Kahlo & The Flood Waters- A flash fiction

It was a wee, small voice being ripped to shreds by the wind; being dragged under by a careless tide that pulled Kahlo into step number 785.  The purity of it.  Concentric circles swirling in rainbow colors, like cotton candy cocooning the child.  From the middle, a feeble voice calling Kahlo’s name.

It didn’t take much to reach the babe.  Just two languid steps. Precise and unhurried.  One in an atmosphere beaucoup light years away; another on this quickly disappearing earth.  The unslackened thirst of the flood waters swallowed everything and everyone whole.  But this little whimsy of a child, with tubes still taped to its skin, tubes that had earlier undoubtedly connected it to some life-saving machine, had the presence of spirit to call for Kahlo.  Ancestral memory has been known to save a people.

Kahlo raised the infant above the crescent of the next wave.  As the waters crashed against them, crystallized images of every past and future life of the small one danced around them, in technicolor.  The flood waters became a tarot spread, that showed Kahlo everything.  Who the child was in this present moment; who the child had been before; and who the child would become was all revealed.  Kahlo was humbled by it all.

“You are my mirror.” Kahlo whispered gently into its tiny ear.  It had been 784 steps, and this was the first child of Dagara that Kahlo had ever met! Surely this was a sign.  Kahlo could not wait to return home, to consult the water shrine.  But that would take even more light years.  By then, this foundling of the water would be an ancestral memory itself.

The baby was eventually found by community rescue workers. It lay on high ground; it was shriveled and tucked safely amongst windswept branches, leaves, rocks and other debris forming a sort of natural bunker.  News reporters spoke of “Maria’s miracle child”.  Everyone wondered who the baby was and where it had come from.  It would be some time before all of that would be very publicly sorted out.  Questions surrounding health care for the poor and vulnerable would be asked and addressed, and things would change.  For Kahlo, to have had the chance to see oneSelf…one’s Soul…in the eyes of another outside of home, was the takeaway.

“To know for sure, that I am not alone in this vast space made up of yesterdays, todays and tomorrows.”  Kahlo’s thoughts were meditations.  They were the fodder that fueled the next step.  Number 786.




Kahlo and The Turn

The rain showers are nonstop.  Every ping off every surface echos a thousand times. And I wait.  Inside, the bodies wriggle and writhe like worms on the end of a fishing line.  It’s the night of the turn.  I am Kahlo.  And it’s my duty to step when called.

Even for me, a percipient being, this step is…peculiar.  Usually, the supplication comes post some atrocity.  This, this step is a forewarning.  Peculiar.  Music is making these bodies pulse.  A music analogous to the blood flowing through them.  I hear them counting.  “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, happy Newww…”

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

Now, wailing and the thunder of feet running towards survival.

A voice reverbrates in the darkness, “Kahlo?”

“I am not often called to witness,” I address the darkness.

“I called you for absolution,” the voice responds. The path of the storming feet forms a curvature around us.  I bend into this panic.  I reikhi calmness and clear thinking.  I answer, “There is no amnesty for you,” as I swallow my ire.  “No dancing maidens.  No celestial father with open arms.  You will roil in nothingness, blanketed by the smell of Death.”

“Kahlo, your words betray me,” is the accusatory reaction.  I shift myself to face the direction of the voice and say, “You betray yourself and your ancestors; the thirty-nine dead ones and their ancestors.  You called me and I stepped.  Go now, and let your feet join the thunder. Run to the Nothing.”

It has been silent for some time now.  Time has turned and still I sit, waiting and watching.  This step, number 784 has made me a witness.  To be a witness is to be roused and diligent.  To all witnesses I say…stay woke!





Kahlo and the Broom Behind the Door: a micro-flash fiction

I’m not used to peaking behind half-opened doors.  Instinctually, I close such doors…firmly.  By the time my name is uttered, usually feebly, closing the door is an act of mercy.

But, wonder of wonders…miracle of miracles, step number 36 was destined to be different. This time my name, K-A-H-L-O was spoken from behind such a door.  It was Hicksie who summoned me. Hicksie is the familiar of a Daughter of Hecate. Hicksie is a broom.

Animation is relative.  What is animate in one world that I step to, may be inanimate to another.  I don’t judge.  I help.  The door opens wider, I’m big. But then, size too is relative.

The first sound I hear is that of bristles across wood, rhythmic and scratchy. “I have uttered so many names…so many warnings,” the dusty voice mutters. “Only you came, Kahlo.”  This humbles me. I never feel as though I have a choice when called. My name is spoken, and I step.

I want to soothe Hicksie’s worries, yet the situation is dire. Hecate’s daughter was being tempted to concede her powers. No amount of spells and incantations would impinge upon the inevitable outcome. The battle was being waged within.  But I was there for Hicksie.

“Hicksie, it’s Samhain night.  Let us fly.”  A bare distraction, I confess.  Still, sometimes what begins in amusement, ends in vindication.  Hicksie is in agreement.  I hear the straw ends of broom bristles, graze across the floor.  The door opens wider.




Pymgalia: A Kahlo Short Story

“There, but for the grace of the gods, go I… Or, truer still, go we.”

Step number 783. The world of Pymgalia. War shredded the tiny planet. Once, the purple gaseous rings surrounding Pymgalia, had glittered vibrantly. Purple shadows had danced on its surface. Life had played between those shadows. It’s fae-like citizens, darting here and there had glittered too.

Now though, a thick film of defeat coats everything. It weighs down the wings of the Pymgalians. Everything and everyone sputters along, barely registering Kahlo’s magical presence.

“I am here,” Kahlo rustled into the atmosphere. Something small, round and fuzzy burst onto Kahlo’s peripheral vision. These wings didn’t sputter. They were a soft, translucent gray; with rainbow flecks, like those you see in pools of oil sometimes.

“You came!”, the Pymgalian squeaked at Kahlo. “I am Pym and I told them you would help us, I told them! The Counselors said no, we are too small, too inconsequential. They said there are bigger, more important matters to be resolved in our galaxy. But I told them, we matter too; our lives matter too!” Pym railed on.

This sudden, unrelenting darting and buzzing around Kahlo helped revive the lethargic Pymgalian atmosphere. Kahlo took this energy in, multiplied it and sent it out in wave after vibrant wave, reaching out to those once glorious purple rings surrounding Pymgalia. The planet shuddered. It heaved and rocked. Sprouting things were uprooted. Minikin digs rent asunder. 

“Wh-What are you making?! Pl-Please, no new messes; we have enough messes!”, Pym burst out. Kahlo stopped in mid-creation, “You called me to change things here, Pym.” A tremor rippled through Kahlo. Pym was afraid of what was about to be set in motion. Inevitable as it may be, change still felt like something to be resisted…like a giving over of power…like submission… “Isn’t hope possible without change?”, Pym petitioned Kahlo. “Can’t we sit before the Counselors first? Is there still time?”

“What do you fear, Pym?”, Kahlo rejoined gently. “And why do you fear it? Yes, come, we will sit before the Counselors. We will tipple some Pymgalian slug and let others answer the EonsQuest I have set before you.”

Pym was relieved. But, in the pit of this relief, was a feeling of gutlessness. “How is it in your homeplace, Kahlo?” Pym whizzed around the unrepressed monolith, which was Kahlo. “In Dagora, the one may speak for the many because together, we are the all. Is that what you want to know?”, Kahlo parried smoothly. Pym held still in mid-space, “Allow me a moment.”

Kahlo waited. Pym’s entire being was vibrating. There was insecurity and self-doubt; fear and a deep rooted hunger for change lay side by side. And then, the collective consciousness of the Counselors awakened in Pym the spirit of remembrance. Pym remembered the trust that had been extended. “Find a way..” they had charged, “..to end this cycle and bring us to a new beginning.” By burning the Bush that calls Kahlo forward, Pym had taken a forceful step on this Way of Change. “Pym.” It was as if Kahlo’s voice was calling from afar.

“Kahlo, continue your making.” Pym sensed that now, relief’s pit had transformed into fearlessness. Kahlo felt the change in Pym and turned back to the recreating of Pymgalia.

There will be no tipple of Pymgalian slug. The Bush already burns for step number 784.


The Queen & the Cleaning Lady: A Flash Fiction

Nefertiti’s head turned slowly and she winked.  Or, so it seemed to Natasha.  This is how Tasha starts every work day.  Before assembling all of the cleaning products, tools of her trade, she makes this stop in the antiquities wing of the museum, to stand before the Queen.

Somehow, seeing this head of Nefertiti swivel towards her, and lazily wink a heavily kohled eye, braces Tasha for a pre-dawn morning of ammonia, buckets, mops and rags.  It’s their ritual, these two women.  One, a thick-boned thirty-seven year-old immigrant from Kazakhstan.  Divorced and discarded.  The other, a thousands-year-old queen.  Her image, torso less, trapped forever under this glass dome, swiveling slowly on a high-end porcelain lazy susan.

“Ironic,” Natasha thinks to herself.  “How far we travel, only to find ourselves newer and prettier cages to inhabit.”  And still, at 4:30a.m., a slow ride on a lazy susan, looks pretty appealing to Natasha.  She bows deeply before her Queen, picks up her bucket and mop, and sloshes on…

Kahlo & the Winchesters (A Supernatural Fanfiction Short Story)

“Sam, the legs are too long.  We’re gonna have to accordion this monstrosity, if we have any hopes of makin it fit.” And even then, Dean wasn’t sure if he and his brother would be able to transport this creature back to the bunker.

“Maybe, if we can ‘sense’ it our predicament, it may have the power to adjust itself to fit.”  Which, Sam thought, would be very cool to witness.  “Okay, Kreskin. Make me a believer.”  By this time, Dean didn’t really care how they got it done…as long as they got it done.  Kahlo could teleport back to the bunker for all Dean cared, although given the injury the creature had sustained, teleporting was out of the question.  It was gonna be up to Baby.

‘Baby’, is the name given to the 1967 Chevrolet Impala that Sam and Dean Winchester canvas the country in – saving people and hunting things.  In this line of work, one encounters the inexplicable on the daily.  It’s the family business, so to speak.  But even for the brothers, Kahlo is a first.  As giant as a Sequoia Redwood; as supple as a skein of silk.  There is nothing remotely human about Kahlo, which makes explaining the waves of compassion that Dean feels rolling towards him, whenever he’s within striking distance of Kahlo, difficult to explain.  It was precisely this heat – this raw, unfiltered emotion – that drew Dean to Kahlo, earlier, in the heat of battle…and even now as Kahlo lay stretched out before them, for what seemed like miles.

Sam squatted beside Kahlo, who had fallen perpendicular across the backwater Louisiana road.  If anyone happened by, they would think that the brothers’ car was blocked by a fallen tree.  It wasn’t.  Sam flashed back to the scene that he and his brother Dean had just survived.  They had been following a lead, in their search for the Darkness…also known as Amara…the Sister of God.  They had hit a rough patch, both in their search for Amara and in their day-to-day rhythm of being together.  Sam knew the latter was the effect of the former.  Amara was his brother’s Achilles Heel, a position formerly occupied by him.  Sam wasn’t jealous, he was curious.  He wondered if this feminine aspect of God had presented ItSelf to his brother as a woman, in order to make ItSelf more accessible to him – given Dean’s proclivity for the ‘tender gender’, as he called them.  Or, did God know, what no one else had figured out, that Dean worshiped at the altar of The Feminine Mystique.

Kahlo moved.  Sam looked down and placed his hand on the part of the creature nearest  him.  He smiled, he didn’t know why, but he laughed out loud.  “What’s the joke Kreskin?”, Dean asked as he walked up.  “Does this thing have jokes, or what?”  Sam wasn’t sure how to answer.  He didn’t know if those last thoughts were coming from him, or to him.  “I, uh, think I’m making some progress.”, he stammered.  He allowed his thoughts to float, like before.  Only, this time, he kept in the present.  He thought about wanting to get back to the bunker; about wanting to get the creature to safety; about the size of the Impala; and about the size of the creature.  Just for good measure, he even threw in a vision of Dean carrying out the accordion maneuver that he had suggested earlier.

Kahlo had sensed enough from this mind.  Seven hundred and eighty-one previous steps into  worlds known and unknown had honed an already Bild perfekt sense of self-preservation.  Instead of waiting to be folded up, chopped up, or left behind as some other hunter’s problem, Kahlo shifted.  Kahlo became Baby.  Became this sleek, black metal machine.  Became a 1967 Chevy Impala.  Kahlo hummed, and it was good.  Dean and Sam looked at each other, eyes wide…  “What the…”, Sam began. Dean interrupted,  whistling low under his breath.  “It’s a shifter!”  he spat out, incredulously.  Sam wasn’t so sure.  “I think it’s a lot more than that, Dean”, he said cautiously.  “I think what we have here, is an ally in our fight against the Darkness.”  Dean liked the sound of Sam’s words.  Up until this point, he knew that the brothers were waging a losing battle, and Amara’s pull on him was growing steadily stronger.  “Well then,” Sam opened the passenger door, “Let’s see what’s ahead on this road.”

Dean climbed in behind the wheel.  Kahlo sensed immediately that Dean was the object of this 782nd step.  What lay ahead on this road, as Sam had so aptly put it, was for Dean to learn to travel between the worlds of Light and Dark, with more grace than he had exhibited thus far.  These brothers had been hunting evil for the past ten years, but there were still huge gaps in their development as spiritual beings.  Amara, incarnated as the Sister Of God, is determined to see those gaps filled…and so she has called Kahlo to the task…and Kahlo has stepped.

Kahlo fallen

Kahlo and the Baskets of Fish

It was true what they said about Him, this fisher of men. Skin of heated bronze, black hair tightly curled like a lamb’s wool. Also what they didn’t say. Dark eyes that pierced The Veil. Compassionate smile drawing everyone to His feet.  Noteworthy hands, that wanted to feed, and work, and heal. It was all true. Then there’s The-One-Called-On-To-Help, aka Kahlo

Past, present, future are a flat playing field for Kahlo. This step number 13 is/was/will be a cool memory. A memory saved for times like this. To be played out for sustenance, in times of hunger. But, back to Him. Known to be a rebel, a renegade, His thoughts were insightful and His words were inciteful. He challenged all perceptions of what others held to be real. It was innate, this desire to blend the realities. He challenged the people, and when it all came together, He entertained them…without a doubt.  So, the people came.

On this step, in this memory, when Kahlo was called by Him, there was a need for food. The people were coming…and coming…and they must be fed. This feeding of the people was not only important for their bodies, it was important that they know there was One or Some who cared that they eat. SomeOne who cared. It was a fundamental human need, He told Kahlo, to know that one’s life matters. His teaching would have meaning, He told Kahlo, because the people will know that they matter to SomeOne and to each other.

These teachings were not new to Kahlo. However, never had it failed, that each time a One had arisen to share this blending of truths, of realities, of the hope to fill the hunger of others, there would always, ultimately be a Crushing.  For Kahlo, Hunger and Abundance are equals. On every plane of existence, we can be full while hungering, and hunger in times of fullness.  But Kahlo overstood what He wanted. He wanted Kahlo to fish for the people. The call was from the heart, so Kahlo stepped…

Reaching deep into the sea, into the streams of consciousness of all of those gathered there surrounding Him, Kahlo began to fill their baskets with fish.  Fresh fish of the sea; jumping and flapping in their baskets. Rainbows of color glinting off their scaly bodies. The sun, still captured in their wide-open eyes. Kahlo gleaned what was already there, while He, fed the people. And this too is true, the people ate and left with baskets still overflowing.

Such a cool memory, this rising of SomeOne. Especially now, when so many whose baskets are full, still hunger… and so many who hunger, have forgotten how to fish in the streams of their own consciousness, to be fulfilled. As for Kahlo, nothing remains, except the next step. Number seven hundred and eighty-two…

(by Mami Watu 2016)


A Kahlo Story New Year Flash Fiction

Kahlo, Anubis, and The Soldier Who Lay…

by Mami Watu

The sound of dogs barking let the soldier know she was still alive. What was it that her GeeGee had told her, about dogs being messengers?  Heat, blood, shrapnel.  Body parts littered about, none matching. Two, different-sized left legs with boots blown off, lay beside a head and torso. There were small piles of brains and entrails, as if someone had been tidying up.

“Yes,” a calming voice spoke beside her.  “Think of dogs.  Better yet, think of Anubis, the jackal.  He’s waiting patiently, to guide you on your journey.”  Her voice made a sound of protest, deep in her throat.  Pushing past the blood she was swallowing, it sounded like a chortle.  She turned her head stiffly in the direction of the voice.  Kahlo was perched there. Limbs akimbo, stretched in all four directions.  “You’re late,” the soldier managed, then turned away.  Kahlo was glad she had averted her eyes, rather her eye – as, half of the girl’s face had been blown away.

Seven hundred and eighty-one steps and still Kahlo folded inwards at the remnants of the simple small brutalities the creatures of this blue planet practiced.  Small, compared to some of the worlds-wide complex casualties that Kahlo had been called to step to.  “If they only knew what awaited them, Kahlo mused. They would forego inflicting such pain on one another.  They would treasure every breath, as well as all that breathes.”

“Beginning with their own breathing planet,” another voice growled. Both Kahlo and the Soldier-Who-Lay-Dying turned toward the new voice. “You’re early, she spat.  And I didn’t call you.  I called Kahlo.”

Anubis nodded in acknowledgement.  “True.  But Kahlo has such lofty ambitions.  Inter-galactic peace.  Sentient-evolution. Whereas, I’m here to ferry you from point A to point B; to help you navigate dark waters.” The girl interrupted, “But you’re also a messenger.  What’s your message?”  Anubis closed his eyes, and lifted his nose to the wind.  “Your GeeGee says, to pack light…”  Kahlo shook like one of the red maple trees the soldier remembered from home.  “Anubis, you never disappoint.”

“But I called for you, Kahlo,” the soldier insisted.  “And, I Am here.”  Kahlo answered.  Allowing these words to roll across the killing field.  The words unfolded into the hearts of those who lay, still clinging to life; into the departing souls of those already cold dead; and deep into this thirsty earth, which would rather have rain instead of this ceaseless river of human blood.

“You see?, Anubis smiled his jackal smile.  Lofty…”  The soldier heard the far-off sound of maple leaves rustling.  “Rest easy, Evolving One.  Anubis will see you safely to the Other Side, where your journey continues.  I will do what I can here, until I am called to step again.”  Kahlo’s senses swept across the field, forming a private prayer of hope, that the time to be spent here in the shadow of war, would be fleeting.

Anubis ducked his head toward Kahlo, “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”  He gathered up the Soldier-Who-Now-Lay-Dead.  He stood upright and began walking with her towards the horizon, where his barge awaited. “May Peace Be With You,” Kahlo whispered and turned to continue the work at hand.





Kahlo By The Fire

Kahlo By The Fire

by Mami Watu

To say that Kahlo walks, is to speak in limited terms of a limitless BEing. We think of it as walking.  We even go as far as to call these appearances at different times, in different spaces, steps.  Seated around the fire, as we are now, we speak quietly of how Kahlo stepped to us, at this turn of  the third moon.

Our tones are low, strident, and filled with excitement as we click-speak to one another, as one.  The crab-like appendages extending from our arms, open and close rapidly as we try to impress upon Kahlo the importance of this step, this time.

All of this theater is ultimately unnecessary, as Kahlo knows good and well the reason for this step.  There is no such thing as stepping into the unknown.  Where Kahlo is from, where Kahlo IS, all things are known.  To know, is to BE…all ways, at all times.  I find myself drawn to this way. Seated around the fire, as we are now, the FireKeepers have asked me to absorb, and so I extend my tentacles, to join with all present, even Kahlo.   I am able to know as they know, but only for this moment.

Some, who have performed this duty, have found it to be an overwhelming of the senses, but I find this washing to be comforting.  I feel like I BElong to this present moment, completely.  Kahlo is thinking now, in waves. Wondering if we truly believe in the altruism of our motives, as deeply as we are presenting them.  I absorb this wonder, and pass it along to the FireKeepers.  A resounding, sensory silence follows.

And then, we seek to know, “Are we being judged?”  In giving this thought to Kahlo, I receive a simultaneous response.  “You are being asked to judge your own intuitions.  You have called me here, to help you gain footing, in a space that is not yours.  Because, you say, those EXISTing in this space are themselves interlopers.  You say, they are cruel to all that IS and do not deserve to BE.  So, I ask you, is your intuition to survive, or to conquer?”  My mind is opening, as Kahlo continues, “The answer to this QUESTion, leads me not to a judgement of your ALL, rather, it will show me which hand of evolution to extend.”

I want to get closer to Kahlo.  Not just to Kahlo, but closer to the ALL of those words just uttered.  There is a void in the moment, as the FireKeepers intuit.  In this breath, I push my perceptions forward, towards Kahlo.  I breathe back in, what I have pushed out and find it has changed. My perception has evolved.  I absorb this evolution, savor it for an eye-blink, and then I weave it, like a sensory quilt.  I wrap the knowing of the FireKeepers in this warmth.  And together, we absorb the shivers of our ALL, as we expand.

As I gracefully retract my tentacles, I send my gratitude forward to both Kahlo and to the FireKeepers.  From the ALL of my own, I am brushed by the sentiments of ,”New beginnings…”.  From Kahlo, I hear whisperings of, “…the 780th step.”.  From You, I sense, “Let it BE…”.  And so, we shall.

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