The Rockin' SkyHorse Blues

By Bruce Taylor

These stories from "Mr. Magical Realism" represent a wide variety of style and content, but most of them are explorations of self-expression that fit the definition of surrealism, and later, magic realism and then a blending of magic realist writing techniques and perspective with the three main branches of Imaginative Literature, science fiction, horror and fantasy. That being said, not all these stories in this collection are of magic realist persuasion; several are science fiction, or stories with unusual perspectives on the craft of writing.

But, no matter what Bruce writes, there is a theme that runs through much of his work: We don't see reality as bizarre, because we've all come to agree that the bizarre is "normal reality." Of course it isn't. What reality is—is incomprehensible, never mind life itself. But let's not let that get in the way of loving it, loving our fellow creatures who inhabit this world with us, loving the planet from whence we come and love being the mortal mammals that we are on this third planet—around a star.

"Works that are fascinating, insightful and downright fun to read"
—Ben Bova

"A writer of imagination and insight."
—Terry Brooks

"As rich and poetic as Bradbury at his finest."
—William F. Nolan, author, Logan's Run

"A very gifted, short fiction writer."
— Jeff VanderMeer, author, The Southern Reach Trilogy

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReAnimus Press
• Release date: Feb 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005487874

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

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Acknowledgements

It’s been said that a good writer has always benefited from a good editor (or editors) and it’s no different here. My work would not be as strong without the fine editing I’ve had along the way, for which I am most grateful.

A special thank you to my partner Roberta Gregory, fine artist and writer, for going through these stories and doing a superb job not only in catching goofs but fine line editing as well. Very fine work I dare say and greatly appreciated. Thank you! Also, thank you to both Roger Pankey and Larry Lewis for taking on the task of re-typing stories from challenging printouts (either because the original files were lost or too corrupted/outdated to be used). That was most helpful and greatly appreciated!

And of course, thanks to the past members of my wonderful critique group who first saw these stories many years ago and whose feedback always made them better: Brian Herbert, Phyllis Hiefield, Linda Shepherd (and in memoriam, Marie Landis Edwards and Cal Clawson).

The artwork (SkyHorse) that graces this book is by (the late) Lida Sloan. She and her husband, Carl Sloan, have always been so supportive of my writing. I am deeply grateful to have had their artwork (much of which sure looks suspiciously like magic realism) for the covers of previous books. And now Lida’s work on this book, wonderful! Thank you Dick Swift for for turning Lida’s work into such a splendid cover and Roberta Gregory for her suggestions.

Thanks to former agent and (sadly, recently deceased) fine friend, Ben Bova, and his unwavering support of my writing. I can’t even begin to say how much that meant to me! I am and will always be deeply honored and grateful.

Many, many thanks to my editor/publisher Andrew Burt of ReAnimus Press who, with infinite patience at my chronic tribulations and angst with computers, must be the Buddha in disguise!

Author’s Preface: The Rockin’ SkyHorse Blues

This collection of short fiction continues the task of sorting through and editing work that was written much earlier in my writing career: the mid-70s through the early 80s. They represent a wide variety of style and content, but most of them I consider explorations of self-expression that fit the definition of surrealism, and later, magic realism and then a blending of magic realist writing techniques and perspective with the three main branches of Imaginative Literature (IL), science fiction, horror and fantasy. That being said, not all these stories in this collection are of magic realist persuasion; several are science fiction (Paul’s Star, The Destination Begins the Journey) or stories with unusual perspectives on the craft of writing, (InCon Oz 2000)—these were placed in this collection to show that not only was I writing in a magic realist style but I was experimenting with a lot of other styles as well; some of these stories could be described as fanciful. As I go through this earlier work, I can see how my style changed and developed though the years. Often it is a delight to read my earlier writing, not only for that reason but also because there were so many stories I had forgotten, tending to focus on ones that needed the least work and best for possible publication. But after all these years and with much more experience, I could go back and see what the stories needed now to be made publishable because I did not have the skills (or time) back then to make them the best they could be. And of course, that said, there were the stories that simply did not work but had to be written to get to the ones that would. (Happily, these days, I am able to write without having to go through all that—to that end, I have included several recent works as examples: the lead story, At the Rockin’ SkyHorse Blues Cafe and It’s Cold Out Here.)

Many of these stories were again, primarily exploration—not having to make a living by writing was a double-edged sword: at the same time I was absolutely free to go where my imagination led me, sometimes writing up to five stories a day. Using concepts and ideas inspired by working on a locked inpatient psychiatric unit in Seattle gave me a wealth of concepts and information that was just profound and felt at times like I was being paid to observe first-hand the human condition that would in some form end up in my writing—from issues of abuse, to the nature of sociopathy and schizophrenia to psychosis. After doing that for 25 years and taking an early retirement at age 55, I had a wealth of information to write about forever regarding the proverbial human condition and I could do with it as I pleased. The result being work based solidly on psychological theory made real in life, and that information suffused into stories which—while many an editor respected, were not exactly (as one editor delicately put it) entertaining.

And that was probably true. I was writing what I was writing because I had something to say. And naively? Perhaps? thought that science fiction/fantasy, given the nature of the genre to be open to the idea of imagination unlimited, would welcome experimentation. True, up to a point. The point being that to make it, material had to be seen as marketable, as in making money. Stories about characters being psychotic? A little nuts? Psychopathic characters?

Hard sells.

So I had to make the decision to write work that I loved to read and that I loved to write.

Perhaps it was because of this that magic realism caught my attention in the early 80s, especially after reading Eye of the Heart edited by Barbara Howes. This South American literary movement, new to me, gave me an entirely new perspective on the works of Bradbury, Serling and Kafka. I then realized just how many works of these authors seemed to have that magical realist perspective. And once I saw that, I understood that’s exactly what I was doing: in short, writing magic realism is as if writing about one’s dreams where the context may feel as though reality based but suffused by the weird and the strange but, as in a dream, it’s not seen that way. Rather, it’s seen as normal consensual reality. And just as magic realism may be code for the literature of the dream state, then the dream state would be code for the true nature of consensual reality. Just because the sky is blue, and plants pop up out of the ground, and we have these creatures in our lives, cats, dogs, parakeets, doesn’t mean it isn’t strange—it is, in fact, truly bizarre. But—we don’t see it that way because we’ve all come to agree that the bizarre is normal reality. Of course it isn’t. What reality is—is incomprehensible and the dream state, I believe, is an absolute necessary function of coping with this weirdness of existence which absolutely has no answers except that somehow life just enjoys replicating itself in all these forms whose sole purpose is to have a good time in whatever form life finds itself. Maybe magic realism is a great artistic form in which to remind us all how wonderfully bizarre everything truly is.

And maybe that’s where all those stories came from and come from now: life may be incomprehensible but let’s not let that get in the way of loving it, loving our fellow creatures who inhabit this world with us, loving the planet from whence we come and love being the mortal mammals that we are on this third planet—around a star.

At the Rockin’ SkyHorse Blues Cafe

Anslenot, Kafka and the tarantula sat at a table outside the Rockin’ SkyHorse Blues, a café, having drinks. Anslenot and Kafka each savored an Id-Monster Stout while the tarantula, through a special straw for arachnids, noisily sucked down a Bloody Mary. Finishing it, the tarantula raised a leg to get the attention of the waiter, who was tossing water balloons at arrogant ocelots. Finally noticing the tarantula, he came sauntering over.

Sir Arachnid, may I get you something else?

Type O Cola, dish of comatose flies in Normal Saline Solution Sauce.

We are out of the sauce. Will Saline Sauteed Flies do?

If the same price, I guess.

The waiter tapped in the order on a tablet and, holding it up, he looked expectantly at Kafka and Anslenot.

Anslenot noted on the back of the tablet the word NO!! inked in indelible ink.

Kafka and Anslenot looked at their menus.

Would you like more time? asked the waiter. Like maybe tomorrow?

Kafka looked up. You sound like my father. Would you like to see the forty-seven page letter I wrote to him? Might help you with your job performance. He smiled slightly. Anyway, as inept as you are, can you possibly try being professional and bring me a Rockin’ SkyHorse Blues Burger with Orwellian Onions Way Overdue?

The waiter, his face in sudden and capricious shadow and hence now nondescript, tapped in the order; the voice synthesizer in the tablet activated and screeched, Shit! He’s the Opposition! Give him the poison sauce!

The waiter thumped the tablet with the third knuckle of the finger of his right hand, the same finger on which he wore a ring, the setting from which squirmed little gray maggots, and said, Shut the fuck up. Then, looking at Anslenot, And you, you little revolting and revolutionary scum, what is it I can bring you so that you wish you had never been born?

Anslenot, remembering something of self-protection, imagined a golden bubble of warmth and safety around himself, which abruptly popped under the waiter’s searing and laser-like stare. Meekly, Anslenot simply said, I’ll have the same.

The waiter tapped the order into the tablet and the synthesized voice screamed, in great pain, Abandon hope all ye who enter here! Then, in an even more tortured voice, For the love of God, don’t upgrade me again!

The waiter, now with face exuding red light, went inside the restaurant to, Anslenot assumed, hopefully return with their meals.

Remember, the tarantula said, I can be telepathic. I know what you hoped for. You forget the message of your dear departed dad who may not be so departed after all, ‘Don’t get your hopes up’.

Anslenot sighed. Who needs him when I got you? Besides, if getting my hopes up for a Rockin’ SkyHorse Blues Burger is getting my hopes up for too much, I am and do remain in very deep shit.

Kafka laughed, "You do remain in very deep shit indeed. He laughed again and leaned back and said, But then, we are all indeed in very deep shit."

Overhead, the sky began to darken. But don’t take my word for it, he said, I’m just a product of my times, as are we all. Perhaps ‘relic’ might be a better word. But—having said that, I can see, now that I’m back again, some things haven’t really changed all that much.

The tarantula sighed. You should feel right at home in these times.

Suffice to say, indeed I do, indeed I do except for one thing.

"That being? said the tarantula.

Up to now, the atmosphere of my works was a more passive but background brooding presence; that is no longer the case.

Lightning flashed and thunder crashed and roared. The sky became even darker with the quality of a strange foreboding twilight. Kafka said, And now it is something new, that which I could not know—nor possibly foresee—an evil far greater—

Funnel clouds dropped and the winds howled; buildings exploded or their roofs were torn off, and then a total darkness descended. And in all the sudden chaos, after a moment, there was an eerie silence and Anslenot heard the tarantula say, with the most plaintive of sighs, "I’m not leaving here ‘til I’ve had my Saline Sauteed Flies!"

Friend Mary

Now friend Mary sat across from Jane at the table on that oh, so, luscious spring day and Jane sat with her cup of tea, and said to her friend, It’s always such a pleasure to see you, oh, yes it is. Sometimes it gets so lonely but it’s nice to know that you’re always here.

Friend Mary blinked.

And Jane continued, I still can’t believe that Jack simply walked out, just like that. How can someone walk out like that? Married six years and yes, I know he had a drinking problem. But to just walk out . . . And Jane sipped her tea. She was perhaps forty-six with hair greying and she wore large glasses that sat down on her nose as though in slow glide down to the tip and she sat there drinking coffee out of a delicate white cup with blue scrolled pattern circling below the rim and she put her cup down and added some milk and watched a milky galaxy form in the coffee as she stirred it. I’d offer you some tea, said Jane to her friend, but I know you don’t drink it, or have you changed recently?

Friend Mary was quiet.

That really is a nice dress you have on, said Jane after a minute, of course, I’ll take some credit with your choice. Jane paused. It’s three o’clock, I suppose I should get dressed, but God, Mary, I’ve been so depressed—I’m eating too much. Jack always said that—that I was eating too much. What’d he know? Was he so perfect himself? I think not. The milky galaxy in the cup had spread out its arms and was touching the sides of the cup. And it was quiet in the not too well kept house except for the clock that ticked and tocked the seconds off, one after one, and outside, voices of the boys next door: Hey, Sammy, catch!

Aw cripes, not in the bushes!

Serves you right for throwing that ball yesterday on Mr. Jack’s roof!

Hey, I didn’t mean it!

Yeah, ya did!

Aw, hey, come on—I did not, ah, geeze!

But Jane heard nothing at all. She sat there, her pink bathrobe open at the top and loosely tied around her waist, the cup midway between the table and her lips and she sighed. I don’t know why I miss him—you know, that’s the trouble with people, you let them get close and they just— She sighed. Jack left me just like my father— And she sighed.