Steam Trains.

A Story by suuyuwriteyunu

this was an experimental creative-nonfiction piece I did for my CR summer school. I ended up loving it a lot, though :)

The first time my dad took me on an electric train I was thirteen, at the ripe young age when I was curious to try new things, and believed I was capable of anything in life. I’d asked him why he didn’t take me on the steam train, the red one with the gold lines and the black smoke coming out on top, and he simply said, “It was hot. It was slow.” It basically wasn’t favourable.

Steam trains, though, had always fascinated me in a way no electric train ever could. The noisy way it operated, the way it blew out black, dirty smoke, and how it had to be manually fueled. Those were just flaws and imperfections that an electric train could never dream of. To my thirteen year old self, it was fun, and it was enough. But, it never could become the ‘ideal’.

Even now, Shinkansens, the most famous Japanese electric trains, are getting better and better, faster and slicker. Known for their speed of 320 km/h, they are demolishing the need for steam trains in society. The Shinkansens had more comfortable seats, held more passenger capacity, and were an overall better alternative for the environment. They're able to fulfill the needs of billions everyday, delivering them to their desired destination with maximum efficiency.

Two years later, I’ve completely forgotten about trains. I haven't pondered about one, or the difference between their many types, in a long time. Only occasionally would Thomas, the steam train from my childhood cartoon, pop up in my mind. I would then be reminded of how ugly it looked with its big, bulging eyes and over-stretched grin. It occurred to me then that my dad was right. Steam trains were weak. They were slow, they were hot, and, with the rise of electric ones, they were not needed anymore. Wasting time on outdated technology was the last thing I needed, especially for high school. Luckily for me, I’ve always been an ambitiously passionate kid, and I was way ahead of my time.

Ever since ninth grade, I had my life all planned out, up to what job I’d work to get millions as an adult. I figured my passion lay here in creative writing, and I did everything to further it. Learn more about it. Improve on it. I knew what direction I wanted to go, and I was willing to do anything to get there. School work wasn't hard, either. Effortlessly, I satisfied my parents, teachers, and friends. Even myself! I persistently gave them what they wanted, at exactly when they wanted it. My classmates were all top scorers---I among them---and life was good. Electricity constantly coursed through my veins, surging at the speed of light. It got me exactly where I wished to be. No---where I needed to be.

Steam trains, though: they let out smoke. They’re so old they can’t function without it. Their sides, often in dark, muted colours such as red, green, yellow, and blue, were encrusted in specks of dirt and grime. The once-beautiful-now-stained gold streaks, and the trains’ thick, tacky round head, made them stand out from the sleek, minimalistic, modern electric ones. They couldn't rely on themselves, and needed people to shove coal into the firebox for them. The workers would do so, sweat from the effort, and mindlessly shove in another batch. Electric trains didn't have to worry, though steam ones carried the burden of keeping everyone contented, because they ran on a resource that wasn’t even guaranteed to be enough. Locked away at the front, the fueling station hid from the unknowing passengers as the firemen kept shovelling. Shovelled, and shovelled, and shovelled. It was similar to how I’d receive my assignment, put in all my effort to maintain that good score, then send it away. As a result, the passengers got where they needed to go, and I got a good grade. The firemen continued to shovel. Shovelled, and shovelled, and shovelled. At one point, I started telling myself, “How clean the baby blue skies are!” over and over and over again. It was a reminder that I was already amongst the elite. A reminder that if I didn't keep this up, I'd fall behind and never be able to succeed. I’d then be given another one, repeat, and submit again. And again. And again, again, again. All this was fine, though. Because the grades were great, and the commuters were more than satisfied.

Even so, no matter what I did, I never could forget about the smoke.

It clouded the head of the train---dirty, ash black, and foul. Fogging my mind, it became more and more crowded inside. My arms were squeezed tight to my body, my throat almost wrung shut, but the passengers were still on. They still had places to go. They still needed their assessments to grade. And I needed to be the electric train. I needed to be faster, more efficient, smoother, better than everyone else. The latest Shinkansen could already travel at 320 km/h, yet here I was, at 45 km/h and getting run over by the wheels. The smoke muddled my thoughts, forcing me out of focus. The train tracks were jagged, the path before me circuitous, and I knew soon they would be jammed. But there was no way the firemen could stop shovelling. I couldn’t let them. That would’ve meant the end of everything I’ve been building up until now.

Stopping would've meant the end of my future.

The coal kept coming and coming, feeding into me until I thought I would hurl. The firemen’s arms ached and burned. Sweat swamped their faces, and soot stained their bodies. Their movements slowed and I shouted at them to hurry up, my words slurring like my mind. Gradually, the world turned darker, and the coals relentlessly piled on top of me. My feet, gone. My torso, covered. My neck, burnt. My lungs, filled with soot. I drowned, then, in the pile of coals. The rocks pressed hard on my chest and buried me alive. Buried alive, buried alive. For six months, sunlight was a fever dream. I would never be able to feel its warmth again, I knew now. I wouldn't be able to feel again. I wouldn't, I wouldn't. Even as I neared eternal stillness, the firemen kept shovelling, shovelling, the fire kept burning, burning, burning, burning, though the flame was dimming ever so quickly, and the steam train had slowed down even more.

In spite of that, the smoke was darker than ever.

It spit and sputtered, wheezed each time the wheels rolled on the stark metal and scraped the edges. My vision was speckled with dirt and grime as I thrashed around, trying and failing to find my way. My ribs dug into my lungs and clawed at my heart, my body went limp and finally, with the utterance of one sentence, I stopped struggling.

“You have moderate depression.”

The steam train let out a harsh, raspy hoot.

The wheels grated the rusted tracks as it finally came

to an enervated

Stop.

The Shinkansens continued to run.

They sped over the steam train without a thought. With electricity, they didn’t worry about unexpectedly breaking down. They were better than that. Loud and proud about it, even using repelling magnets on the Maglev in order to increase the speed.

But, the steam train had its powerhouse sealed away at the front, far from the passengers. With my wretched arms, I shoved in another hunk of coal. The fire rekindled only slightly, still on the verge of death. My hands bled from the cinder. No one knew what was happening on the inside. Black tears streaked my cheeks. I pushed myself forward, and the steam train squeaked and wailed. They didn't know…didn't know…how the firemen were quickly getting exhausted, heaving and coughing, on the verge of collapse. How their sweat melded with their tears and very soon they couldn’t tell them apart. The only telltale sign was the black, unhealthy smoke coming out of the smokestack. It spoiled the air, and the birds and trees around it withered and died. The passengers started getting whiffs of it, for they were now late for their own appointments. They scrunched up their noses and narrowed their eyes. Complaints sailed through the air, but the steam train kept on running. The firemen kept on shoveling, and the firebox kept burning, threatening to explode.

You’re doing this to yourself.

I’m dozing off in class and everyone’s words fly right out my ear. The world seemed too full of people yet a deafening silence envelopped me in its cold, aching arms. The heat of the firebox clung to me ceaselessly, and the stink of smoke became the only smell I knew. My world caved in and my vision tunneled. The future was a subject I shunned away. My fifteen-year plan disintegrated in front of my eyes.

Yet, I couldn’t care less.

You’re taking yourself apart.

From one Shinkanesen line, there were now nine. It wouldn’t be long until a tenth line was created. One line was always faster than another, and the Kodama, although amongst the fastest electric trains in the world, were still the slowest amongst the elite.

You’re acting like a baby.

People mostly knew of the Hayabusa. It was the fastest electric train that ran all the way from Tokyo to Hokkaido, using only 3 hours and 57 minutes. A car would’ve used 18. The Kodama couldn't even dream of comparing, only running at the speed of 285 km/h. It was much slower than the rest, but it wasn’t the slowest. It was an electric train. It was in the same class as the Hayabusa, the train that had earned value for being the fastest mode of transportation to Hokkaido. When it came to steam trains, though, there was no need to even mention speed. There were no steam train lines from Tokyo to Hokkaido to begin with.

None.

You’re not trying hard enough. You’re only---

---Digging my own grave. I knew that. Yet I couldn’t blow the smoke away. I couldn’t stop it from plaguing my mind, my every step, my every thought. Darkness greeted me like an old friend. One that was always there with me, possessed me. One that I could never shake off. I sat in solitude with my steam train and pile of coals. The sun rose and set endlessly, and I stared ahead with my glassy eyes, waiting to shatter at any moment. An icy metal cage clasped over where my heart used to be. There hasn’t been rain in months, and with murderous intent, I wished it would fall and flood the fueling station. I wished it would wash over the firebox and kill the flames once and for all. Everything passed by me in a blur---nothing staying, everything fleeting. I wished the world would let me stop the train, all the steam, all the smoke. I wished electric trains, along with their endless electricity, didn’t exist. I looked up at the demonic, pitch black smoke above me and it entered my lungs, curling in my gut. I wished I would allow myself to stop shovelling, even though the Shinkansens never did. Never even had to. The smoke marinated in my stomach. What was I to do with it? I wished I was brave enough to slow down on my own accord, to be indifferent to the passengers’ expectations. I dropped my face into my hands, my ribs racked with sobs. I wished life wasn’t so cruel to me. I wished the world was an easier place to live in. Slowly, through my pain-streaked eyes, I looked up at the steam train. Past its muted red colours, past its dirt and grime. Past its smokestack, past its endless smoke, and up at the baby blue sky I’d wished for so long to be able to finally see. Staring, without forethought, my grip on the shovel loosened. My shoulders relaxed as I sat there, in the middle of the soot-stained fuel station. My soul floated up to join the smoke in the sky. Oblivious to the chaos ensuing around me, I wished I was thirteen once more, aware but unaffected by the world and its problems. I wished it was all simpler than this. From my once ugly body smeared with soot, I now saw beautiful patterns playfully drawn on my limbs. The fire in the firebox reflected a warm, orange glow in my eyes. I wished I felt steady enough to try and stand back up again. I wished I were enough as I am.

I wished, before the steam trains set off, for that same noisy little toot! to return.

I looked down at my hands. There never was any electricity coursing through my veins, I realised. I wiped away my tears. I didn’t even want that anymore. My stomach grumbled angrily. The smoke snaked up my spine. It had always just been me and the firemen, shovelling and shovelling and shovelling. All day, all night, without stopping. The smoke seeped through my skin and exited through my eyes. We didn’t have unlimited power, and we never would.

But that was alright.

It was enough. Maybe not for others, but it was for me. I’ve had enough.

I looked up at the steam train before me once more, feeling a foreign yet familiar tug at the corners of my lips. With my first deep breath of clean air in, I steadied my mind.

I wished to be a steam train again.

Just like that, the steam train let out a soft toot! and a light puff of smoke released into the sky.

The first time my dad took me to see trains I was thirteen. We’d gone on the electric train, and I’d ask him why not the red steam train with the golden stripes? Smoke had billowed out of its smokestack and it let out a nice Choo! Choo! before setting off. Now, three years later, as I walked back to that same train station, my eyes glazed over the various sleek, electric ones that beeped and disappeared without a trace. Instead, I found myself staring at the sky. Small specks of smoke dotted the clouds, and with the little-known presence of the station's steam train, I knew it would always be there.

I walked over to the ticket booth and purchased one ticket, feeling the slightly rough paper between my fingers. The electric trains rushed by, quicker than the speed of light, while the steam train was still getting ready, with people dumping coal into its tender. I smiled, thinking of the tiny flowers and fields I might see along the way. Thinking of the way sweat might cling to my skin, and how I might spot some bees in search for honey. With its old, open windows, I could put my hand through and feel the breeze, let it play with my hair as I breathed in fresh air, tinged with a slight smell of smoke. I skipped across and away from the bustling station, humming to myself as I felt, once again, for the unevenly-cut ticket in my hands.

Glancing one last time at the Shinkansens, I stepped outside of the station. Sunlight bathed me as I sauntered into the steam train---a sensation I once thought I’d never be able to feel again. It let out a jolly Choo! Choo! before noisily driving off, cheerfully headed to Nowhere.

Chugga-chugga, chugga-chugga, chugga-chugga….

REFLECTION:

Include a short reflection on the experience of writing with consideration for how you found approaching the work and what feedback you would give yourself based on discussions we had in our seminars. The reflection should be 250-500 words.

The writing experience for this piece, although difficult at first, was incredibly fun. Creative nonfiction was an incredibly new topic for me, and, granted, before this, I was sceptical about it since I am not a fan of reading nonfiction books (save for some interesting biology books), and was dreading learning about nonfiction a little. But, when I got introduced to the first creative nonfiction piece about the octopus and the mother, I became intrigued. I didn’t know you could write like that in fiction, and desperately wanted to try it myself. I’ve always been a fan of the braiding technique, having used it in many of my past works, so when I was instructed to combine one of my life experiences with a nonfiction topic (while using metaphors), I was super excited. The feedback I received from my tutorial sessions were also on point, and really helped me refine this work. Before the session, I wasn’t satisfied due to the fact that I felt like the pacing was off, and that I was being too dramatic. After feedback and fixing my sentence lengths and punctuation, while also adding more details to my piece, I finally created a piece that I was satisfied with. The feedback I would give myself is to become more confident in expressing my emotions through writing, and that everything is valid. What matters is how you structure and convey those beautifully and in the way that you wish to. It was an amazing experience to write this piece and I’m very glad I mustered up the courage to do so.