Gallery in a Subway

A short story by Waspy and Waspy’s friend.

I hope you enjoy this little fictitious tale.

Imagine walking through a subway station and you discover an art gallery. There are several exhibits, each with dozens of amazing artwork. Has it always been here? Why haven’t you noticed it before?

One particular exhibit catches your eye. It’s about that place you always wanted to go to. Where was it again?

Now, imagine grey walls, lots of paintings to your left and to your right, and signs in a darker yet shade of grey.

You walk toward that exhibit, your curiosity growing with each step. The dim lighting in the subway gallery casts long shadows along the floor, while the faint hum of a subway train echoes in the distance. The paintings in this particular exhibit are unlike anything you’ve ever seen. Each one feels strangely familiar, yet elusive—like a memory from a dream that slips away just as you try to grasp it. But.. where is everybody?

As you approach the first painting, you pause for a second. It’s a landscape of a serene, sunlit beach, golden sands stretching out toward a turquoise sea. But it’s not just any beach. You’ve seen this place before—perhaps in your imagination, or maybe even in an old travel magazine. You can almost feel the warmth of the sun on your skin, the gentle breeze rustling through the palm trees. You’ve always wanted to visit this place, haven’t you?

Next to the painting, there’s a small plaque. It reads: “The Beach of Forgotten Dreams.” The words send a shiver down your spine, though you can’t quite explain why. As you look back at the painting, the water seems to ripple, and for a split second, you think you hear the distant crash of waves.

You move on to the next piece, and your steps slow as you take it in. This one is a bustling city street, crowded with people, vibrant lights reflecting off the wet pavement. But there’s something strange about it—the buildings seem to shift ever so slightly when you look away, like they’re alive. The faces in the crowd are blurred, almost indistinct, yet somehow, you feel like you could recognize them if you tried hard enough. It’s the city you’ve always wanted to explore but could never quite place on a map.

The sign beneath this painting says: “The City That Waits.” There’s an odd sense of anticipation in the title, as though the city itself is waiting for someone—waiting for you. The longer you stand in front of it, the more you feel like the city is calling to you, beckoning you to step inside.

You feel your eyes move to the next piece. This one’s different. It’s a narrow alleyway, winding between ancient stone buildings, ivy crawling up the walls. At the end of the alley, there’s a door. The painting is so realistic, it’s as if you could walk right up to the door and knock. Where does it lead? You’ve never been here, but something inside you knows that this alley, this door, is important. But why?

The sign beneath it reads: “The Door to Nowhere.” Yet, as you stand there, you can’t help but feel that it’s a door to somewhere—somewhere you’ve always wanted to go but couldn’t quite find, or perhaps it’s somewhere you’ve been? The thoughts are both comforting and unsettling.

As you continue down the hallway, the realization hits that each painting tells a story of places you’ve dreamed of but never visited—mysterious forests, tranquil lakes, bustling markets. Every piece of art seems to tug at the corners of your memory, reminding you of places that feel simultaneously real and imaginary.

You walk over to what you realize is the last painting. How long have you been here? It doesn’t feel like that long but it’s as if you’ve lost track of time, carefully looking at painting after painting.

This last painting is… different from the others. It’s darker, more abstract. Swirls of color dance across the canvas, with no clear shape or form. Yet, as you stare at it, you begin to see something emerge. Are they shapes? Are they faces? You can’t be too sure. It’s as though the painting is alive somehow, shifting and changing with every second that you stare at it.

The sign beneath it simply says: “The Unfinished Journey.” Why can’t this exhibit have some descriptions, you wonder.

You step closer to the painting, almost hypnotized by the way the colors move. What is this journey? Is it yours? After all, it seems as if this entire exhibit has been waiting for you. To confuse you, perhaps. But why you? Why were you drawn to this random exhibition in the first place. There was another one with several famous paintings. You might have gone there instead. But you didn’t…

You gather your thoughts and try to be in the moment. The air around you seems to thicken, the subway noises fading into the background as you lose yourself in the painting.

And then, just as you’re about to reach out and touch it, you hear a voice behind you.

“No touching!”

You turn around, startled. A woman stands there, dressed in a long coat, her eyes focused on the painting. She smiles softly and chuckles when she sees your confusion. She clearly doesn’t work at the museum and thought it would be funny to mess with you. Probably the worst time for a joke, you think to yourself.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she asks.

“You’re not the first to be drawn to this one,” she continues, stepping closer to you. “The Unfinished Journey always calls to those who are searching for something.”

You open your mouth to ask a question, but she speaks before you can.

“Everyone who comes here is looking for something—somewhere they’ve never been, something they’ve never found. This gallery is special like that. It shows you the places you long for, but can never quite reach.”

Who is she? Where did she come from?

Her words linger in the air, and you feel a strange sense of understanding wash over you. The paintings—these places—they’re all fragments of dreams, desires, and memories. But they’re also more than that. They’re destinations you’ve imagined but never fully realized. The other exhibits seem totally normal though, so why does she think the entire gallery would have that effect on you? Are they just as mysterious?

“Does anyone ever reach the end of the journey?” you ask quietly, after a moment’s silcence.

The woman smiles again, but this time it’s tinged with mystery. “That’s the thing about journeys,” she says. “They’re never really finished, are they?”

But why does it feel like the exhibit is meant for you, based on your journey and your dreams? Does everyone have the same dream in a different form?

Before you can put your thoughts into clear words, she turns and walks away, her footsteps echoing softly in the empty exhibit room. You watch her disappear around a corner, leaving you alone with these paintings once more. Who is she, you wonder again? What does she have to do with this exhibit?

For a moment, you consider leaving the gallery, walking back into the busy subway station and returning to the real world. But something keeps you rooted in place, your gaze fixed on The Unfinished Journey. There’s something more to this place—something waiting for you to discover.

You take one last look at the swirling colors, feeling a pull deep within you. Maybe this isn’t just a gallery in a subway station. Maybe it’s something more—a doorway to the places you’ve always dreamed of, the ones you haven’t yet found.

As you turn to leave, a thought crosses your mind: maybe one day, you’ll find yourself in one of those paintings, not as a spectator, but as a traveler. Maybe you’ll find out how and why you stumbled upon this gallery in the first place, and why now?

With that thought, you make your way to the exit and take one last glance at the exhibit board. This time, you notice the artist’s name under the exhibit title. The name too— it’s familiar, somehow. You feel like you know that name, but you just can’t place who it is or how you met them. It’s as if you know the name but it doesn’t belong to a person you’ve actually met or heard about. Perhaps they were in one of your dreams.

You feel like this too cannot be real. All of a sudden, your phone rings. You realize you’re late for a meeting and head straight there, but your mind is still in the exhibit, curious about the paintings you’ve just seen and the mysterious woman who seems to know too much about it.

Gallery in a Subway is a short story. Just for fun, nothing serious. All characters and locations do not exist. Any coincidence is just a coincidence. Do not take the story seriously.

If you would like to share your thoughts about the story, please do not hesitate to contact me. I am keen to listen to your input.

Stay waspy.

A site by Waspy.