Shinjuku Gyoen Glitch: A Pocket Novel of Fractured Time
The sake tasted of static and dissolving rain. Not the smooth, subtly sweet rice wine I’d anticipated in the tranquil beauty of Shinjuku Gyoen National Garden, but a sharp, electrical burn that prickled my tongue and left a metallic echo resonating in my skull.
I’d sought refuge from the relentless neon and concrete of Shinjuku in this meticulously sculpted oasis. The meticulously arranged stones, the precisely pruned trees, the placid ponds reflecting the sky… a perfect antidote to the urban chaos. Or so I thought.
The first sign was the gardener. He was tending a meticulously raked gravel garden, a scene of perfect Zen tranquility. Except he was using a leaf blower. A gasoline-powered, roaring leaf blower that shattered the serenity into a million discordant fragments. I frowned, attributing it to the slow erosion of taste, the relentless encroachment of the modern world. But then I saw him again, a few minutes later, raking the same gravel, the leaf blower discarded nearby. When I passed a third time, he was meticulously watering the gravel with a hose. Each pebble gleamed, unnaturally bright.
I sat on a bench near the English Landscape Garden, attempting to regain my equilibrium. The scent of roses, usually a balm, felt cloying, artificial. I pulled out my phone, intending to check the news, to ground myself in the familiar banality of the present. The screen flickered, displaying a string of characters that resolved into what looked like a QR code, but it shifted and pulsed, never quite solidifying. Then the screen went blank.
The next anomaly was more pronounced. A young woman in a bright pink kimono was sketching in a notebook. Nothing particularly unusual, until she pulled out a smartphone and took a picture of her sketch. Then she started furiously erasing the sketch. I watched, fascinated, as she repeated the process, sketching, photographing, erasing, her movements growing increasingly frantic.
The sake, which I’d been slowly sipping, suddenly tasted worse. The metallic tang intensified, now tinged with something acrid, like burning plastic. The air itself seemed to shimmer, distorting the lines of the meticulously crafted landscape. The carefully arranged rocks pulsed with a faint, internal luminescence.
The Ripple
I noticed a ripple in the surface of one of the ponds. It wasn’t a normal ripple, caused by wind or a fish. This ripple seemed to originate from nowhere, a circular distortion spreading outwards, momentarily blurring the reflections of the surrounding trees and sky. As it faded, the reflection seemed…wrong. The clouds were different, the trees were subtly altered, the sky possessed a slightly different hue.
I stood up, a growing sense of unease prickling my skin. The other visitors seemed oblivious, lost in their own worlds, taking selfies, chatting, picnicking. Were they not seeing what I was seeing? Or were they simply better at ignoring it?
I began to walk, faster now, towards the exit. The garden seemed to stretch, the paths lengthening, the distances distorting. I passed the gardener again. This time, he was using a flamethrower on the gravel. The pebbles popped and crackled, emitting a strange, high-pitched whine. He didn’t seem to notice me.
The Exit
Finally, I reached the gate. I pushed through, stumbling onto the bustling streets of Shinjuku. The noise, the crowds, the flashing lights…it was a relief, a return to the familiar chaos. But even here, something felt subtly…off. The faces of the passersby seemed subtly distorted, the advertisements on the buildings flickered with unfamiliar symbols, the traffic lights pulsed with an erratic rhythm.
I glanced back at the entrance to Shinjuku Gyoen. It looked…normal. Just another entrance to a park, swallowed by the urban landscape.
The taste of static still lingered on my tongue. I knew, with a chilling certainty, that something was fractured. Not just in the garden, but in the very fabric of reality. And I had, somehow, glimpsed the tear.
