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    Satori in the Slipstream
    Satori in the Slipstream
    Satori in the Slipstream
    Ebook91 pages1 hour

    Satori in the Slipstream

    By Steve Howard

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    About this ebook

    Satori in the Slipstream is a collection of dark stories that will take you to those places where the brutal clarity of truth is sometimes revealed. Follow the tales of a young woman in Japan trying to escape her past in a Buddhist temple;  a junkie street artist trying to draw away his demons with his art; a Japanese soldier confronting the horrific destruction and death in Hiroshima; a young hustler on the streets saying goodbye to his dead friend; and an office lady in Japan contemplating a fatal leap from the eighteenth story of her apartment building. All these stories and more.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSteve Howard
    Release dateSep 18, 2018
    ISBN9781386587040
    Satori in the Slipstream
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    Author

    Steve Howard

    Steve Howard has a BA in creative writing from Western Washington University and has published flash fiction, short stories, haibun, and creative non-fiction in numerous literary journals. His novella The Adamantine River Passage was released in 2017. He currently teaches English in Japan and is a semi-professional stand up comedian. He can be reached at stevenbhowwrites@gmail.com  

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      Book preview

      Satori in the Slipstream - Steve Howard

      Slipping Satori

      Hurry Up and Wait:

      As the plane lifts off the tarmac, you regret that you won't have a chance to see that conical shaped volcano one last time: so iconic to Japan. Maybe it's best this way, you think, but it doesn't still the eruptions in your heart. The plane flies west towards Incheon Airport and the last you see of the archipelago is a black sliver of seismic-shaped coastline jutting out into the rough gray Sea of Japan.

      The layover in the massive airport is three hours. The spicy smells of Bibimbap hangs over the food court. You watch the reenactment of a 16th century traditional Korean wedding that's nearly drowned out by the K-Pop playing over the airport sound system. Abandoning the food court, you make your way to the Yoga room upstairs on the third tier, thinking you can do some zazen before the long flight. Inside there is a young dreadlocked and man-bunned Yogi in the full lotus position. You rub the stubble on your head and remember your own dreads before the nuns shaved them off into a tangled blond pile on the dark hardwood floor of the temple. Shobuji had been strange and unique—nuns and monks, lay foreigners, and a massive wood statue of Kannon in the main temple—unusual for Soto Zen.

      It had been optional for a novice, the head shaving, and you had hesitated, vowing to keep your dreads. But on that first day, as the spring rains lashed the roof of the old temple, you sat in the small five-tatami conference room. The head nun sat on a small red dais. You were on the floor next to a French nun who interpreted the rules into her strange-sounding English as the head nun spoke them in Japanese. Their glances at your dreads and a final, Bohemian, yes so bohemian. in English from the head nun, followed by a soft chuckle buckled your resolve. Two years as bald as Sinead O'Connor and then three years to grow them back, you thought. You glared at a small stone Buddha just above the nun's head and set your jaw, and you heard yourself say, Shaved pleased, before leaving the conference room. 

      The dull buzz of the electric razor was not quite as cutting as the old barber's tsk. You cried as the nun led you to your tiny three-tatami cell in the square, white, concrete building that sat far back from the main temple.

      Above the Pacific:

      LA is a solid nine hours away and none of the in-flight movies catch your attention. You flip through Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind again, but nothing from the book sticks. Instead, you pull out your journal, intending to add a long overdue entry, but end up re-reading several entries about your first days in Tokyo.

      Journal entry 2/18/2015:

      Oh fuck, nearly died last night; can't believe it. Way too much Molly and no water. And so many lemon Jello shots. WTF was I thinking? I'm still jet lagged and go clubbing in Roppongi anyway?  Should have crashed one more night at the youth hostel. Thank God for Sayaka. She took me to the clinic in the morning; translated and everything. It was like having a Eurasian supermodel Goddess nurse and translator for me. She found me on the floor in the women's toilet. Don't remember how I got there. I was dancing with a tall Aussie boy: this gorgeous surfer with long, dirty-blonde hair. He had the Molly. He kept touching my hair and yelling, Love the dreads, love the dreads! The bass was pounding through me in the tiny packed hot club. Then the lights reversed direction and sucked into me as the room spun. I told the Aussie I felt sick and left the dance floor. Three other beauties filled the vacuum as soon as I exited. The toilet smelled like piss, perfume, hair spray. So gross. Then I fell. So weird though, as I went down I saw my face four times: like the little girl when I was age six, then me as I am now, then my face as an old lady, wrinkled and thin, and then a black cloaked thing that flashed its eyes: dead-blue eyes like my father's, then blackness.

      Journal entry 2/19/2015:

      Last night I woke up in the cab with Sayaka stroking my hand and face. She took me to her tiny apartment in the city, and let me sleep there. I slept until early morning, but the death vision came in a dream again, and I rushed to the bathroom, and threw up.  Later, Sayaka took me to a medical clinic near her place. They gave me an IV for the dehydration and told me to rest, but I was afraid to sleep again. 

      Journal entry 2/20/2015:

      Still at Sayaka's. Checked out of the hostel this afternoon. Sayaka made it clear she wants me. This afternoon was my first time with a girl. It felt so mechanical—foreign, but tender—and I enjoyed it immensely. And it felt okay to cry in Sayaka's arms afterwards. Hope I can sleep tonight. Last night the same dream came again, but this time I was in my room back in LA. The cloaked thing with my father's eyes was chasing me, but my room just went on and on. I ran until I came to a pulsating dark red wall made of stinging jellyfish. The cloaked thing rammed into me, and I woke up screaming. Sayaka had already gone in the morning for a modeling thing, so she doesn't know about my nightmares yet.

      Journal entry 2/21/2015:

      Tonight, naked on her futon, I told Sayaka about the terrible things I saw in the women's bathroom when I passed out, and the dreams; the dreams I’d been having ever since.

      That is bad. Those images, very bad. I know what to do, Sayaka said. She told me about her aunt who freaked out after Sayaka's cousin killed herself. Her aunt went to a Buddhist temple in a place called Iga, famous for Ninjas, according to Sayaka. I asked Sayaka if she thought the temple could help me. She thinks it will. I leave for Iga in four days. Nervous.

      Journal entry 2/25/2015:

      A week in Japan and I'm on the bullet train heading to Shobuji Temple in Iga Prefecture (near Osaka, I think), where Sayaka's aunt was once a nun. She says they can fix the bad dreams. I'm not so sure, but if it helps, then I'm willing to try it. I want to sleep again. Either that or I'm going to start snorting Ambien again. Weird, weird trip so far.

      Los Angeles:

      Your half brother Terrence meets you at the airport and you ride through the city toward East Hollywood to his small apartment. On the way he tells you of his latest court case involving a major LA union and the rights of a transgender woman who requested a unisex bathroom be installed in the building she works in. You are impressed by how much of a legal champion Terrence has become for the LGBT community, but you

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