Ron Koppelberger
Badness
The sense of excitement in him was hued a charcoal shade of
black. He was a voyager, a landlord in the desert abode of disorder and
mayhem. He had waited a thousand years and a thousand thousand lives for
his chance at freedom. He was the dissident dweller, the innate hearth
of evil intent, the spirit bearing gifts of corrupt cloven angst.
The vast savannah of wheat and saffron amber ramble was a direct
contradiction to the arid, waterless plains of desolation he was
confined to, bound by the chains of divine purposeful angels.
He was badness, plain and simple badness. The breach was at the
epicenter of the saffron grain fields, descried by a circle of
bloodstained stones and the bones of both animal and man. Bone dust
dirty dirge he thought as he looked at the enormous crucifix and chain
that guarded the spot. He imagined the great maw dividing the egress as
the plains burned with his fury. He would requite the sins of time with
his affection.
The badness settled in and waited as the man and wolf approached the egress. He would watch and wait for the summons.
The pair passed the entrance to desolation on their way in quest of
third heaven and the city of sinless wonder. Momentum carried them
through on angel wings as fiery eyes followed their progress.
Ron Koppelberger
The Innocence of Angels
The tumbling systematic purge of truth found the disinterested
compromise of deranged reason. Old Nick was reposing in colors of
uncouth endurance, wonders of stone and wastrel ash black. He listened
as the angel refined his measure of abrading business. The fervor of the
angel was notable to Nick. Must be a fresh one he thought as the angel
ministered to him. In retrospect he supposed the angel had been weighted
with the burden of a gamboled innocence.
Old Nick was uncertain of the lords sudden interest in his station,
yet being bereft of reason he felt that his time was nearly at hand.
The angel had expressed the beholden boundaries of a turn. “Accept God!”
he had spoken in harmonies of gold. Old nick being bereft of reason
laughed as he schemed his earthly assault. The innocence of angels he
thought.
Ron Koppelberger
Africa
The double game, The turn and the vortex of angry conviction
was a seasoning in careful tyranny for Africa Stagger. He burned with
the course of a bidden beast, an indelicate prospering of anger and
fiery rage, he was the king of the utmost spoil, a diabolical
benediction in ash and ebony stone.
He screamed to the padded cell walls, “Kill them all, kill them
all!” The straight Jacket had torn loose from his limber body and he
thrashed flailing his arms at the walls. Africa screamed at the small
square of glass that led to the green tiled walls of the outer hallway.
“Help Meeeeeeeeeeeee, Help Meeeeeeeeeee!” he screamed in gasping rages
of sound. As he screamed images of flame and ash filled his mind.
Laughing between shouts he saw fields of burning wheat in vast vistas of
rolling soot. “Heeeeelllppp meeeeeeeee!” he yelled at the nurse on the
opposite side of the padded door.
The door leading to the outside ally was propped open at the end of
the hall, trash day, he laughed and screamed, “Heeellllpppppp
Meeeeeeeee!” He pictured the taboo of blood stained concrete floors, he
saw the nurse in perfect miseries of death. “Heeeeeeelp meeeeee!” he
bellowed forcefully. The tyranny of darkness shaded black as he thought.
The lock turned and clicked several times and Africa waited seeing
nothing but the tyranny of darkness.
Ron Koppelberger
A Wolfs Foresight
Rationed in burdens of reflection and omission, the secret of
cleaving taboo stood in half-light whispers of vision. A dawn of rare
breed, it was a velocity of ragged union. The sun he thought, the sun.
Thrilled, absolute in spears of glory and hope, the sun. It was an
engulfing allegiance and the divinity of fate.
He flexed his chapped hands seeing, seeing the long nails and the
growth of fur covering his hands, his paws, his body. Contracted by the
skeletons of misery and the faith of crowns that bespoke of allure,
allure to the realm of saffron gold and ancient old gardens of naked
passion, angel extremes. He saw a circle of bloodied stones in a dream
and a gathering of secret fracture. A fracture in the gloss of humanity,
a common aberration, men in delirium, unsatisfied with the gift of
wheat, of saffron and splendor, men of doubtless conviction,
nevertheless sin and hell following the revelation of their purpose.
He saw them in his dreams and nightmares in evening twilight hunts
and by the glow of the full moon. They waited for the third coming of
heaven more appropriate to their calling, their task and the advent of
their damnation.
The stones and the secret contained by the depths of soil and its
guard, the stones guarded by waves of wheat, a saffron spell, a
nurturing patience.
Falling to his hands , changing, he loped toward the endless eternal wheat.
Ron Koppelberger
The Toy
Heaps and clumsy echo’s of childhood debris bespoke of the
remedy for the distance between momentary diversion and decaying fancy.
Always tottering on the misty deluge of tears and tantrums, Laird Apse’s
children wrenched smashed and grumbled glowing alibis of boredom with
the things Laird gave to them.
A laughing clown lay in ragged disarray, mussed and angled to one
side. A set of building blocks lay in splintered slivers across the
surface of the tiled playroom and pokes of pickup sticks lay in Carmel
coated stillness near the growth of baseball cards that cascaded in
crumpled silhouette from a dismantled cereal box.
The new toy would mirror the folklore that children could be
satisfied with the appropriate incentive. Tribal and bundled in leather
straps the humble package established the trust of total enjoyment, the
nature of the beast and it’s gap toothed intrigue.
Laird grinned as he layed the package in the center of the room and
called his sons Pulley and Knot. They scampered into the room with
glee. Fervent, impassioned by the possible treasure and gain,
presumption and fair-haired expectation, they clutched and tore at the
secret dream, the endorsement of magic allure. A bidden summons in
expectation of greatness, They found thrill in thriving occupied spaces
of esteemed amazement, their expressions shadowed by wont as the freed
the leather straps and canvas folds from the velvet agent of a veiled
gift. The cream pitcher was an alabaster and gold etched masterpiece
inspiring awe in Laird. Tea and cream, sips of heaven he thought.
“Yummy” Laird whispered as his children looked at him in bewildered
confusion. And in a saying told the thing done is the theft of youth.
Ron Koppelberger
Faithfulness
He devoured the moldy chunk of French bread and sliver of
turkey breast with a wanton abandon. Wagging his tail he sniffed the air
in appreciative delight. The scent of wild orchids and burning rubber
filled the air. An owl fluttered to the nearby pine boughs and promise
barked wildly as he hopped to his hind legs.
The garbage dump was littered with the broken castoffs of the South
Hammocks populace. Toys, old cars, refrigerators, cloths and sometimes
there was food buried amongst the heaps of refuse. Once he had even
found a plastic bag full of beef entrails. Remembering the soft tasty
treat he sniffed and hoped for the big trucks. They always brought more
food and people stuff. Promise climbed the twenty foot hill to the big
gate, it was open and the little house next to it had music and singing.
Promise remembered people music. His other life involved the fervent
wistfulness of lazy days and canned food heaped in a little yellow bowl
twice a day. The woman had a black box that played sounds and on
occasion she sang songs with the gentle flow of the box. Promise would
bark and even howl and the woman would give him a chewy treat.
Promise padded through the gate and made his way up the dirt
entrance to the Intercoastal Exchange. The two lane blacktop led to the
wonder of people and food. The junkyard guard watched the copper colored
hound meander at a gentle trot toward the front drive. He smiled and
grabbed a cheeseburger from the amber and red colored fast food bag that
held his dinner. Stepping from the shack he whistled, “Here boy!” The
dog turned and lopped back to the man. “Here ya go boy.” the dog looked
hungry and his ribs were clearly visible. Promise swallowed the cheese
burger in three gulps as he wagged his tail and stretched.
The man was opening the little house and calling him. Promise,
discerning the fortune of a new master, willingly adopted the man. The
spirit of a shameless fortune begged the encounter to the destiny that
Promise would fulfill.
Later in the year toward winter and the frayed edge of fall the man
would collapse and gasp in a stricken convulsion of pain, Promise would
knowingly retrieve the mans little bottle of pills, Nitro. The man had
barely managed yet he survived and Promise would eat steak that night
and every night thereafter. The man thought, he’s worth it and indeed he
was.
Sincerely
Ron Koppelberger
Websites:
*Wolffray.blogspot.com
*Farthermostdream.blogspot.com
My books are available here as well as at Barnes and Nobel:
*Raven's Blood(Dark Poetry) at Createspace.com/3885973
*A Butterfly Whispers(Poetry) at Createspace.com/3902255
*The Light in Snake Fuss(Short Fiction) at Createspace.com/3913586
*Twilight-Tide(Dark Poetry) at Createspace.com/3926208
*Horror Rush (Horror Fiction) at Createspace.com/3932678
*Saffron Mirage (Surreal Fiction) at Createspace.com/3939904
*Farthermost Dream (Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry) at Createspace.com/3948018
The links to all of my websites can be found at Wolffray.proboards.com
Thank you and have a fantastic day!!!
