Kamalani's Stories

Black Magic Woman

2007-09-10T09:22:59Z

“We don’t take kindly to your people.”

Hypocrites. Fucking Luddites.

“We’re clean, God fearing folk.”

Clean? The Amish are fucking clean. At least they have the guts to go full haul: Saltsouls. I can smell your SUV from here.

“Look techo,” I rolled, “you hired us. So slag the preach and leave us the scramble.”

“Just get rid of her. And get out of my town.”

He ain’t fumbling anyone. Sure, he wants the witch slagged. And we need the jink. Worried his daughter might run off with the sexy magic man.

“Matt!” yelled Clara, “Gibbs chirped me.”

“Don’t forget our jink,” I slid to the Mayor, “Wouldn’t want a reason to come back.” Slip his girl a wink.

Gibbs spied right: I could feel the chopper’s roar as it rolled past us. Custom hog flashing sunlight, the rider in half leather: black as her skin. Hair flying wild: white as her teeth.

I threw a t-ball at the bike: a Tracker’s mainstay.

“You see her aura, Matt?” Clara asked as the enchanted blue marble bounced after the bike.

“Felt it. Regroup,” I ordered.

Ficletcentenial +1

2007-06-25T10:53:36Z

I had decided to celebrate Ficlet #100 by writing a metaficlet.

Years after Ficlet #200 however, I got a visitor.

Apparently I’d hit a nerve with the real time travel community. Ficlet #200 doesn’t follow the “Time Travel Story Acceptable Inconsistencies Ruleset”. I wrote something that actually works.

And according to their future, I’m a century too early.

The Enforcer said it’d be over quickly. Damn straight: a quick uppercut to his jaw and I was off to the lab. Thank God I’d built the machine.

I may be 72, but I’m no fogey.

Now for the cosmic two-step: a mad dash for the nearest black hole, hoping he catches in the event horizon.

This is a message to my past self, avoiding a space-time rip from meeting face to face. It won’t stop you from writing #200, I know, I didn’t believe this sequel when I first read it either.

Thank Jon for letting me use his account. With no internet for decades, I forgot my password.

Sorry I can’t say more…

I’ve got a singularity to catch.

The Kraken

2007-05-24T07:38:31Z

“Merry Christmas,” I called as the line shuffled past.

The first time I came down, I had had a destiny to fulfill. This time, not a single word from the Old Man. No warnings, no perks, and no one even recognizes me. Stupid paintings. From manifesting bread to ladling soup.

So much for a second coming.

“Christ, is that you?” hacked the aqua-eyed, bearded senior in front of me.

“Do I …” I started to ask, but I saw my answer in his eyes. “Poseidon?”

“Merciful Olympus!” he cried, eyes flashing.

“I need five,” I said as I handed off my ladle and grabbed his arm.

“I see you finally came back,” he said to me when we sat down. “How’s it feel to be on top?”

“On top?” I laughed nervously. His eyes shined detached, like a vet right before a flashback. I’d seen it a lot here.

“The Kraken!” he roared suddenly as he flipped the table. “My trident! Bring me my trident!”

The original divine badass, the god who laughed when Zeus took dominion of the skies. How do you stop the Lord of the Sea?

Were-bie-pire-geist

2007-05-21T05:59:20Z

When the TV movie cut to commercial, Danny returned to the bowl of candy. “This movie is boring,” he said around a mouthful of sour worms.

“What do you mean?” asked Pete. “I thought you said you love cheesy horror movies.”

“I do,” Danny replied, “But all we’ve seen is two guys in a room talking about what they’ve seen.”

“Oh come on, it’s Were-bie-pire!” said Pete.

“Any soda left?” Danny asked as he headed for the kitchen.

“Yeah, but hurry up before you miss anything,” Pete called as he checked his watch.

Danny returned with a cola and plopped onto the couch. The First Annual Bad Horror Movie Halloween Extravaganza wasn’t exactly meeting his expectations.

A miracle weight loss ad over, the movie continued. After about 30 seconds though, the picture cut to static, the whine of white noise flooding the room.

“Well that sucks,” feigned Danny, “Guess we’ll have to watch … Pete, are you ok?”

Pete’s eyes hadn’t left the TV. Slowly he turned his head toward Danny.

“They’re here.“

Were-bie-pire

2007-05-17T07:36:11Z

“Why not?”

“Um, because obviously something is very wrong about all this.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well last time I checked, werewolves and zombies didn’t exist. Now, not only do they exist, but they’re they walking around and biting each other.”

“Not each other. The zombie didn’t bite back, as far as I could see.”

“We’ve got undeath and lycanthropy, and you’re arguing semantics?”

“Shhh. There’s somebody else out there.”

“Really? Poor sod.”

“I don’t think so. I’m guessing it’s a vampire.”

“You’ve got to be joking.”

“Well, either that or a hair-slicked, cloak-wearing, canine-teeth-gleaming, penetrating-stare, average Joe just bit the werewolf.”

“Really? You sure you’re feeling ok?”

“I’m fine. But I bet that werewolf’s seen better days.”

“Look, maybe we should call somebody.”

“I don’t think a doctor’s going to be much help at this point.”

“Not a doctor! Monster hunters or something.”

“Who you gonna call?”

“Oh God, not them. There’s no ghosts, right?”

“Yet.”

Pi

2007-05-16T08:49:00Z

3.14159265358979323846264338327950288419716939
9375105820974944592307816406286208998628034825
3421170679821480865132823066470938446095505822
3172535940812848111745028410270193852110555964
4622948954930381964428810975665933446128475648
2337867831652712019091456485669234603486104543
2664821339360726024914127372458700660631558817
4881520920962829254091715364367892590360011330
5305488204665213841469519415116094330572703657
5959195309218611738193261179310511854807446237
9962749567351885752724891227938183011949129833
6733624406566430860213949463952247371907021798
6094370277053921717629317675238467481846766940
5132000568127145263560827785771342757789609173
6371787214684409012249534301465495853710507922
7968925892354201995611212902196086403441815981
3629774771309960518707211349999998372978049951
0597317328160963185950244594553469083026425223
0825334468503526193118817101000313783875288658
7533208381420617177669147303598253490428755468
7311595628638823537875937519577818577805321712
2680661300192787

Second Attempt

2007-05-15T11:04:09Z

He tried to open the door, but it was locked, he remembered, but again how? He hadn’t done this before, had he?

His left hand slid unconsciously to his back pocket, and grabbed the guard’s blue keycard. Blue to match the cardslot in front of him. Color-coded?

Deep breath. Unlock. Open. In. Shut.

Holy shit.

If he hadn’t jumped and rolled, he’d have been a chary pile in the doorway. As it were, the beam or wave or whatever the hell it was had blasted a hole in the door some 2 feet in diameter.

The blasts kept coming. He didn’t have time to decide where as the fetid stench of death choked him: zombies.

Without a thought he strafed left, aiming headshots with pin-perfect accuracy, unloading his shotgun like there was no tomorrow. Bits of skull and rotting brains splattered the walls.

Second attempt. How he’d know? Not enough ammo the first time either.

But he had moved to the left this time, and there was a promising green glow coming from behind a pile of re-corpses.

BFG .

He smiled.

His First Haircut

2007-05-15T07:57:06Z

Click

Sam’s eyes stream with tears as he locks himself in the bathroom. In the house of his father, Sam’s room has no lock. Lost and confused, the bathroom is haven.

His hands tremble with the perfumed soap. Hands, soap, and water: all a vibrant crimson. The soap’s scent doesn’t mask the stench of ebbed life.

Knock

“Son, we need to talk,” comes the voice of his father.

“J-just a m-m-minute Dad,” the boy stutters.

“Sam,” spoken with authority, “Open this door.”

Click

Stains of a guilty boy: tear streaked face, hands a faded pink. The tears are gone, but Manoah can sense the anger rising in his son’s breast.

“It was just a dog,” he consoles, “You are a Nazirite, a gift from …”

“Gift!” screams the boy. “This is no gift!” he cries, grabbing at his scalp.

“You will deliver us from …”

“Myself,” interrupts the boy. “The Nazirite.”

Before he can intervene, his son is behind the door once more.

Click

“Sam!”

Eyes reflected in the mirror, a fresh razor in hand.

I'm Coming

2007-05-14T09:57:23Z

The sweat pours from my brow: fucking waterfall. I stop the flow using the dirty rag with a faded stencil of last year’s hot new band.

The rag not nearly as dirty as my fingers on this keyboard, on this mouse, finishing this final task. There’s no goodbye like self-censorship.

Twenty years, six months, two days and let’s see, nine hours and fourteen minutes of my life: deleted. Can’t be too careful. Everything I’ve ever written, every note, journal, spec, most importantly the specs, gone from digital remembrance.

Delete.

But not the fleshy memory. I can’t forget.

The haunting memories stole that first year from my life, but not the rest. I set to work, and when a boy of twelve decides that physics is cool, you know something big is coming down the cosmic assembly line.

This is the product of my life. This, time machine. No gull-wing doors, no yellow pages of history. No ethical dilemma.

Flip the switch.

I couldn’t save you the first time.

Shoot the father.

I’m coming sis.

Five Minutes Ago

2007-05-11T12:19:42Z

I am awake. Less importantly, I am alive.

One problem: I am not myself.

Like the persistent drip of a leaky faucet, my memory returns.

Drip.

My name is Jim. Friends call me Jimmy.

Drip.

I’m an ad man for a local TV station.

Drip.

The drops of identity give way to a rush of time’s waters: Adulthood. Childhood. Family. Friends.

Me.

I am 27 years old, on sweat-soaked sheets, staring into the darkness of the apartment.

Despite the data, despite this torrent of remember, I am sure of only one thing: I’ve never been more terrified in my life.

Five minutes ago, I wasn’t sleeping in this bed. Five minutes ago, I wasn’t 27.

Five minutes ago I was 74.

I stood at her side for 50 years: I remember. I lay at her side while others stood and the doctors pulled our plugs.

We had joked about starting over. Wished we could be young again. Together.

I am 27 again, but not the 27 I was: with the new house and the pitter-patter.

I am alone.

And I can’t stop crying.

Shrubbery

2007-04-20T09:14:14Z

She had been in her bedroom, straightening her hair in the mirror, when she saw the flash of white and gold on her freshly cut lawn. Curious, she went out to investigate.

The rabbit quickly bolted, but her immediate attention was on the glint of gold in the grass.

It was an old-fashioned pocket watch.

Why in the hell did that rabbit have a pocket watch?

There was no question in her mind that the watch belonged to the rabbit: it was small like a pendant, and had the silhouette of a rabbit engraved on the back.

She had chased the rabbit for nearly 20 minutes before it finally dashed into the shrubbery. She still wasn’t used to running in flip-flops.

This is silly.

“Come on out little buddy,” she cooed, “I won’t hurt you.”

She leaned into the shrub, intent on saving the rabbit.

Where’d that hole come from?

She stared confused. She took pride in her shrubbery and as an avid gardener she’d have noticed the hole when she was weeding last week.

Alice crawled in toward the hole.

The Last Rock Hero

2007-04-20T07:37:01Z

The Party Documentation contained the entirety of recorded mankind: all media catalogued and archived. Or so I thought.

In MIC Warehouse 42 I stumbled upon an ancient piece of computer equipment. It was labeled: “Google Cache”.

As Deputy Minister of Information and Culture, the word “cache” I readily understood, but nowhere in the Docs was there any mention of a “Google”.

Were they incomplete?

In no time I had decoded its contents. Millions of fragments of text and images. More unknowns: blog, rock and roll, DMCA . I pieced together a blasphemous story.

The Docs were censored.

Not long after, the Party found me. Penalty for High Treason: death.

But here I sit, rescued by a ragtag group calling themselves a rebellion. Their camp smells of waste, but a beautiful music wafts from the tent of their leader.

My heart races with the tune, and in a jolt of sound, my guard smiles and whispers: “Power chord.”

The music ends, and I’m ushered in to meet their leader:

The last rock hero.

Drowning

2007-03-30T15:23:12Z

In the filter of the rain the knock had sounded like thunder.

I tiptoed to the door. Who was out this storm?

Peeking through the peephole, I could barely make out the form of a man leaning against the door. Wrinkles covered his haggard face, and his eyes were bloodshot. I opened the door.

“The backyard,” he gasped.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Before it’s too late.”

He rushed past me and was out the back before I could protest. I ran after him.

He stopped in the center of the lawn and immediately began digging, tearing up the grass with his hands. The rain ran mud into his hole. Within ten minutes, he’d hit a concrete slab, with two rusted metal handles embedded within it.

“What the hell is that?” I cried in the rain.

“Help,” he pleaded. Dumbstruck, I could only comply.

Underneath was water. The old man reached in up to his elbows. I stared as he pulled out the nude body of a young woman and held her to his chest.

She took a breath and he started crying.

“My daughter,” he said.

The Butcher

2007-03-21T07:48:25Z

“New shipment arrived, sir.”
“Excellent. Put them in the freezer”
“It’s mostly poultry sir, and the poultry space is full.”
“Well, then figure it out, I can’t micromanage everything.”
“How about in the rabbit space? No one ever buys rabbit.”
“Of course people buy rabbit.”
“Really sir? The accounts say…”
“Look who’s the butcher here, you or me?”
“You sir.”
“In fact, I know a lady who’s coming for a rabbit later. I have a big white one ready.”
“Sir, that rabbit hasn’t been prepared. It’s still…”
“I know. Someone keeps interrupting me.”
“Sorry sir. I’ll pack the poultry.”
“Fine.”
“Sir.”
“Now what?”
“There’s a live chicken in this shipment.”
“What? What?”
“That one.”
“Where is this shipment from?”
“China sir.”
“Right. The China delivery. I’ll handle this while you man the storefront.”
“Really sir? A promotion!”
“Right, I’ll be in the freezer.”
“Whatever you say sir.”
“Excellent. Excellent. The time is nigh. The manuscript was right. Bird flu plus dead rabbit equals zombie rabbit.”

If you want to look for weapons, click here.

2007-03-20T08:04:31Z

You look around you at the clean circle you’ve made in the dusty room. There are a myriad of cabinets and shelves, untouched by you or anyone else for that matter.

You start snooping about, and to your luck, most are unlocked. And what a stash!

You quickly build up a pile of armaments in the center of the room. You have:

1 12 Gauge Shotgun with 18 shells
1 Machete
1 Baseball bat
10 gallons of gasoline
4 matches
and
1 copy of The Zombie Survival Guide

You think it odd that such wonderful zombie fighting equipment be so readily available. You wonder who built this place. There’s a crash coming from a nearby room. Probably through the door to your left.

On your right though, you know where the hallway leads. It’s the way you came in. Straight to the front door and you’re sure that the zombies, according to the book at least, will be too slow to get there in time.

You’d be armed to the teeth if you could carry it.

You hear the rumble of thunder as it begins to rain.

What do you do?