screams and car horns punctuating the roar and increasing in frequency from the direction of the rising sun. He paused in his tracks and turned to the east. Through narrow walkways and spaces between houses, he saw a boiling, curling mass of dark water and debris transcending the rooftops and rushing toward him. His body froze in panic and he watched as the deadly wave rose over him like a curtain. In that instant, he felt something reach out to him and almost tangibly touch his mind. He turned quickly toward the direction of the probe and saw his sensei standing in the large glass window overlooking the street outside the dojo. His eyes locked with Yoshi's, and an immense volume of silent words and emotion passed between them in the space of a second.
Then, everything flickered, almost like at the end of an old movie reel. It lasted for a second, and he found himself staring into the dawn sky. He was lying on his back and could still hear the roar, though it was much farther from him. Moans and surprised yelps began to crescendo around him and limbs struck him from every side. Yoshi struggled to his feet and whipped his head around to take in his surroundings. He was on a hilltop literally blanketed with other children from toddlers to teens. Most were still lying on the ground, but some had stood like him and were displaying a variety of startled and frightened expressions. In the midst of this human mosaic was a truck sitting empty with the driver's side door flung open. Far below him, a massive tidal wave slowly crept over the city. Houses crumbled under its force and cars were tossed about like plastic toys. His sensei crossed his mind. His parents. His friends. It was a tragedy, and yet he knew he would live. At least he had that much. But why? And how.
Yoshi lifted his gaze above the destruction below and locked on the red orb rising above the sea beyond the coast. Immediately, he felt a jolt. Something touched him inside. It was a deep feeling he would never be able to put into words, almost like an understanding without understanding. Life would never again be the same for Yoshi, and he would for sure never take for granted the value of a second.
Insight
Part of this story comes from thoughts inspired by the tsunami in Japan in 2010. Another piece comes from an experience I had with a Buddhist monk in a monastery in upstate New York during an academic outing. There is more to the motivation for this story, but it will likely come out as you continue to read through the chapters in this collection. Read through to the end of the book and then reflect...
LISTENING TO THE HEART OF NATURE
Journal of Jacob Muir
16 July, 11:30 am – What a brilliant day! I don’t know just what possessed me – the sapphire sky, the soft-smelling air or the sound of bugs and birds echoing through the cavernous forest. At any rate, I could not stay at my task and felt I must retreat into the woods for a spell. I grabbed this empty book and pen and decided to make a day of loitering about the countryside and pondering whatever I observed. With a knapsack in hand and a song in my heart, I will not return until the sun slips away from sight.
1:30 pm – I am so glad I listened to my spirit. Work is important, but sometimes you need to just throw the world of man to the side and get out into the woods to hear the news. I ran for a solid hour, I think, before I burned enough energy to slow to a walk. The life of the mid-summer forest seeps into my muscles and gives me energy I never knew I could have. I have stopped now and then just to observe a plant or tiny animal I never noticed before. The world is so enchanting when you stop to listen and look beyond the surface. Just
a mile or so back I found a bee hive nestled in a fallen tree trunk. It was enthralling to experience the little creatures zipping about my head in such numbers. I came as close as I felt they would allow and closed my eyes to listen to the symphony of flight. They did not sting me – you see, we had an understanding. Still the woods are drawing me deeper.
3:00 pm – I think I am deeper in the woods now than I have ever been before. Maybe half an hour ago I passed a rustic cabin. Otherwise, there is no sign of man out here. Even the cabin was empty. I indulged my curiosity with a peek through the broken door and found a simple setting fit for a bachelor or other such lonely soul. Not a piece was out of place except for a pile of dishes in the sink, which the former inhabitant must have decided not worth the effort before he left for some destination unknown. I better turn back soon, but I saw some animal droppings with berry seeds in them and it leads me to believe there is a stash of summer fruit nearby.
4:00 pm – Well, I found the fruit. Giant red raspberries. They are delicious and should give me enough energy for the long trek back. As I am sitting here filling my belly with red berries, though, I can make out the low, cheerful sound of a bubbling brook beyond the clumps of bushes just beyond. Maybe I will just have a quick look and then head back. It is summer and the darkness comes late, so I should be ok.
5:00 pm – Just pausing for a quick break. My gut is telling me I better turn back now or prepare to spend the night in the wood. I have followed the curious little brook and it has become a stream of formidable current. I think I can even hear the rush of rapids several hundred meters away. What fun it would be to find a churning, boiling length of river to view while I ate my supper. I still have some food in my sack and the weather shows no sign of turning for the worse, so maybe I could stay the night under the stars and the canopy of branches. I am not expected back home for some days, so no one would worry.
