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When The Fog Is A Shroud For Death, Do The Mermaids Still Sing?

It’s illegal, of course

What Sister Darling of

The Rarefied Church of the World (Reformed)

Wants me to do:

But who am I,

Belated sinner, and open to

Any supernatural suggestion,

Going to do?

Acquiesce, of course.

Submit, of course.

As is (I am sure) God’s will.

So she has transported her beloved aunt,

Dead these past three days,

On a boat to Partridge Island.

Captained by a cousin and

A crew member who will ask no

Questions,

So they will not have


To give any answers 


– If asked –

As to what might have been

In their coffin-shaped cargo.


Sister Darling’s beloved aunt

Wished – implored – to be buried

On Partridge Island as,


Over a half century ago,

It was the place of her birth.

Paw, the cat/kitten,

Black himself as Death,

With one white mitten,

Tolls a tiny bell which

Sister Darling has affixed

Around his neck.

The grave (of course)

I have already dug,

And Sister Darling is

(Of course)

Full of the appropriate prayers.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

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Is Kafka Correct About The Dead?

In Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the ‘missing’ diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. There are some estimates that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

17 June 1917

            I am told that you can’t lose people, that “…they will always be with you in memory.” Max is heavy with this type of comment – as if the hand of sentimentality brushed off his coat before he set out on each day. Both the intelligent and the slow of wit seem to be struck dumb by this nonsense. Emotion, I suppose  – hope, I suppose – has no place for reason among its folds. But, if you can not touch, or have expectation of being touched, then the people and places are as gone as yesterday. There is no way to travel back, and the future beckons with only an empty gesture and a hollow laugh. Bowing low at the open doorway to usher you in, but the room is empty. And will remain ever so. When they are no longer there to hold their hand out to you – well, then they are no longer there.

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I Saw Gwen Downtown This Afternoon

I saw her three times.

Slender, blond, walking with intent, dressed with a flourish.

Gwen died five days ago.

But it coulda been her. Some last minute business to tidy up.

Or, there was that one, solitary crow, flying overhead, cawing also with intent, A sorrowful sound indeed.

That would be more like Gwen, saying good-bye.

~ Dale

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Where Do You Go After You Die?

Away

FAR Away

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Does Kafka (Who Endlessly Seeks The Truth) Want To Hear The Truth?

   In Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the ‘missing’ diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. There are some estimates that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote.

This particular entry from the life I created for Kafka is one of my favourites.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

08 June 1917

           A Gypsie confronted me today, and I was in the mood for a bit of sport. Her age was difficult to tell – certainly a decade older than me. In her swirl of shawls and dangling jewellery, heavy make-up on her face, she could almost have been in disguise. She peered at me with an intense sigh, attempting – I am sure – to penetrate my own disguise. “You are a Jew,” she said. “And you a Gypsie,” I replied. She seemed pleased with my response, for her professional smile became real. “You state the obvious,” she said. “As becomes a Doktor of Laws,” I replied. “But to your eyes, do you not state the obvious?”  “Are you going to banter with a poor old Gypsie woman, instead of barter? That would make you suspiciously like one of us.” She said this with a growl in her throat. “The Gypsie and the Jew,” I said, feeling the challenge which I so miss. “Perhaps an opera – but I think it’s been done to death.” 

     “They will try to do us all unto death,” she said harshly, and turned away. I had the fear she was going to leave me without another word, but what she did was to spit fulsomely onto the street. “They can’t kill us all,” I said, but I knew she heard the doubt in my voice. She slowly faced me again. “So. Even a Doktor of Laws can have hope. That is refreshing – but foolish.” She took my hand and felt my palm roughly with her thumb, although all the while her eyes never left my face. “You are going to travel.”  “Travel is a vague word. One can go on many types of voyage.”  “And reach many destinations,” she added, still holding my hand. “If you take away my vagueness, you take away my trade.”  “Then let me pay you for your services right now.”

     This transaction would make her loose my hand, which is what I wanted most of all. She had frightened me, for her eyes and face were full of truth. I know the truth. I know it when it presents itself, stark and unobscured. I search out truth endlessly, yet still can flee at its approach. As in her eyes. But she gripped me more fiercely, and pulled my hand up. “The coin, Herr Doktor.” Her voice was now soft. “The coin can wait.” She at last lowered her eyes and looked closely at my palm. She rubbed the lines and whorls of my skin. She touched her finger to her lips, and spread the moisture along my hand. “Your lifeline, Herr Doktor,” she took a quick look in my eyes, “of Laws. You deceive with the youth upon your face. Is that not so?”  “If your eyes stop at the mask, then no, the years have not etched themselves deeply.”  “Not on your face, Herr Doktor of Laws.” Her grip was intense. “But on your palm…” She hissed. “You will soon embark upon that final voyage.”

     She released my hand, rubbed her fingers across her sleeve. “But you will not go in haste. There will be many stops along the way.” Suddenly her face was full of the most beautiful smile, and her laughter was genuine. “I see you do not complain of vagueness now.” She held out her hand. “The coin, Herr Doktor of Laws. This time I have truly earned it.” I dug deeply into my pocket, and feared that I may have overpaid her. But, perhaps, that is not possible.

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If Kafka Were To Die, What Would He Think?

   In Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the ‘missing’ diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. There are some estimates that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  

07 June 1917

I wonder what my final thought will be – just before I die. I was moments away from death this afternoon, as I stepped unheeding onto the tram tracks. The motorman’s frantic bell made me leap. Had I been too slow, my last thoughts would have concerned where and when to take my vacation. Not very glorious last thoughts to possess.

     But, had I the time granted to me, what would I chose to think about? Perhaps F. Perhaps the writing – I’d like to finish the novel. Would I torture myself thinking about father? Would I accept that my past – now that it was ending – was finally settled. Or would I instead – and this is what I really expect – be wondering what I was going to miss tomorrow?

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03 June 1917 & 03 June 1918 From “Kafka In The Castle” In Memory of Kafka’s 100th Death Date

  In Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the ‘missing’ diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. There are some estimates that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

03 June 1917

 A day trip to visit Ottla. I went half the way, and so did she. I had an extra hour’s wait for the connection back to Prague, but really a minor inconvenience. It was a lovely day, perhaps hotter than one would expect, but certainly not the heat of Prague. It was a pretty village to stroll around, and we even walked an hour into the countryside. Had a decent meal in a tavern. Men in uniform – with guns – even there. Ottla has put on weight, which is something I did not expect. I joked about it, and she said it was muscle from all the work of the farm. I guessed it was from all the fresh food she can get on the farm.  The advantages of being in the country. She said that there were other advantages to being out of Prague, but then spoke no more about it. She didn’t mention father, and I didn’t tell her I had kept this visit to myself. Sometimes you have to dance without touching anyone.

03 June 1918

           There was a meeting at the Institute today, although it was not classed as a meeting. It was held during the usual lunch period, although nobody ate. It was apparently well planned, although a surprise to most of those present. It was about paper and documents, although no notes were kept. The Director himself invited the specifically chosen – came into our offices with a smile and a few choice words. The Director himself locked the door behind us.

     “When the war ends, there will be changes.” This was a safe statement, for the war must eventually end. Even Ottla could not find fault with that. But, for the rest of the hour, it would have been best to have one’s ears stopped up with wax, if one did not want to flirt with treason. We would be prudent, suggested the Director, if we excised our papers and our files. To let our judgement lean toward the heavy-handed approach. To assume that victors within and without the country will be after their pound of flesh. To realize that those who desire the Republic of Czechoslovakia, will have the desire to eradicate all visages of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. That those in positions of power, when that power is removed, will have no position at all. “Where does one go,” asked a man, to no one in particular, as we filed from the office, “when your country leaves you?”

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When Kafka Saves The World, Does He Become God?

The old rabbi moved on his bed.

The young man raced over.
«Yes, Rebbe?»

The old rabbi opened his eyes, showing the
cast of death that has almost consumed him.
«Ka…» he groaned.

The young man had been told the dying rabbi would never regain his senses. He leaned closer.
«What do you want?»

The old rabbi struggled for breath.

The young man gazed at pallid features and clouded eyes.
« What can I do?» He put his ear over the gaping mouth.

«Ka… Ka…»

One last ragged breath, a hollow whisper.
«Kafka died for your sins.»


This piece of Flash Fiction was one of the 250 finalists, from the 35,609 stories from 149 countries, entered in the International IV Edition of the Flash Fiction Competition Museum of Words.

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Where Do You Find The Ghost Of Kafka?

The Ghost of Kafka walks

– not stalks –


The streets

Of Prague.


 Prague,

The city he would/could

Never leave

Until the last

Year of his life.

He described Prague as:
“The little Mother has claws.”

Which she did.

For him.


He managed


To escape to Berlin,

During one of

The worst times

Anyone could live

In Berlin,

Until the end of the

Second World War.

But

The Second World War

Was years away.


He escaped with a young

Lover – Dora Diamant.

She made things

So much better.


However, his Ghost only

Walks the streets of Prague.


Whereas

Kafka’s Ghost

Stalks

The rest of

The World.

DE

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