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.

thu1

 

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wordpress haiku #75

Oya. Kali. change.

full lips of a hurricane.

kiss the past goodbye.

Hurricane Katrina1

Oya. Kali. Veränderung.

volle Lippen eines Hurrikans.

Kuss der Vergangenheit zu verabschieden.

 

Now, early in the season, is the time to make a plan to stay safe if a hurricane approaches your area.

Source: Are you prepared for a hurricane? | EarthSky.org

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…