Kafka's Uncle: The Ghastly Prequel

By Bruce Taylor

How does Kafka's Uncle and Kafka's Uncle: The Unfortunate Sequel begin? Here, for the first time, the terrible secret is revealed! In the not too distant future, we find Brusjavik Taylorskavich, state-sanctioned, self-proclaimed, "whore-writer" for the Corporate States of America, at a table, waiting to order a meal at the Bay Cafe', overlooking the wonderfully flooded streets of Seattle as a result of the melting of the useless polar caps. As he contemplates his writer-celebrity status and his next award-winning projects, he meets his waiter, a nervous lad by the name of—Anslenot.

Also included in this book is the novella, 13 MILES TO PARADISE. The Garnett family, on their way to Paradise, a world famous picnic-hiking area at Mt. Rainier in Washington State--well, all was going along just fine until the family got stuck behind a Winnebago trailer. Though no one is saying much to each other, in their heads, they are saying a LOT. Magic realism anybody? Originally published in an anthology titled ALEMBICAL, edited by Lawrence M. Schoen and Arthur Dorrance with work by Jay Lake, James Van Pelt and Ray Vuckcevich, the collection received a starred review in Publishers Weekly.

Completing the book are twenty other stories, some of which have been previously published.

"Bruce Taylor has earned the title of 'Mr. Magic Realism' by dint of producing works that are fascinating, insightful, and downright fun to read. His fiction will make you think . . . And smile."
—Ben Bova

"a very gifted short fiction writer"
—Jeff VanderMeer

"Writes like Bradbury at his finest"
—William F. Nolan

"(Bruce) is the transformational figure for science fiction"
—Elton Elliott, former editor of the Science Fiction Review

"A writer of imagination and insight, Bruce Taylor delivers a collection of stories that amazes and intrigues."
—Terry Brooks

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReAnimus Press
• Release date: Jan 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370837106

Bruce Taylor

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 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.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, On Spec, and New Dimensions, and 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) should be published soon, 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). Industrial Carpet Drag, a weird and funny look at global warming and environmental decay, was released in 2104. 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 Dostoevski-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 Roberta Gregory and their "mews," Roo-Prrt. More books from Bruce Taylor are available at: http://ReAnimus.com/store/?author=Bruce Taylor

Book preview

KAFKA'S UNCLE: THE GHASTLY PREQUEL

AND OTHER TALES OF LOVE AND PATHOS FROM THE WORLD'S MOST POWERFUL, THIRD-WORLD BANANA REPUBLIC.

by

BRUCE TAYLOR

Produced by ReAnimus Press

Other books by Bruce Taylor:

Kafka's Uncle and Other Strange Tales

Kafka's Uncle: The Unfortunate Sequel

Edward: Dancing on the Edge of Infinity

Magic of Wild Places

Mountains of the Night

© 2016 by Bruce Taylor. All rights reserved.

http://ReAnimus.com/store?author=brucetaylor

Cover Art by Richard Swift

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Credits:

13 Miles to Paradise was first published in Alembical, 2008.

Not About the Letter Z appeared in Die Novelle, Zeitschrift fur Experimentelles, Tote Orte, #3, 2/2014

Idaho Girl, and Ride Ride Rocket © Michael E. Pryor

The Long Yellow Crayon © Michael E. Pryor and Judith Kay

My Heart Is Taken, and Highway’s End © Todd Christoffel and Crispin Faget

Lyrics used by permission of the artists. All rights reserved.

~~~

To Elton Elliott: for years of friendship and for understanding what my writing was about. And then to co-edit with me LIKE WATER FOR QUARKS, exploring the marvelous blending of magic realism and science fiction—so much work, but so much fun and so well worth it. And thanks to Doug Odell and MVP Publishing and the cover art by Alan Clark—all so wonderful, so magnificent! Thank you all.

In memoriam: Lida Sloan, Seiko Olson and Karen Stein—long standing members of FOKUS (Friends of Kafka’s Uncle Society), a long running support group (started 1994) for artists, based on the idea of Julia Cameron’s THE ARTIST’S WAY, that artists need a creative tribe. It was great to witness your creative works and thank you for your interest in my work and much of the KAFKA’S UNCLE trilogy. But not only that. Your interest in FOKUS and all the people who came and shared, spoke to the heart of the group: art is meant to be shared and when so doing, we transform and become our best. It’s no wonder FOKUS keeps on going. Thank you for being so much a part of it.

~~~

Table of Contents

Kafka's Uncle: The Ghastly Prequel

13 Miles To Paradise!

... and other tales of love and pathos from the world's most powerful, third-world banana republic...

Oh, Them Conditions

The Red Lion

Permutations

That Rumbucksoid Day

Peculiarness

Travels

Not About The Letter Z

Puzzle

You Thought

Wall-eyed

Of the Strange Events Surrounding the Death (?) of Grandfather Nunca

Oh, Them Cathode Blues

The Infinite Door

Off-Season

Dreams of Watches

Edward and the Cataclysm

Understanding

You've Been There

Mirrorboy

Of This We May Be Proud

One Morning

Going

The Final Gift

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Kafka’s Uncle: The Ghastly Prequel

For me, he (Kafka) wrote his father in later life, you began to have that mysterious quality which all tyrants have, whose privilege is based on their personality, not on reason.

—Franz Kafka

From the Introduction by Philip Rahv, Selected Stories of Franz Kafka

We have met the enemy and he is us.

Pogo, Walt Kelly

Headline:

US looks at ways to prevent spying on NSA spying

by Stephen Braun, for the Associated Press, January 28, 2014

PREAMBLE

Whilst sitting at the Bay Café, overlooking the City of S, by the mountains, by the sea, my waiter, a young lad of some twenty-something years, with a name tag with the most unusual name of Anslenot, was pouring me a cup of coffee, when, spying my notes for my next blockbuster novel, which of course will be made into a major movie to be released simultaneously on Ipod, Upod, WeePod, !Ex!Net!, DVD, HDVD, BSVD and in fine movie theatres all over the world to what are destined to be stellar reviews, as usual—where was I?

Oh, yes, yes, this young man said, Oh, say can you see. You’re Brusjavik Taylorskavich, the State-Sanctioned Writer.

By the dawn’s early light. Yes, I replied, it’s true, it’s true. Ultimately, it was all my mother’s fault for shaming my creativity but I’ve certainly made the best of it, haven’t I? I laughed. I sure showed her, that shameless Obamamite! And I’m not through yet. It’s always fun to blame her for everything. After all, you always have to blame someone for something. And I laughed again. Smugly, I glanced at my new blue sapphire-studded wrist watch/phone with caller ID, MicroNanoPod Next Generation Interface with automatic weather and stock price updates and lastly, barometric and an interface port for time functions.

This young, lower-class whelp stared at me for a long moment, pouring coffee until he realized that my cup runneth over.

Oh, my God, he said in true alarm, "I am so sorry." His dark eyes were shock-dilated and he was tortured with guilt.

Seeing him internally thrashing and sending his inner kid into an existential corner, my wrath abated somewhat. It’s all right this time, I said, but next time, I’ll have you flogged in public.

Obviously grateful at my mercy, Anslenot continued on. I must speak with you, he said. His dark hair hung over his forehead, eyes now imploring.

I looked at my stack of notes for my next novel, THE DOSTOEVSKY CONNECTION OF MODERN POLITICS AND THE CURRENT ADMINISTRATION, along with my notes for other books, OUCH! FASCISM CAN BE PAINFUL BUT FUN, THE JOY OF TYRANNY, and CONTROLLED SPONTANEITY along with my notes for my new book, just published, regarding my Nobel Prize acceptance speech in Stockholm next month, for which they will surely nominate me, titled, KARAMOZOV, KAFKA AND KOFFEE, THE RECIPE OF THE NEW WORLD ODOR, the speech of which will be carried by C-SPAM, CNN and all international news outlets as the seminal speech of the early 21st century and will probably result in even more awards and monies for me, far beyond my wildest imaginings but that is neither here nor there, swell as it may sound. Coming back from my grandiose reveries of being a celebrity writer and selling many books and screwing whoever and whatever walked by me on two legs—where was I—? Oh—yes, yes, I found Anslenot continuing to look at me beseechingly.

Yes, I said, of course you can have my autograph and I’ll be happy to take top billing in your documentary about the necessary takeover of the Government by MaulMart—

Anslenot swallowed, obviously in gratitude of my interest in him and my generosity of demeaning myself to even consider taking seriously someone of his menial status, but then he said once again, "I really need to talk with you."

Yes, I said, about the various generous clauses of the contracts you are offering me—I’ll be here. 

He nodded and went off to fetch my breakfast of—then it dawned on me. He hadn’t talked to me of contracts. There was something else here. I looked out at the bay, watching the ships taking the Minorities and Undeserving out to their well-deserved watery graves, watching the waves lap gently against second-story windows—waters newly deepened from icecap melt-down caused by finally-proven methane release from too many farting cows.

But my mind kept going back to that lad Anslenot. I tried to read the paper and scanned the headlines: VICE-PRESIDENT SHAYNEE AGAIN FOUND GUILTY OF MONEY LAUNDERING. SAYS HE IS INNOCENT. PARDONED BY MACROSOFT MAJORITY IN SENATE. And over there, another article titled, GOVERNMENT TO SUE THOSE DEEMED INSANE FOR BEING INSANE and another article of interest, GOVERNMENT ADMITS TO NUKING ICELAND; CLAIMS ICELAND HIDING WMD’S UNDER GLACIERS. And, SECRETARY OF INTERIOR ROMM KNEED URGES PAVING OVER OF NATIONAL PARKS. SAYS LANDS ARE WASTED. But as powerful and as fine examples of investigative reporting as these stories seemed to promise, after a minute, I just had to put down the voluminous, four-page paper. Enlightening as the news was, I just could not concentrate. And after Anslenot served my fifty-dollar Breakfast Special one-egg omelet, I tried to sort out the details of my projects as best I could but to no avail, distracted as I was by the mystery of Anslenot—and what he might have to say.

AMBLE

The above, written by Brusjavik Taylorskavich, was given to me, Bradley Patriot McCroskey, by a friend of his who knew that I would be attending a party in honor of him. Since he had won yet another award that he was not aware that he was winning until the evening of the party in his favor, he subsequently had to leave to be a part of yet another honor for him. And I certainly did not know when I would be back in this area. Opening the envelope, I discovered a business card and at the end of said note, a handwritten scrawl at the bottom of the printed copy and clearly it was curious:

My dear Mr. Bradley—Anslenot never returned; instead he had another waiter bring me a card—as you see, a simple address. I just do not have the time or energy to follow up on this young man—clearly, he is totally dysfunctional and I’ve no idea what this is about. So, I’m turning this over to you and do with it as you may.

Hardly a fool to turn down something from THE Brusjavik Taylorskavich—just the name alone sells books and ensures HDTV appearances not to mention great sales in all the merchandise surrounding his books, I was also wary for I had my own writing to do and didn’t know if I could take on another project. But—it wouldn’t hurt to look—would it...?

The next morning, after watching the news of Mr. Taylorskavich accepting the Herbert Award for the best holographic production of the entire Dune series, a mammoth condensation of all 162 books into a bright and sharp half-hour show, and, of course, sending him my congratulations on a job well done, I wondered again about this mystery of Anslenot. Finding the envelope, I studied the letter, and the business card—one side of which read, NukeIran Coffee Distributors, 1984 Victory Lane, Liberty, Washington. On the other side, a scrawl: 1421 Boehner Drive, Seattle. I had been to Seattle a lot, before and after the Great Patriotic Freedom Middle East Wars and knew that this was in the Workin’hard Neighborhood in the north end of the city.

I thought but a minute more, then called up USA Airways, changed my plane reservation and called up the front desk of the Starzenstrips Hotel where I was staying to let them know I’d be there at least several more days. I rented a new BashChina (a blue Cheerios Coupe powered by fermented prune juice) and headed out into the never-ending winter rains.

The address was a parking lot. There was an attendant’s shack not far from the entrance. I pulled in and parked next to an older, red Cheney Homeland pickup and got out of the car, deftly unfolding my new AntiAcidRain Bumbershoot umbrella, though after a minute I didn’t need it for the rain for the first time in weeks had begun to let up. The attendant came out of the shack with several thick parcels wrapped in rather woebegone heavy brown paper.

The fellow, a lanky, sunburned guy, in the dark green uniform of the Underclass, came over to me and upon approach, he pushed his Standard Issue Green Hat back.

Mine eyes have seen the glory. You Brusjavik Taylorskavich? His voice was amazingly soft; I’d not expected that. The grey eyes, intent, searching.

Of the coming of the Lord. No, I said, I’m Bradley Patriot McCroskey, writer, and friend of Brusjavik Taylorskavich. He asked me to pick something up for him.

Which, while not exactly true, wasn’t too awfully far from the truth.

The fellow studied me, obviously not sure whether to turn over the package to me or not. I produced the card with the address. Brusjavik gave this card. Obviously this is the right place. Obviously you have something for him.

The fellow studied me a minute more, then, reaching a decision, handed the package to me and gave me a form to sign—it was one of those standard Sneak-A-Peek forms that the person picking the package up, or his designated proxy picking it up for him, was required to sign or go to prison. So I signed it, gave my address, the address of Brusjavik, my phone number, my web ID, and the number of the implant ID chip under the skin of my wrist which the fellow verified with the proper, small, handheld freaker—as they are called and for good reason by those of the Criminal-Terrorist-Traitor-Dissident Class. He finally handed the package to me and said, Good to go. He then thrust his hand out horizontally. To the Republic.

I thrust my hand out as well. For which it stands!

I then turned, got into the car, put the parcels on the passenger side and, turning out of the parking lot, wondered just what the hell I’d gotten into.

POSTAMBLE

I was sexually relieving myself in the bathroom when the door opened and the unannounced Homeland Security Vigilante Personnel (HSVP ) walked in and looked at me, a faint smile playing on her lips. Mine eyes have seen the Glory; I’d help you out, she said, but there are others whom I must protect for their own good. She stared a bit longer at my erection. That’s a nice one, she said. One of the bigger ones I’ve seen today. 

Of the coming of the Lord, I said, momentarily unnerved. She stood there in the bright red coveralls, white turtleneck and dark blue cap of the HSVP, which contrasted sharply with her white hair, which had been dyed red the last time I saw her. I never quite understood the red star centered in the middle of the cap, though stylish it was—but it sort of reminded me of Things Soviet, a play written by, of course, Brusjavik Taylorskavich which turned out to get rave reviews by the Presidential Council on Artistic Corporate Capitalist Realism.

Anyway, I have to admit, if she were 10 years younger and 20 kg lighter, she would have been ravishing and if she were willing, but of course, I couldn’t say that because I would be boning an Officer of the State; that’s illegal. It’s they who bone you. And that’s only the way it should be. But she paused as she exited and said, staring at my bed and at the contents of the parcels, We were also alerted by the People’s Patriotic RoomCam Service that you had interesting papers on your bed. For your own good and your own security, we need to know what they are.

Yanking up my trousers, more than a little disappointed at the loss of a good bone, I dropped the unused tissue down the air-vac toilet where it would be examined later, for my own good, by the SS (Sewer Security).

Yes, they are papers Brusjavik Taylorskavich wanted me to pick up for a new project that he is working on, I replied, which was basically right. Kind of.

The HSVP turned and as she did so, her name badge flashed: Hello, My Name Is Olga.

Ah, she replied, gazing now reverently on the papers on the red bedspread with the wonderful design of interlocking hammers, sickles and dead eagles. "What a genius he is. Things Soviet is such a wonderful and nostalgic tribute— She just shook her head and tears welled up in her eyes. Oh, my, she finally breathed. Then, actually, somewhat sympathetically, I am sorry for the loss of your bone. She smiled impishly. Maybe I’ll drop in unexpectedly again and catch you—and maybe I’ll have the time. She sighed. A good bone is so hard to find. Then she turned smartly on her heels and walked to the door, and turning again, stuck her arm out. I Pledge Allegiance," she said.

I stuck out my arm in return. To The Flag!

She left and I closed the door, vaguely wistful about the absence of locks. I went over, sat on the bed, and looked at the papers.

Quite a job you have there, came the voice from the computer screen.

Indeed, I said. Indeed.

What’s it all about? If it involves Citizen Taylorskavich, it’s going to be good. 

I glanced to the blank computer screen on the table across from the bed. I think it has something to do with Kafka—but I’m not real sure yet.

There was a pause. And after a minute, the computer spoke. We’ve just researched the MicrosoftDataResearch and as near as we can tell, he was just a harmless, neurotic crackpot Obamamite who wrote weird shit.

I nodded. Play along. You’re probably right, I said, but Brusjavik wanted me to look through this.

I could hear a discussion going on. Then, It’s probably not the best thing for your own good, but Brusjavik has State Controlled Total Freedom Of Artistic Expression Clearance, so— then the screen fell silent.

So? I thought. I thought a moment more. Usually that means go ahead. So, I went ahead. What was this all about? What did this have to do with Anslenot? I had to find out.

1.

I saw that the contents arranged themselves into newspaper clippings, writings

And photos. And amidst this, another envelope. Opening it, I saw a letter from—Anslenot, addressed to Brusjavik. Carefully opening it, I read:

Dear Mr. Taylorskavich. It was good meeting you today and I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you. Perhaps I was just too intimidated. I don’t know. But about these papers and myself—hereupon is a frightening tale—

The letter stopped. I turned the paper over. Nothing. Just that short note, as if the writer had been interrupted and not had a chance to finish what he was writing. I looked at the note a few minutes more, then I was suddenly aware that my behavior was clearly deviant—I feared I may have looked like I was thinking—caught by surprise, I knew I must be displaying State Questionable Public and Private Emotional Display (The SQPPED Act—‘Squipid’ Stupid—Because We Care!) but the computer remained silent so maybe the folks on the other end had glanced away during my moment of carelessness. Or else, they were adding it to my ETP (Emotional Tally Points) File to create a Public Emotional Profile Scale, Individualized (PEPSI) so they could show me how I looked at a certain hour, a certain day, a certain year as they inquired, for my own good, what I was thinking or experiencing at that moment. I know it would be to help me, of course, but given what I was dealing with, regarding this material and just to be on the safe side, I began whistling the latest Corporate States of America (CSA) buying jingle, just in case someone was listening or watching me and maybe I could avoid any more points on my PEPSI scale if I could have my dear comrades thinking that my reaction was more related to a thought of a purchase I needed to make of something that I suddenly realized that I just absolutely had to have. To get into the right frame of mind, I sang the lyrics to myself as I went over the contents on the bed:

"Mine eyes have seen the glory

Of something I just have to buy.

It’s available at all Kay Martz for

Sixteen ninety-five.

If I don’t go out and buy it

God forbid, I just might die

My needs go marching on.

Glory, glory, mass consumption

Glory, Glory endless production.

Glory, Glory, cannot function

‘cause my needs go on and on—"

Yes, came the hypnotic AutoBuy response of the computer, you— and there was the slightest pause as I was identified and my name emplaced, you, Bradley Patriot McCroskey, must have what you want so you will be better than anyone else. Your individuality is what is important to America where no one has ever been born or done what you’ve done ever before in the history of the planet or the last ten thousand years of human history. Buy what you need to buy—you’re special. You deserve what you deserve to have. Be unique and different, just like everyone else—

I could feel the tug of the hypnotic message and could even feel a bone coming on as I automatically thought of The Good Life with all the women who would come flocking to me, beautiful women, in incredibly tight-fitting clothing so you could see the erect nipples and the NanoEnhanced engorged clit pushing against the Skindex Fabric, swarming over me, licking my ears, hands on my bone and whispering, Buy this now and we’ll go home with you tonight and cum with you a dozen times, and then I made the unconscious decision to buy something and then the AutoBuy decreased to a whisper and was left alone, but knew that if I didn’t buy something, no matter what, I would be suspect. But at least I knew that I hadn’t pulled a too obvious Squipid or if I did, it was hopefully seen as my realization that I needed buy something; hence drew satisfaction, rather than suspicion by those taking such an interest in me, for my own good.

The energy of the Corporate-Activated Access To Neural Implanted Purchasing Proclivity (CATNIP) implant chip shut down as the AutoBuy program closed and the sensation just became a gnawing hunger for something new, and a vague feeling that I was missing out on something and not living life to the fullest or attaining my true power as an actualized human being, who, just being here just once, had to make the most of it, my attention again began to turn to the papers on the bed. And the note. What to make of the note. Why did it end the way it did? What happened to Anslenot?

I studied the papers, making sure that my demeanor was that of, for my own good, someone studying ads as if seeking and contemplating the next wonderful thing to buy.

Bing! I turned. The computer flashed on and there was a RetroAd taken from the new hit series, Buy It Now—I’d seen it before and loved it—it was done in the 1950’s and showed an actress, Dinah Shore, I think, dancing around a blue and white 1956 Chevrolet and she was singing, See the You Ess Ay/In Your Chevrolet/America’s asking you to buy, and then there was the American flag, waving and flapping in brilliant, hypnotic colors and I realized that I may not have bought enough today. I would take care of that later, but, against great desire to run out of the hotel and buy something, anything immediately, I was more captivated by—I felt chilled. I didn’t dare be captivated by something other than buying. How stupid of me. I was targeting myself as a traitor to the Corporate States of America if I showed the slightest disinclination to buy. Hurriedly I stood up, shoved the contents into the envelope, opened up my wallet and counted my money as a good faith gesture that I really did intend to go out and immediately purchase something—that, just like everyone else, I was being a Good Citizen of the Republic and to the Corporations, for which it stands, one state, one world, under God, with material abundance and consumerism for all.

I realized as I hastened out