Kafkas uncle, p.26
Kafka's Uncle, page 26
What he saw stopped his thoughts. He began to cry. Then, sitting with his back to the crate, he bawled and that changed to hysterical sobbing. Smashing the floor with his fists, he sobbed, “It’s unfair! It’s unfair! It’s so God damn fucking unfair!” And what he saw haunted him: a rolling landscape, green of grass with so many flowers of different colors that it must be the origin of rainbows. In the distance, a broad river and beyond the river, a snow—crowned volcano with majestic waterfalls pouring down high cliffs to the plain below. And the sky—ah! The sky was so incredibly blue and yes, that’s the way it was and God damn it, the man doesn’t want to remember it; he was then certain, beyond a doubt that it was trickery from a wicked Venus which now suddenly had so much more—suddenly he ran out to the street and, seeing Venus, he shrieked, “You son of a bitch! Not only can I not die, but you torment me with memories! Why this torture! Why remind me of what is no more!” He shook his fist—then gave in to his hopeless rage. And through his tears, he looked about: the city silent, ancient; snow moving down the street like a front of dust—he stumbled back into the warehouse to fall against the crate with the ocean inside; he sobbed as he sat in the light of the moon, sobbing then finally falling asleep.
Sometime during the night he awoke. It was dark where he lay; he shook his head, uncertain if he had heard a noise or if he had just dreamed it. Silence. He sighed, curled up on the floor again but just before he drifted off—he opened his eyes and sat up so fast that he banged his head against the crate. The man listened. The wind? He stopped breathing. Then, faintly, faintly—yes—crying! He heard something crying! From the back of the building—silently, he made his way back to the interior of the vast room. Stumbling into a large box, he stopped, swore silently, waited. The light of the moon came through a high bank of windows on the other side of the warehouse, now. In the light, the man saw a cleared area; a ring of chairs circled about an old—fashioned, pot—bellied stove.
The man stopped. The crying came from within the stove! He was impressed by how lonesome a cry it was, how pathetic, how sad; thin, high and wailing. Stooping, the man opened the fire door. The crying continued.
“Hello?” the man whispered, “hello?”
The crying stopped; all he heard was a sniffling. Then a weak voice: “Who are you?”
“That makes no difference,” the man said, “The question is—what is wrong? Why are you crying?”
“I don’t want to die!”
The man peered into the belly of the stove, but saw nothing. “Why can’t I see you?”
“I don’t want to die!”
“Shh!” the man said. “Shhh! Let’s not talk of that now. Where are you?”
The thin voice filled him with despair. “Look in the ashes. Blow, blow gently, stranger, for I am almost gone.”
The man suddenly realized how he was trembling and frightened as well. Gently, he blew into the belly of the stove; ashes touched his face like infinitely soft fingers.
“Gently, gently,” came the voice, “oh, stranger, gently.”
And there, there, amidst the darkness of ashes, a little red ember.
“Behold me,” came a faint whisper, “behold me for I am dying.”
The man pulled back. “Not if I can help it.” He stood and frantically stumbled about the warehouse, looking for paper, wood splinters, anything that would burn. There! There by the door; something white. He grabbed it. Yes, yes, paper; an ancient cough drop box. Then, a board from a crate. In running back to the stove, he ran into another box and dropped the paper. “God damn it,” he muttered, dropping to his knees and scuffling in the darkness. And in the distance, a wail, a high sobbing. Time was short. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, “where the fuck is the paper!” He spent precious minutes looking on this side of the box, on that side. Nothing. He ran back to the stove, board in hand and knelt before the open belly.
“I am dying. I am dying.” The man could barely hear the voice.
“No,” he said, ripping his tattered shirt into small fragments. He placed them in a pile right down by his knee. Then, carefully, carefully, he took one fragment and placed it next to the ember. “Here,” he said, “eat!”
“It’s too late, too late.”
“No! No, it’s not! Eat!”
Oh, God, the ember was so faint. But it nibbled the fabric. “That’s right,” the man said, “that’s right; you need strength. Eat.” The little ember became brighter. “Yes,” the man said, “wonderful. Wonderful. Don’t stop.” He placed another bit of cloth with the first. The ember began to nibble that one—the red changed to orange; he put on even more cloth. The orange became bright and yes! There! A little flame danced. More cloth. Then the man took the board, looked for splinters and, finding them, fed them to the flame. The flame grew brighter. He stood, then broke the board with his feet. More splinters. More fire. “I feel stronger,” said the fire, “much stronger.”
“You’re going to feel stronger still,” the man replied, placing larger pieces of wood on the fire; he raced about gathering more boards; soon, the fire was yellow, warm and bright in the stove. The light, flooding out of the door, pushed, pushed the darkness back.
“Yes,” the fire roared, “yes, yes, oh, yes.”
Then the fire crawled out of the stove; it slipped down the front and then stood on two flaming legs. It walked over to the man; he was so stunned that he could not move. He was kneeling, hands on knees, mesmerized by the fire; it then reached out, touched his hand with flaming fingers—yet the man did not feel a burning heat; rather, it was a gentle warmth; the fire whispered to the man, “You have saved me. You took the time to save me.”
The man did not know what to say. All he knew was that he was surrounded by warmth, light and in the warehouse, there was no darkness.
“Ah,” said the fire, “ah, I was wrong. There is time after all.”
The man nodded and mumbled, “There was an hour left on the parking meters. . . “
“Good,” said the fire, “good. Good. And what an hour it shall be. You have certainly done your share. Now to do mine.”
The fire collapsed into a ball, rose and, flashing through the warehouse, bust through the front window. The man ran after it, only to see it rise high, high into the air. He lost sight of it. And was puzzled. He waited. Dawn was coming; the sky on the horizon east of the black mass of the volcano was grey blue. Silence. Still. A suspended moment: the moment of between, of transformation. He was holding his breath; he wanted to scream. He was sweating. He could not bear the tension and gritted his teeth. He wanted to pull his hair, wanted to break things. And still, still the moment continued. He stood frozen and, not knowing why, stared at the volcano, staring at it until his eyes watered.
Suddenly, a tremor. Then, a jolt. The man was thrown to his knees. Another tremor. And then, looking up, he saw it, high, high above: a huge fire ball. A fireball not falling, but driving, driving at incredible speed—aiming for the caldera of the volcano. The sun rose just as the fire ball struck the volcano’s caldera. A brilliant explosion of light, of thunder, and the man covered his eyes. The ground trembled and shook; the buildings of the city began to crumble. The intense light faded and when the man was able to see once again, what he saw was the entire upper half of the volcano engulfed in black, heavy, dense rolling smoke. From fissures in the side of the mountain, lava gushed. Another quake; the glass of the warehouse behind him burst out, covering him with shards. More buildings toppled, but the man was too stunned to move. In the distance, the volcano roared and amidst all this fury of light and sound, he heard something else. He turned—and backed away. The crates. The crates which he had looked into the night before, were swelling, the steel bands around them snapping like thread while boards split and popped—the man turned and ran. Around him, the ancient city continued to crumble, the bricks fell, the old concrete, the rock shattered like glass and he ran. And as he did, he saw that the sky was completely dark; pumice rained down. He ran up the hill, outside the city and found, on the other side, a valley and at the bottom of it, room—sized boulders. He ran to them and found two that, leaning together, formed a cave. He crawled in—to wait.
For days the sky was dark. For days he heard the thunder and felt the earth shake. He waited. Slept. Dreamed of the cities he had seen while the darkness and the rain of rocks continued. He awoke with a start. Quiet. He noticed something else: he was sweating, because it was hot. Looking down, he saw that he sat in mud and that the large boulders had settled, leaving just a very small exit. He clawed at the hole, pulling at the mud, the rocks and finally it was large enough for him to crawl through; once out, he stood—and stared. His mouth dropped open: there was water in the valley. He looked up. The sky was a deep blue and the air was warm. He tried to think of what had happened, then realized what must have happened—the smoke, the gasses must have trapped the sun’s heat and so began melting the ice which created water vapor which further increased the temperature and so on and although he understood it, he still shook his head in disbelief. “No,” he whispered, “no, no, it’s not possible!” He ran up the hill and turned around; the water in the valley was an inlet, an extension of a larger body of water. Why, he thought, I must be looking out over an ocean—and not far away, he saw waves, white and shining in the sun, beat against a rocky peninsula and he was reminded of a slow and ponderous heartbeat as he listened: Whump! Whump! Whump! And the waves, the waves beat, beat against the rock. The spray was carried high and how it sparkled in the sunlight!
He turned again, shaking his head in amazement: the volcano: the top half of it was gone. What remained was cloaked in snow. Waterfalls cascaded down the steep flanks to join a broad and slow river that meandered easily through green, rolling meadows.
But the most wonderful thing was right before the man; down slope from him: the city. There was the city with towers, white and tall, shining in the sun. And people! People! He saw them strolling the wide streets; he heard them singing and suddenly he was running, running in the new, rich air; running and could still hear the surf. He ran through the tall grasses and flowers of purple and gold waving in wind and on the horizon, the mountain all splendid and white and he ran, yes, ran, then was leaping and laughing and running again to those people in that city with the towers so tall and, oh, God, so white and shining, yes, shining, shining in the light of the sun.
Acknowledgements
To the memories of Marie Landis, founder of the writing and critique group I’ve been a part of for over 26 years and to her husband, Si. You taught me that the object of life isn’t wealth. The object of life is the wealth of life.
To the former members of the above mentioned group: Phyllis Hiefield, Joel Davis, Brian Herbert and wife Jan and to the memory of Cal Clawson.
To the present, dedicated members of present critique now known as the Landis Review in honor of Marie Landis: Linda Shepherd, Roberta Gregory, Sarah Blum and Art Gomez and Jim Bartlett—and to success, to love, laughter, connection, and a wonderful sense of a full and vibrant life well lived. What better definition of success do you need than that?
Thank you Nancy Lou Polk for work done on the early version of this work and a big thank you to Bear Lightfoot for amazing computer work getting different formats coordinated and updated. That was as lot of work and you did it well. Thank you very much!
Many thanks to my good friend and former agent, Ben Bova whose suggestions in regard to the “bigger picture” of this work has proven to be most correct.
And with deepest gratitude and thanks to Andrew Burt and ReAnimus Press for publishing new editions of my earlier works as well as publishing new titles. I am so delighted!
Last, but certainly not least, to Roberta Gregory, my partner, my friend, who, with infinite compassion and forbearance, offered great solace and a superb eye for detail, and suggestions in the difficulties around my being challenged by computers and the proofreading of this manuscript. Such are these people, upon entering one’s life, you know that no matter how many times you say, “Thank you,” it never seems enough. But that being said, “Thank you. Thank you all, thank you so much.”
Bruce Taylor
Seattle, Washington
October, 2016
Credit notes:
“Of Tunafish and Galaxies” and “City Streets”, published in The Bizarro Starter Kit, BIZARRO BOOKS, 2006, editor, Carlton Mellick III.
“Charles Out of La La Land,” first published in A Darke Phantastique, Encounters With the Uncanny and Other Magical Things, Cycatrix Press, 2014, Jason Brock, Editor.
“The Prey,” first published in Night-Mantled, The Best of Wily Writers Speculative Fiction, Vol. One, c. 2011, edited by Angel Leigh McCoy.
“Justice in Amerry-Ka,” first published in the Magazine of Bizarro Fiction, Issue 1, Summer, 2009, Jeff Burk, editor.
“Neptune Blues,” first published in the Magazine of Bizarro Fiction, Issue 3, Winter, 2010, Jeff Burk, editor.
“Of Diamonds and Facets,” published in on spec, #84. Vol. 23, no 1, spring, 2011. Diane L. Walton, editor.
“Visitor,” published in “Cucurbital, a retort of four stories,” published by Paper Golem, LLC, 2008, Lawrence M. Schoen, editor.
“Four Dreams in Miniature,” first published in Bizarro Bizarro an anthology, Bizarro Pulp Press, c. 2013, Rocky Alexander, Editor.
About the Author
Bruce Taylor, known as Mr. Magic Realism, was born in 1947 in Seattle, Washington, where he currently lives. He was a student at the Clarion West Science Fiction/Fantasy writing program at the University of Washington, where he studied under such writers as Avram Davidson, Robert Silverberg, Ursula K. LeGuin, and Frank Herbert. Bruce has been involved in the advancement of the genre of magic realism, founding the Magic Realism Writers International Network, and collaborating with Tamara Sellman on MARGIN (http://www.magical-realism.comwww.magical-realism.com). Recently, he co-edited, with Elton Elliott, former editor of Science Fiction Review, an anthology titled, Like Water for Quarks, which examines the blending of magic realism with science fiction, with work by Ray Bradbury, Ursula K. LeGuin, Brian Herbert, Connie Willis, Greg Bear, William F. Nolan, among others. Elton Elliott has said that “(Bruce) is the transformational figure for science fiction.”
His works have been published in such places as The Twilight Zone, Talebones, The Seattle P.I., Darke Phantastique and New Dimensions. His first collection, The Final Trick of Funnyman and Other Stories (available from Fairwood Press) recently received high praise from William F. Nolan, who said that some of his stores were “as rich and poetic as Bradbury at his best.”
In 2007, borrowing and giving credit to author Karel Capek (War with the Newts), Bruce published EDWARD: Dancing on the Edge of Infinity, a tale told largely through footnotes about a young man discovering his purpose in life through his dreams.
With Brian Herbert, son of Frank Herbert of Dune fame, he wrote Stormworld, a short novel about global warming.
Two other books (Mountains of the Night, Magic of Wild places) have been published and are part of a “spiritual trilogy.” (The third book, Majesty of the World, is presently being written.)
A sequel to Kafka’s Uncle (Kafka’s Uncle: the Unfortunate Sequel and Other Insults to the Morally Perfect), as well as the prequel (Kafka’s Uncle: the Ghastly Prequel and Other Tales of Love and Pathos from the World’s Most Powerful, Third-World Banana Republic) were published in 2016. Industrial Carpet Drag, a weird and funny look at global warming and environmental decay, was released in 2014.
Other published titles are, Mr. Magic Realism and Metamorphosis Blues.
Of course, he has already taken on several other projects which he hopes will see publication: My False Memories With Myshkin Dostoyevsky-Kat, and The Tales of Alleymanderous as well as going through some 800 unpublished stories to assemble more collections; over 40 years, Bruce has written about 1000 short stories, 200 of which have been published.
Bruce was writer in residence at Shakespeare & Company, Paris. If not writing, Bruce is either hiking or can be found in the loft of his vast condo, awestruck at the smashing view of Mt. Rainier with his partner, artist and writer Roberta Gregory and their “mews,” Roo-Prrt.
More books from Bruce Taylor are available at: http://ReAnimus.com/store/?author=Bruce Taylor
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Here are more ebooks you’ll enjoy from ReAnimus Press (plus lots more on the web site):
Kafka's Uncle and Other Strange Tales, by Bruce Taylor [Author's Official Site]
Kafka's Uncle: The Ghastly Prequel, by Bruce Taylor [Author's Official Site]
Edward: Dancing on the Edge of Infinity, by Bruce Taylor [Author's Official Site]
Magic of Wild Places, by Bruce Taylor [Author's Official Site]
Mountains of the Night, by Bruce Taylor [Author's Official Site]
Side Effects, by Harvey Jacobs [Author's Official Site]
American Goliath, by Harvey Jacobs [Author's Official Site]
Biff America: Steep Deep & Dyslexic, by Jeffrey Bergeron (AKA Biff America) [Author's Official Site]
A Knife In The Mind, by Craig Strete [Author's Official Site]
The Angry Dead, by Craig Strete [Author's Official Site]
The Game of Cat and Eagle, by Craig Strete [Author's Official Site]
