May 24, 2012.........................Raven's Blood By Ron Koppelberger, Available to purchase at Amazon.com !!!!!!!!!!!!!
A book of Dreamlike poetry!!!!!!!
May 15, 2012
|
Jan 21st, 2012.......New poetry in the poetry section.
Ron Koppelberger
Spoken Pledge
The fare of bursting blossoms in moods of
perfumed essence and misty passion,
a desire in gossamer and designed ethereal
allure, the tender embrace of roaming wilds
and dreaming visions of twilight arousal,
the quietest ascension in whispers of
invocated assurance and pleasures of
spoken pledge.
December 30, 2011..........Flash fiction for your head. Also Three new stories in the short story section!!! Enjoy!!!
Have a Great New Year!!!!!!!!!!!
December 10, 2011......even more flash fiction..........Have a great holiday.
November 17, 2011......more flash fiction.......Have a great Thanksgiving. Ron
November 7, 2011..........New flash fiction.....stories to curl up with.
Radio Show........
Don't miss my next radio broadcast.....November 28th, Luver.com, Berkley Cal. and in Jan. 2nd as well as Jan 16th 2012....Monday 3:30 PM-4:30 PM. I'm not Elvira but fear might have a new flavor with me. Had the dates wrong sorry bout that. These are the correct dates.
October 29, 2011........New poetry in the poetry section......enjoy!!!
October 15, 2011......New Stories in the story section.....all new for October.....Have a great Halloween. Ron
Welcome to the swamps.......Feel free to contact me for any of your artwork needs at [email protected]
New Flash fiction in the Flash Fiction Page........September 18, 2011
July 12 2011
Ron Koppelberger
Punishing the Drum
Skewed by harps, lutes and endless trembling masquerades in cat gut, the tight lipped celebrity of the veiled drummer exalted the environs of unholy phenomenon. He occupied the greater of anger, in part at the midway point between hate and panoramas of blood. He found the fine art of drumming embryonic ally Mephistophelean, a bearing bought in backward glances to the piano and flutist, a poetic wrath in irritating repetition.
“Neat slaves of vacant feather, play by the call
Of common meals and waspish swarm, play by neat
Bombastic, blackened desires of rage.” he screamed over the cacophony of sound. In replete doom they listened to the call of the drummer, intent with the posture of believing rapiers and sharp wardship.
Tiny by the spells of heaven, an angel cried and the eagle of issued breath, of conquering trust, found changeable seconds in reprieve for the flute, the piano, the lute and the harp; the drummer found a strange solstice in this and paragons of respite, in the flitter of a reason for being.
|
|
June 30 2011Ron Koppelberger
Seasons in Red Chill The snow was the mistress of fields in rolling cloaks of sleep. Unlucky he thought as he rooted for the secret stone. The walls of the cellar were cool, thick concrete and stone and he pressed against the coarse rock surface searching for the loose rock. The cellar was dark and quiet, heaps of snow lay against the oily surface of the small rectangular windows that sat flush with the ceiling and the surrounding walls. Principle Fix coughed a heavy wheezy gasp as he shivered in the empty cellar. “It’s gotta be here.” he whispered in a gravely voice tinged by the bug he was suffering from. Principle coughed again and wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow. With fumbling childlike hands he found the loose stone and removed it with a gentle pull. His relief was unfettered by the knowledge that he was alone, He prayed, “Let there be other survivors god.” Principle reached into the cool recess and removed the tiny plastic case. Holding the case in his hands he remembered the sun, the blue revolutions of sky and the shimmer of endless horizons in white, it had snowed the evening before, a foot at least and the wheat fields stood empty except for the dark shoots of weed and stray wheat between the furrowed acres of land. Hail Wister lived on the neighboring farm and construction on the old stone swimming hole behind the rows of cow stalls had ceased, it was a giant hole filled with gravel loose stone sand, dry thankless soils. Hail had predicted a great swimming hole for the grandchildren and the missus. “It’ll be the perfect pool for all of us…….swimming and tea.” he had exclaimed. That was last summer and here it was mid winter. The pond had never materialized, construction had gone on until the hole had bubbled mud like hot molasses and smoke. Principle looked from the kitchen window past the fence row to the great snow filled crater. Hail and his family had left suddenly one day, without notice. Hail, Alma and the two gray hounds they owned had vanished in the space of a day. The day before they left the backhoes and bulldozers had ceased to dig the swimming hole. Hails truck had stood idling in his driveway for a few moments, gray exhaust puffing out a final Farwell to the life they had known. His truck was loaded down and full of household items, the things that had gone on for years in the ancient two story farmhouse. Here today and gone tomorrow, no rhyme or reason or goodbyes to remember. The sun had been bright and the terrain cool, frosty, sharp with the snows of a sleeping horizon. Principle remembered turning the radio on. “It’ a great time to find the signs In Generville. Come visit our green tree shoppers Mall, everything for a deal, everything For a steal.” The commercial continued on with a disco tune from the late seventies and a screeching hoot like an owl then the news came on. “Every hour on the hour.” Principle turned the volume up as he turned away from the snowy vista and the red and white kitchen curtains. Gossip, laughter and then a panicked announcer….., “……….a giant, it tore through Peresville Common like a bomb, it rained and the meteor belched a red colored mist, Red rain, the entire area was deluged by the crimson shower. I repeat a meteor landed in Peresville Common Today leaving no survivors. The president Has declared a state of emergency for the area and the state. Once again a meteor hit Peresville Common Where it apparently rained blood……” Principle thought about the gravel pit, the swimming hole Hail had attempted to build, obscured acquired by the land, it lay in silent reproach to the efforts of a farmer, a failed attempt at Champaign and hotdogs, river springs and the dreamy castes that filled the grand law of want and will. He had left in defeat after years in the land. The salt of the earth, Hail had left without explanation. Principle looked back out the window it was sprinkling tiny droplets of moisture, red, thick and viscous like blood; the snow was speckled red and white with tiny depressions like teardrops. The window reflected rivulets of moisture in long streaks, slashes of crimson against the glass. That damn hole in the ground he couldn’t get around it. Hail had fashioned the guest and here it was in a moment of silent acceptance. Give me red rain to fill the cracks and crevices, come swim in my depths, but now it was deserted except for the snows, the red rains and principle. Principle thought about all of those things, those moments…..seconds in motion as he removed the red and blue case from the hole in the wall. It was a first aid kit he had acquired from the good-will. Inside lay two gauze and a bottle of camphor oil. Principle took the camphor and rubbed it across his brow in the shape of a cross. “To the hole.” he coughed, it was the cold or the flu or some kind of nasty bug he wasn’t sure….he knew he was sick. The hole…..go to the hole He thought. Principle climbed the stairs, wooden slats splintered and old, they creaked as he tested his weight. The living room stood empty at the top of the stairs, Debbie gone now and the children grown. The sky shone bright through the pinkish red sheen on the windows. The hole, go to the hole he thought again; he opened the backdoor to the frost and the blood, to aged fields of wheat in summers gone by as he made his way to the deserted hole in the ground. His feet came away in frigid layers of frozen scarlet, puffs of loose cotton beneath. Staring ahead he looked at the depression in the ground and sighed in quiet contemplation. Great strands of ivy covered the surface of the snow in layers across the bottom of the pit and gouts of steam wafted from the center. The truck gone now, Hail had missed it his hole was gushing hot water and steam, Roses and daisies lined the edges growing up defiantly through the snow. His hole, and hails failure, hails reason for leaving. Principle exhale and moved down the edge of the slope where he stepped into the steaming water. It felt good and he discovered that he really didn’t care about the rain much as he submerged himself in the springs warmth and asylum. For a moment he dreamed of pools and pearls, he owned it for that moment, forgiving the sky and the blood that poured down around the secret oasis. Ron Koppelberger The Bleeding Edge Stifling, the sweat poured in slow trickling waves from Pray Blinds furrowed brow. He looked up and down the corridor from the entranceway to the vault. There were sentries on either side of the safe, floor to ceiling, secure with thick steel walls, the safe was a prelude to the baron beige carpeted hall. Escaping from the written desire of a petty thief, by warrants and county jails, by stolen pencils and free meals at the Salvation Army and by the starved passions of a gambler in a losers palace, he saw the great vault shimmer in the down draft of the ceiling heater vent. Pray had it all figured out, “A prayer for Pray.” he whispered out aloud. He’d crack the box, “YYYYYYYEEEEEEEHHHHHAAAAAWWWWW!” the top of the hill, the star at the top of the tree and the brass ring, only thing was his ring was gold, 21 carrot and as smooth as glass. Pray moved down the hall as the heavy tool bag weighed taunt in the muscles of his wrist. “ Gonna break that witch, gonna break that witch!” he sang as he approached the sentries laser beam. The card had a bar code and a brail embossed number on it. He had paid 300 dollars for the dupe at crazy Al’s. “It’ll work like a clock, tick-tock and yer in!” Al had exclaimed as he handed him the duplicate pass. Pray had put the original back into the bank managers wallet without capture or keep, no one had been the wiser. He had gone back to his tellers booth smiling and humming a tune from Oklahoma. Pray swiped the card in the tele-max sentry and the crimson colored laser beams disappeared. A breath, the space of a scream, the moment of decisive capture and wonting delirium came to a precise perfect conclusion as the giant iron cage descended around Pray; the hall went dim and the recessed lighting went dark violet. Pray stood there in shock as a high pitched hum filled the air around him. Submissively, Pray fell to the floor. The endurance of a wilting rose, the pale horse in full gallop against ebony shadows and moments of winter sleep, Pray simply gave up. He had wagered his dream against the wall, the impossible garner, the harvest in evanescent rhythms of fate. He lay there, just barely touching the cool polished metal bars with the tips of his fingers. He sighed in resignation and closed his eyes. Moments later he died and when he awoke he was in a steamy aura of candent light, the blessed light he thought. The enchantments of another world, a parallel existence, he stood and looked around the mist laden dew of a neon cloak, a brilliant shine in the glow of ethereal passion. Was he dead? He must be he thought. The wings of a greater forward, a beginning for a safe cracker in Eden he thought. “Damn……..yeah!” he said out loud. The sound of his voice echoed in hollow reverberations around him, filling his ears with a cool crisp slice of sound. Rebirth he thought, I’m reborn into the final stretch. Black Beauty is in the lead and Flicka is a close second he thought, the friggin horse in race to the gate. He was home free. Stepping forward, he bumped into the clear bars of the nearly invisible cell. Had he died? He was still in the cage. There were squawks from the end of the hall, he watched as a fluttering flock of crows moved down the hall toward the cage, “caw, caw,” came the first few in neon silhouette, crimson black, tiny eyes tilted upward as the patter of wings thumped and pounded the air around the cage. He moved to the center of the cage as a thick roiling mist cloaked the floor with it’s damp tendrils, snaking in from all four sides and dancing in puffs of cool ether and mystery. The light went from violet neon to a dull indigo haze permeating the fog in small sips, tincturing the tips of his fingers with the glowing luster of black light. The crows cawed in unison then went silent. The sound of their wings shifting in the dark shadows betraying their presence to the soul ensnared by the great steel bars of a prison in consuming endeavor; endeavoring the ozone and the breath of an eternal darkness, bought by a petty thief for the price of a spirit, for the wont of a blueprint to ever after, for the pale ghost in dark corners and the second after death. Pray fell to his knees and closed his eyes in worship. The Smokey arms of a dew laden mist and a newly moss laden floor padded his knees and smoothed over the wrinkles in his fifty-three year old features. His heart pounded rhythmically in his ears and fluttered like a moth in his chest. His prayer was simple, spoken by the lost, the desperate, the inhabitants of countless disasters and near death survivors. “Dear god if only….I’ll change…..I’ll follow the narrow road…….!” he promised as the outer door near the end of the hall thumped open, bouncing against the rubber stopper mounted on the wall behind it. It was a thickly viscous shadow, large red eyes breathing gouts of blue flame and charcoal soot. From his end the light flickered dark then dull indigo, on and off, on and off. The air was heavy with a cloying perfume, the essence of a thousand dandelions in fresh green cut, sappy, leaking the pungent milky lifeblood of a child’s dream. The figure at the end of the hall paused and a swirling eddy of haze descended from the ceiling flittering in the moaning gasps of a hundred tortured souls. The sound hummed and labored the breath of a nightmare, a whisper of sinful fright, a measure of fear, in muffled currents of confessed desperation and desolate terror. Pray tilted his eyes to the ceiling and shivered; so this is what I’ve come to he thought. The gaping maw of a bloody secret, a scarlet beast in perfect desires of human stew, the salivating greed of a precious peril, the bleeding edge of oblivion. He remembered in that moment, the remnants of a distant transaction, the day the dreadlock crow had nodded it’s head in his direction. The day had been uneventful, he counted his cash, fifties, hundreds and neat sheathes of quarters, all in the unchanging exchange between customer and teller. It was the stuff of his undying wont, wont for money, and he had dreamed of, and of, and of the safe and it’s contents. In the midst of his reverie a man had walked through the double glass doors across the lobby. The velvet ropes separated the few customers in the bank from the line of teller booths. The man stood behind Nate Johns and Gretta Burg. He was dressed in a black trench coat, dark ebony eyed with a full head of dreadlocks tied by gray yarn and blood red elastic. Nate and Gretta made their transactions and the dreadlocks ended up at Pray’s window. He slid a piece of notebook paper toward Pray and glanced upward toward the video cameras, past them and to the sky beyond the distant horizon, eyes rolling with clouds of roiling smoke, billowing from his mouth in waves and tenebrous spider silken snare. He sighed and the whites of his eyes filled with blood from top to bottom, sliding in slick eyed magic. He opened his mouth wider and rows of razor sharp teeth glistened and glimmered like the pointed maw of a Great White. The note said, “Azalea in the Scream!” He remembered, the other tellers had seen nothing as the man’s mouth echoed a curing, causing “Caw, caw!” a black mamba with feathered exclamations of fate. No one saw and in the end, in the space of a few seconds he turned and spun on his heels, dreadlocks spinning in a circus fan about his head, he turned and left leaving the piece of paper and a hazy veil of delirium. He had called Mary Simms over to his cage explaining to her that he was feeling ill. He went to the employee lounge with the piece of paper clutched in his sweating fist. “Azalea in the scream!” The beast in the hall, the approaching ends of a frayed bloody edge, the bloom of a race from birth to old age and to moments in the afterlife belched and wavered in steamy coils of mist before him. The memory of the dreadlock crow fell in sync with the beast, the dreadful conclusion of his life, his essence, his bond with existence. He stiffened and slowly edged to the rear of the cage, unprepared, naive’ like an inexperienced toddler avoiding a scolding. Pray trailed his hands across his eyes wanting to rub away the vision of approaching hell, the great rambling demon in hunt. The beast pressed it’s face or what passed as a face, it was all misshapen and fleshy, against the clear bars opposite him. The bars separated with the tongue of a hissing black flame prefaced by screams and roars of rage. Summoned by chance and the trifles of interlaced fortune, the decision to sin and the promise to fulfill the destiny of a sainted life, the promise to forgo the life of a petty thief for the wonts of the straight and narrow path, inspired Pray to fall to the moss covered floor. He cried as the beast opened it’s maw covering his mouth and pushing hot flame, fetid breath into his lungs. Passing out in a dream, a nightmare descried by a nightmare, Pray dreamed within the dream. He saw the piece of notebook paper. “Azalea in the scream!” Tiny unfolding lines of light spread their warmth and daydream cloud across his features and he saw the Azaleas in bloom, the bursting blossoms done in violet, in alabaster crème and bright scarlet tears. The gentle rolling twilight in orange spears of flame touched his brow and illuminated the Azalea’s with somber light. The rare, bold bid for realms named safe, secure and in reveries of absolution, the stupor of a petty thief, the lyric answer to his prayers and screaming promise, in all he heard the scream the tenor of full born rage and screaming panic. The Azaleas wept blood as the veil disappeared from his eyes. She was screaming and blowing air into his mouth, filling his lungs he gasped and coughed choking on the wheezy inhalation of breath. Susan Lance, his girlfriend, a fellow teller at the bank, shook him and cradled him in her arms as she called his name , “Pray, Pray!” He remembered the trench coat crow again, all dreadlocks and fire eyed want. He had hit him, hard, with the dull side of a claw toothed hammer. He had fallen behind the counter unconscious, dead, dead to the world and in hell. Susan had saved him. His head hurt as he remembered the promise, the moment of decision and forgiveness. He looked up into Susan’s eyes and smiled as best he could. Some things were worth waking up to he thought as he hugged her. *************** A Week Later The alarm clock sang 6:00 A.M., he had to shake out the cobwebs and get going, his shift at the bank began in an hour. He glanced at the security card on the bedside table; it lay untouched next to his pain medication and a bottle of ibuprofen. Pray paused for a moment uncertain, wondering, wondering about Susan. What did she need from him, Jewelry, a house………and what, the good life? He pushed those thoughts aside for a moment and looked out the small apartment window. The rows of Azaleas wavered and swam in the cool autumn air. Turning away from the window he dressed, ran a comb through his thinning hair and put his red and white tie on. He picked his dad’s old tie clip and cufflinks. He looked good. The bag of tools lay in a leather satchel next to the dresser. He listened to the silent tick of the clock for a moment as he grabbed the bank managers identification card and slipped it into his breast pocket. Outside the wind howled and an earsplitting scream filled the air near the Azalea bushes. Pray looked out the window again fear swelling in his bosom. The sky was blood red and the demon stood howling in the midst of the Azalea bushes, in the midst of a petty thief’s fate. |
Ron Koppelberger
Summer Soul Bruised and defiant the why and the drama of the idea was bolstered by the summer smile of what he called delicate, beautiful and wild. Treat Roe sat on the patio rail; his misgivings and doubtful knowledge tempered by the cold taste of beer sipped from a Margarita glass. He looked at her mascara smudged eyes and saw paradise, through half swollen black eyes and purple patches of injury. He saw and whispered his affection through cracked lips, tasting copper in small measures of beer and blood. She had equine poise shaped by the lines of a night-time allure, eyes of passion and ringlets of silken desire. He ran his thumb across the slippery edge of the glass. The daughter of dark esteem she lay her palm against his and smiled. The fight had been furious and long. Treat had nearly gone down and for a brief instant the halo had dimmed above his loves shining countenance. Dewy Meck lay in a bleeding heap near the bougainvillea vines, unconscious and defeated. Treat pressed his palm against his girls palm, candent in azure and scarlet they became a single beam of brilliance, rouge and blood, lipstick and torn t-shirts smeared green by the stain of grass and wont. Treat sighed summer breezes and barbecued chicken while her heart blanketed the dream that made him whole with the essence of a female betrothal. A call to the vivid twilight they moved closer together in joined conspiracies of shadow. They brought the wind to a crescendo in tall pine by ravens in flight and marriage unto the breath of an ethereal second, by backyards in caste, in eternal celebration of the twilight moment. They became a single flame fed by the velocity of a substance dreamed possible by the heavens and tears of trust. The light on the patio hummed and melded with the currents that course through backyards and county fairs, through summer picnics and crazy screams of romance, by rare wine brilliant halos of light wrought unto the ghosts of what simple abandon, for the night and the call of the sleeping crow, holds in secret reverie. A meaning given birth by the wombs of a chosen direction. The patio, the epoch, they moved upward and into the evening sky, borne in unbridled scenes of past discovery, for the eyes of a generation in lost frays, in dark shadows shorn only by twilight visions and the fears of lovelorn battles, a trim demon in contrary coquette, they ascended away into the skies with willing mind and the desire of angels in phantasmal swirl. They moved into a clandestined existence and the conquering mind of elder possession. Chicken stained hands , sauce and beer, sweat and breath like the whisper of dandelions blooming summer souls and babies recollections of cradles in ghostly prelude unto the revelation in southern skies and seconds yearning the gateway to different worlds. Dewy Meck lay broken as the couple moved toward heaven and the promise of a future in roses, he groaned and climbed up from the farthest depth of a black illusion. In Anger, in tides of blood and ageless sand, he gained his feet vowing the world and the realm of human existence. He sighed and fire flew from between his bleeding lips, sparks and ash in tongues of shadow, cold fire in the aftermath of a backyard battle between the winds of fate and chicken grease, chips and human endeavors to claim an instant in heaven, Eden, Nirvana, the ranchouse with children and dirty diapers and bottles of mad dog wine; the fight for what’s bought by the angels in humble secret, in asylums unseen. Dewy looked heavenward and vowed an oath in blood and gray eyed ice. “Till death, by the need of your breath, I’ll have the favor of tide and life, of azure skies and sunshine, of warm smokey campfires and Bad mitten games won in favor of cigarette smoke and cold beer, I’ll have and in good measure!” Dewy climbed the patio steps and went to the barbecue built into the side rail. Lifting the lid he inhaled deeply of the wood smoke, the charcoal and crispy hotdog Oder. Reaching in Dewy grabbed a tinfoil ear of corn and a charred simmering chicken leg. Carefully Dewy whispered dark drama, the beast, the dire melancholy of a jealous cousin, a brother of what has all by exiled prisoners in chain he ate and the world revolved, sun, moon, sun, moon. The heavens watched Dewy and earth, the here praised his silhouette, his darkness, the blood of an angry command. Treat Roe grinned in his own world with his love, his reason for life. The halo in his midst shining light down on Dewy; Dewy stopped eating barbecued chicken for a moment, the taste of cold beer on his lips, and for just a second he knew heaven. The space of that knowledge given birth, the wont of what he thought possible for his existence, for the continuance of his particular breed. Dewy by earth and Treat by heaven, by death and life, by god and by the dark demons that want the soul of simple living, that want barbecues, carnivals in summer rust, county fairs and beer on a steamy day. By the grace of an eternal battle, gasping grasping and locked in strange union between man, woman and the beast, the possessor of dark dreams and the tempter by decree, “I’ll show them the shadows and they shall want of it, they shall fall like sparks of dimming light to the earth!” He shouted to the sky above between bites of chicken and gulps of beer. In silent rows miles and miles away, the wheat of tomorrows promise grew as did the darkness wonting fire to consume the harvest; Treat prepared the steaks, juicy t-bones, the hamburgers as he gazed out over the garden waiting for the fight yet done. Dewy sighed and spoke, “ I know how they are, it will be mine in the end.” they both counted the seconds in a summer of souls desire, summer souls and the wont of light and dark, they counted the seconds that formed the bond between them. Ron Koppelberger Chains to the Past (the spirit of morning) (The Angel) The angel was a brilliant beacon of love and light shining down on the man and woman from above, ethereal and beautiful before god and heaven. The veil had become a gauzy rent in a place near the couple and so abbadon had taken advantage. He had put on an ostentatious show, barraging them with terror after terror. Finally it had become too much for them and the angel interceded. He grasped the demon and chained him to the darkest depth of hell, leaving the other demons in hell to wonder and quake with fear, supplicating as the angel passed near. (Changes) The bird swooped down at him suddenly, the shadow of it feathered flight against his face. He had been sitting quietly on his front porch for hours, waiting. The bird served as a sign that his waiting was over. He wouldn’t find himself slipping into unconsciousness, disappearing from the planet; his path was clear now. The portent was revealed. He mouthed the lord’s prayer in thanks. The bird reminded him of the Bee and the Bee reminded him of the Palm Meadow and the Palm Meadow the Locust and the Locust the Wolf. The visions became dimmer and the veil became almost all occlusive; the voices from the depths of sanguine darkness became muted, subdued by the advent of an unknown angel. Standing, he turned to the front of the house. Once again he prayed, touching the door gently, in singsong rhythms of contrition he asked for protection from above, for his house, his wife and the sanctity of their existence. Sighing he opened the door and went inside. The next day came much as the previous one had with exception, the sun rose filling the landscape with light as it always had, forever in candent glow, an eternity of light, glowing, warm, guiding and another sign that life would continue to improve for him and the love of his life. The startling fact was that he sensed the difference in atmosphere, the voices were gone and the day seemed brighter. Once gain he prayed. He had been having nightmares late in the morning hours, silent, flashes of another planet, another life. Sometimes they made sense, at others they were just disjointed images. “ Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the lord my soul to keep, If I should die before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take.” he whispered to himself just before drifting off. There were occasional dreams instead of nightmares, portents of a better life. Love, laughter and happiness filling the spaces where the monsters lay. He wished for those moments, those dreams every time his eyes closed and sleep rushed in. Perhaps the nightmares would end, he crossed himself he looked heavenward with the expectation of rebirth, perhaps and just maybe the nightmares were in the past. He thought about the bird and the other signs again , it had to be over he thought. The demons were powerless now, defeated and bidden toward other moments in time, left to their own and subject to their own. He found himself imbued with the strength to continue on, toward a greater promise and a dawning hope. The wind blew gently across the yard, branches clicking and clacking in the tall pine bough, the smell of lilac permeated the air and the suns rays warmed his face, and he breathed, breathed for the first time in a long while. He was free and his life would continue on revolutions constant arc. In times of pause he thought with a bit of the old wariness. **************** He would need to go to the store sometime later in the day, thankfully his car hadn’t given up the ghost yet. His wife was cleaning, washing dishes and busy with the frills of housework; mother in want he thought. Their communication was good and they loved each other above all else. He smiled and called out, “Finished yet hon?” She wouldn’t leave the house to go shopping until everything was in order. ************* He found himself sitting on the front porch again, shadows filling the yard in slow creeping acquiescence. The sundial in the front garden read Seven P.M., looking into the sky , squinting at what remained of the dying sunlight he listened. The crickets were singing and a gentle breeze ruffled his hair, blowing it in front of his eyes, momentarily blocking the sky and the sun and the pale glow of an early moon. Inside the house he heard a muffled stream of yelling and laughter. Arailia was engrossed with “ Platoon “. The air was warm and pleasant, he smiled and moved the hair away from his eyes. Rex loved sitting outside as everything became a gently hushed dream for him. An easy silence except for the birds and the wind. The branches in the tall palms stirred and the calming whoosh was in contrast to the visions he had been having. For shivered for an instant, hoping they were truly gone. The morphic visions were on vacation, and for now the veil was heavy, and the portent declared his freedom. He prayed silently thankful for the reprieve. The demons had nearly become a reality, an incarnate consistency and that’s what frightened Rex. What if they returned to claim their souls. What if they came for his sweet Arailia, his love and the very breath of his being. His wife was his sanity and the transcendent nature of their relationship was in direct proportion to what they had been through with the visions, the screams of hallucinatory haunt and the dire substance of a demon in bloom. The sky continued to darken, the sun low on the horizon glowed like a bright orange flame; he could hear someone playing music in the distance, a guitar flowing in gentle waves of caressing soliloquy to an unknown god. The tune was smooth and it reminded him of honey, the taste of honey, the Bee small buzzing and curious. The Bee had been another sign, flittering near his stomach and the seat of his soul, indeed the Bee had been a portent of good things to come. He stood, gazing into the sky again, just the faintest twinkling of stars in the distant twilight sky. He closed his eyes and the tiny after burn of a hundred points in star shine lit the inside of his eyelids with a blossoming image. Once again he prayed and when he opened his eyes again the sun had set. Turning away from the trees and the yard and the night sky he grabbed the doorknob and smiled, near the center of the door resting his wings was a dragonfly. It whispered silent vibrations as its promised flight rested near the touch of Rex’s hand . Reaching to the side of the porch, to the Alameda vine growing up the side of the house he found a flower and grabbed it, gently pulling it away from the vine. He held the blossom close to his nose and inhaled, the sweet scent filled his head for a moment, a momentary delirium of opium delights clouded his mind for just the briefest of seconds. He opened the door and dropped the flower to the porch, moving inside he was careful not to disturb the dragonfly on his perch. ***************** He Slept peacefully for the first time in months. It had been dark quiet and without interruption. Later he awoke to the sound of Araila’s breathing and the scent of her hair. Again he thought of something sweet like honey as he kissed her gently on the lips. Rex eased the covers back careful not to wake her; he saw something flitter in the corner of his eye. At the bedroom window and reflected in Arailia’s vanity. It was a bumble bee. He sighed, the clock ticked and the bee tapped against the window pane. Rex looked at arailia and smiled, she had slept through this one, this tiny portent called the bumble bee. He looked out the window again and saw the sun, reflected against the trees filtering through the lace curtains and glowing against the mirror, and still, just for a moment he had seen something else. The yard had been strewn with thousand of flower petals multicolored and fluttering in small tempest whirls. He blinked a few times and the image vanished leaving only green grass and sunshine behind. Dressing himself, Rex went outside to the front porch swing. The air was fresh and invigorating as he inhaled deeply in the morning sunshine. He was prepared for what the day might bring. ************** He was drinking a coffee, black and steaming, it burned his tongue a little but he liked it that way. He set the cup down, sloshing some over the brim so it puddled on the wooden porch. He picked the lit cigarette up from the porch step where it lay and took a puff. Smoke filled his lungs and as he exhaled he watched a thousand tiny images evaporate in the air, drifting spirals of mist mixing with the currents of fresh air, finally he spotted the image of an angel, in Smokey disarray, fluttering and waving against the haze. Seconds later a chameleon ran across the bottom step, hurrying needing to remain hidden it ran beneath the boards. A bird screeched breaking his reverie. Arailia motioned him from the kitchen window. Rex waved back, “I’ll be there in a minute honey.” She realized they had overcome the worst of it, the visions the night terrors and the prospect of an endless series of attacks from some unknown quantity, a demon in vaunt, in vestured arrays of hate and diversion. They had prevailed she thought as she watched Rex move through the front door, and they were happy now, for time first time in years. She had had a moment of trepidation, she had seen things for just a moment as they had been and when she saw Rex sitting there on the porch in quiet prayer she had thought the worst, an instant of doubt. What was wrong she thought for a fraction of an instant. The last few days had been a blessing and she believed, she had to believe the worst of it was over. It had been a struggle filling the closeness between them and the space nearby. Rex had seen the sign and now she was sure that it had ended. Araila was overwhelmed with a new hope for their future, and just before calling Rex into the house she had cried a little bit, salty tears of hope and the love of a wife in commune with her husband. Really, all she wanted was Rex to be near her, for him to extinguish the moment of doubt with his presence. Rex read the worried expression on Arailias face and went to her embracing her; her arms encircled his neck ruffling his hair. He returned her embrace with kisses ,lightly on the lips. They stood there intertwined, sunlight streaming in from the kitchen window, illuminating them in the midst of shadows and silence. They had become sane again, moreover they had overcome. The prevailing sense of dread that had dictated their every waking moment had vanished. Toenails clicked across the tile floor, Rex looked down into the expectant panting of a fluffy white and absolutely famished poodle. Rex reached down to scratch the little dogs head. She pushed her head into his hand and wagged her tail madly. Leaning upward, Rex let his eyes trace the outline of Arailia silhouetted in the sunlight. She looked ethereal to him for a moment and a poem filled his head. “Transcendental passing as the Tides, their love and warmth The love of an aching abide, In the afterglow of commingled essence And in the shape of spirit Never ending, as they embrace Never to cease the adornment Of love, unbridled in perfect passions, In harmonies face and the whisper of Love, the sweet whisper of love, The eternal bond of passion and love.” Rex touched Arailias cheek and kissed her again, she closed her eyes and smiled in response. They exchanged a soulful look for a moment, the image removed all the barriers that might restrict the feeling of oneness that he had and shared with his wife. ******************* Later, much later toward the edge of twilight and the advent of an evening moonrise, Rex once again sat on the front porch steps. Lazy tendrils of smoke drifting up from his cigarette. Whippoorwills called out in the evening breeze and the cool airs of a night-tide essence whipped perfumed essences of lilac and fresh cut grass. Rex looked to the East, down the tiny dirt road that fronted the house and as he looked he saw the faintest of shapes approaching growing larger until it stood near the edge of the driveway. A wolf, all scraggly and tall in it’s demeanor. The wolf looked toward the front of the house and Rex then padded it’s way to the front porch. Rex’s heart raced and the prospect of dying flashed across his consciousness. The wolf paused in front of him and rex stood. It licked it’s lips and stood upright planting its paws firmly on either side of Rex’s shoulders. Rex looked into the amber eyed glow of the wolf’s eyes as he held his breath wondering if he would be devoured. The wolfs muzzle was coated in blood and it’s teeth were sharp two inch razors against it’s curled lips. Rex strained under the weight of the wolf. Just as it seemed to be preparing for a fresh meal it’s tongue reached out and licked Rex across the face. Whining the wolf returned to all fours and let out a howl. In that moment Rex saw the freedom that the wolf had and where the dreams of demons and delirium had gone. He prayed again as the wolf Padded away, finally disappearing into the dusky twilight. The evening wore on that night and Rex realized that the wolf had been sent, by who or whom he wasn’t sure he just knew that he had a guardian angel looking out for him. |
June 21 2011
Ron Koppelberger
Breeding
The poise of chance and suspicions of blood, he was pale and in cunning contention for the cardboard house. The cosmopolitan delta of priceless abodes lined the alley with desperate conviction. Niches of cardboard and makeshift tents constructed from discarded conveniences defined the resolute pledge to survive.
He had sojourned from cultivated boulevards to the remnant purchase of a cardboard shelter. Cleveland Vern grinned at the vagabond haven. The box read,
“Sugar Mill Appliances, South Hammock Blvd..”
Cleveland had an indulgent fantasy extracted by the cause of time and fate. He had once owned Sugar Mill Appliances and the confusion of bounty that came with it. This was his inheritance, his legacy, a cardboard box. The stubborn rebel in him dreamed of burning the appliance warehouse to the ground and killing the bankers reproach with a fat insurance check. Foregoing reason, Cleveland gave the man in the box his tie clip, fourteen carrot gold. The box was his. The man gave a pointed sputtering thanks as he coughed a thick flemy cough and moved out of the box, The fortune of a relevant provocation, the tides of truth and time.
Cleveland sat on the smooth surface of the appliance box floor; he stared at the gray granite and cement walls of the building across the alley. He had rank now, status in the cardboard town. He would rise to the challenge. He shifted in his makeshift home.
His face contorted in anger as the first trickle of rain leaked through the roof of the box. The others had plastic sheets covering their houses. He shifted in his three piece suit wondering what he would have to trade for a piece of plastic.
Ron Koppelberger
Another Day in Paradise Lost
The shortened, unerring sound of wondering injury was in accord with the pain of a rosebud misery, blooming in waves of agony. The crisis of blood he thought in miserable contemplation. He had confidence in his ability to defy the odds, his mortality, his immortality against the gunshot wound to his stomach. A pain filled adventure and a misadventure in uncalculated distress, he had mistaken the clerk for a snatch and grab mark.
Denver Caymen had pulled the plastic 22 caliber pistol from his waistband and aimed it at the clerk. “ It’s the downs and I’m advancing myself a little credit, hand over the cash Nash!” The clerk had just stood there staring at him with a bulgy eyed fright and a blossoming grimace of anxiety. “You dreamin partner,” he quipped, “…get tha money!” Ten seconds passed as they stood face to face without release, a tight bond of expectation between them.
Surprisingly, the clerk pulled a pistol from beneath the counter almost as if in slow motion. He fired and the first shot caught Denver in the gut, the second nicked his ear and a well of blood poured from the gash. Standing over him the clerk pointed the weapon at his head. Denver prayed and closed his eyes.
The police officer opened his car door, sirens blaring. He would later reflect that he thought he saw the silhouette of a man pointing a gun at a dark shape in the floor, the guy in the floor seemed to be praying on bended knees. The loud crack of a pistol echoed in the parking lot as the officer rushed the door. A dark shadow fell across the convienience store and the fates dealt another hand of chance. The day moved on and the sun sank into the twilight horizon as life and death went into the mix, the stuff of existence and the substance of another day in paradise lost.
May 25th 2011Ron Koppelberger
Wild Wolf The mournful conviction of love’s desolate Abandon and passion’s swelling penance, The useful rant and roar in searing tinder And special races of tender contrition, the intimate Whisper in assay and allay, a developing sufferance In slavering raves and wild wolf fascination. Ron Koppelberger Full Moon Pale Evident by natures of gnarled oak and full Moon pale, by skies of indigo and stars in Revolution, the web of clandestined gossamer and Vaseline told by dander and daisy hearts in summer egress, Like the dream of falls lyric. A profound, scarce acceptance In blushing betrothal and rushing streams Of unbidden ritual. Ron Koppelberger Ashen Gray Ghosts The meek and unpretentious flight of ebony Swans and ashen gray ghosts, An intimate assurance of what’s different In pointed thorns and sharp assay, In stone, in concrete and half-light wonder, The employ of dreams in cognizant Realms of stout awe, in sane transfer of spirit. Ron Koppelberger Rose Water Dreams The easy evidence of Champaign demeanor and cool Gilded pearls of contemplation, of shades in ebony, Echos of celebration, and earned belonging in the desires of glowing caste, By late evening smiles and quiet airs of weekend belonging, The everything in all and perfumed mists of Satisfaction, a figurine in cat’s Eye dialogues and rose water dreams. Ron Koppelberger Red Weeds Indefinite in seasons of cloaked wisdom, Released by the bidden taboo of wretched wonder And meandering embrace, the sly beauty of beguiling senses In serene shadow and crimson droplets of perfumed nectar, From red weeds borne only for the garnish of Daisies and dandelion wild, A sodden whole perfected by the Mists of tempered flocks and rare dogs in rocky Exhaustions of transport, the phantom reflection of Eyes alight by the shimmering night-tide confessions Of sated darkness and dreams in tune With the symphony of sadness and Eternal havens in secret temptation, by the Visage of a smokey drama in black. Ron Koppelberger Amongst the Flames Bamboo barricades and stone gardens in fresh bloom, In cascading splendor, the primitive allure of Yielded beauty and intimate truths, naked, laid bare, To confessed oblique dimensions in difference to Synchronicity, as if splintered by the seconds and Twilight glow of hourglasses and moths flittering Amongst the flames of revelation. . |
May 25th 2011Ron Koppelberger
Shadowy Embrace A wretch in the throes of divine Passion and the vagabond desires of frayed Edges, tattered rays of sunshine, Enchanted by the love of still promise, Princess dew drops and the nectar of remanded silhouettes In shadowy embrace, a depth of surrender To the tears of a gentle Storm. Ron Koppelberger Possible Rebirth The echoes of alum in prayers and alm Psalm and soon fashioned patient and mending, Into bits and pieces, into the sudden suffering of fast lay and sunshine days in sturdy ascension and bond, In satisfying revolutions of Possible rebirth. Ron Koppelberger Clever Blood Blackened by the fire in emerald eyed dreams, Humming in silent tunes of passion and fear, allayed By the promise of heaven at the end of the secret path, In primitive extravagance and gnashing misgivings, In sure sated angel hair and goblin aghast, butterfly merits and Cocoons of silk, a construct sustained by the favor of Delirious paths and frayed bat wing will, by The proposed clever blood of faithful Rapture. Ron Koppelberger Ballerina Belief Dancing in ancient fetters of ash and gray, in tender affected passion And loves amazing row, the ballerina belief, The notable anything in fires of want and Tiptoe secret, the triumph in blossoms of elegant Rush, by the gentle creation and birth of Suspiring patience and calm rhythms of peace, In alabaster trim, still by the wonder of Balance. Ron Koppelberger Frenzied Butterflies’ Crazy, advances in history, in conscious dreams of Season and fashion, a boundary bonded by the close comfort of Immovable passion and metamorphosis, the hurry in further forward, In paths of precedented allay, the tide in flow and cascading Universes of healing baptism, the turn in patient Moths and frenzied butterflies‘, a prevailing Wind blustering the landscape and wild Terrain of distant dust in the Footfalls of angels. Ron Koppelberger The Dust of Elder Gods Chances by moments of cleaving venture and uneven cliché, An old myth once told by the unconcealed awareness of Earnest muse and feelings twice as great as the future of An ancient parable in ash, the estate, the turn in well washed decrees Of knowledge and infinite understanding, upheld by the Trappings of cotton down and gilded crowns bought by the Inheritance of queens and confident suggestions of Frontier exploration, a pretty dare borne by the dust of Elder gods and nascent planes of revolution. |
This week on Swamplit there are four more stories for your consideration...........Perhaps you'll sit a spell and dream the impossible.May 1st 2011Ron Koppelberger
The Same Breath Inescapable underpinnings of satisfaction delivered the inheritance and divine profit of prophecy to Sergeant Feign. The unsullied glow of flame and cinder defined the tiny incense burner, in smoke and vapors of perfumed vanilla essence. The Sergeant stared into the mist and tendrilled puffs of telling portent. He dreamed and in that dream he saw revelations of desolation and tears. He inhaled, he exhaled bouquets of smokey fortune. He saw wars of retribution and angels in flight and fight. A scream of terror and fear, blood and visceral tears in the fabric of life, he saw the eternal spirit of absolution and fire……endless fire. In the same breath he saw blossoms of sweet asylum and rose blush, smiles smudged with the dirty soot of survival and the betrothal of man to spirit, angels the azure firmament. The incense sputtered to a cool ash and the Sergeant looked at the spit shine polish on his boots. A dream he thought, just a dream. He sighed and pondered his mortality for a moment. A possible outcome….how to stop it he thought. He heard the wail of air raid sirens and running feet, “Clop cloppty clop!” down the hall. By god they had done it. He sobbed and waited for the next breath the one that would bring either paradise or hell. I’ll be revived in absolution he thought as he ran down the hall to join the fray. |
May 1st 2011Ron Koppelberger
Dreams of Perfection and passion The feeling was that the dress of both queens and court jesters in drama, was narrowly defined by her desire to be. Emma Spoons was nearly five hundred pounds of overflowing misery, her burden was the shelter and clothing that would define her as a cognizant human being, consciously worth something more than her suffering weight. Her task was a difficult one. Her home had shrunk around her as she had increased in size, her asylum, her sweet embrace of dark corners and shadow secretly desolate. She stood before the oak and cherry wood mirror primping and debating the bright red and rose blush gown that adorned her in vast sheets of cloth. The fringe was a daisy bloom, white lace and saffron yellow. She contemplated her attire for an instant and sighed, she was pleased with the dress. She found comfort and peace with the bright array, a simple solace, fresh blood and love and passion. She defined the dress in terms of. Acceptance or denial, and she knew the conquering denial, denials in a whispering nag, a breech in her vision, the rotten bastard that reminded her that she was fat. She heard it as a persistent whispering, a manic rebuke, “ your fat!” it said “and nobody loves you!” Emma arranged her white neckerchief and pursed her lips. The doorbell sounded and Emma’s heart leapt. Answering the door she put on her sexist smile. Announced, discovered and defined in handsome poise, the sandy blonde haired man touched her check with a gentle brush of soft caressing desire. His fingers traced the line of her lips and she sighed in gentle rhythm to the symphony of joy that overwhelmed her in waves of romance. The door soon closed and the flaxen dream dissipated. Emma smiled and turned on her television set. Simple pleasures were often the best pleasures. Brought forth in silence and made real by the dreams of a soul in transit, never judgmental and chaste to the desires of true freedom, the secret lover, the clandestined stranger who arrived in her minds eye, her fascination, her dreaming surmise and accepting betrothal. She found solace in the mystery of the stranger and in portion she was nearly perfect, defined by the conscious dimensions of imagination, boundless and eternally balanced. All in possible arrays of love and the promise of a stranger bought by the wont of a lonely need. . |
May 1st 2011Ron Koppelberger
Overnight The half dollar was a constant reminder of the meekness in his netherworld awakening. It was four fifteen in the AM and Mug Fowl considered the conflict of fate and demons, desires and death. He sat in rumpled preordained damnation contemplating the silver half dollar in his palm. He flipped it and rolled it across his fingertips; it sparkled in guileless charm, a chariot, a friggen chariot Mug thought. The demon had appeared near eleven thirty PM in a huff of sulfur and smoke. “A bit o gold fer yer soul Mr. Mug, a generous bit o gold fer yer eternal soul Muggy!” the demon had sung. Mug knew indebtedness; he owed the bank on two mortgages and ten credit cards. He had run back and forth between loan sharks paying one portion to the other. He had been duped by prostitutes, bookies and whiskey, duped and stuffed. Mug saw the demon as a blessing ironically and in the theme to perditions profit the angel…….he had to play lucky seven and in unhesitating consent he had agreed to the bargain. Gold, gold, gold he thought. The clock said four twenty two. Mug yielded to the desire to sleep and in a delicate balance slipped into unconsciousness. He dreamed of a featherless chicken and a shorn goat, bare, barren plains of flame and descending star shine fires, ever down sloping, descending to the depths and breadths of darkness and sedition. Pawned in the supposition, he had bargained his free will for the wheat chaff, wheat for dust, salvation for hell. Mug woke to the first rays of dawn as they shimmered and caressed his aching skin through slats in the ancient yellow blinds. What had the gossip been he thought confused for a moment. Remembering he saw the demon, bare bones and all……..empty. Then he saw the angel whole and at peace. He hadn’t reclaimed his soul the angel had and the empty desolation had abated. He inhaled, the air was stale but warm and comforting in a tolerable degree of calm. He resumed his life. Coffee……hot steaming and satisfyingly bitter, the taste was a flavor of heaven. Later he would contemplate the plan and as fate told he found the cash to pay off the loan sharks and a large chunk of his other obligations. Ultimately Mug realized that he had been blessed with an elusive freedom that had been waiting patiently and divinely. |
May 1st 2011Ron Koppelberger
The Woe in Balloons of Advancing Age Surely the approval of his family affirmed the storm, the torrent of tide and time. He was three hundred and twenty-seven years old and the shelter of myth was deeply entrenched in his dreamy, dauntless eyes. Scarlet reflections of confident measure, the spell was genuine and the irises were a portent of bidden and unbidden blood. The eligible maiden was chaste and in sound bloom, flourishing in whispers of wild rumor and scarlet passage. He postured and declared the alignment of the balloons and his pledge, his promise of betrothal and sovereign duty. A king evermore and a queen chosen by lot, she was naive and youthful nonetheless; he would live to see her grow old and seasoned. He had laid five loves to rest and the dye of eternity bore its burden on his heart. The woe in balloons of destiny, they would flutter and float toward heaven, alabaster, ivory and cream colored, like angels in flight. He brooded and bothered a moment then signaled for the balloons. They drifted upward forever and in sunshine blessings of harvest. The harvest of notion and symptom, the brilliance of the moment pointed toward the new queen and the kiss of an ancient king. The harvest of saffron skies and eternal wheat bloom argued the age of plenty and the ebony keep of smoked glass shimmered with the bustle of a new marriage. |
April 23rd 2011
Welcome to the swamps.Images in a dream, the land of swamp gators and snake belly blues, the mystic terrain of swamplit lays in wait for the careful reader. This is a place for stories and art, poetry and ancient dreams. Come join us in the swamps, pull up a log and sit next to the fire, there's magic in the air.
|
Ron Koppelberger
Seasons in Red Chill The snow was the mistress of fields in rolling cloaks of sleep. Unlucky he thought as he rooted for the secret stone. The walls of the cellar were cool, thick concrete and stone and he pressed against the coarse rock surface searching for the loose rock. The cellar was dark and quiet, heaps of snow lay against the oily surface of the small rectangular windows that sat flush with the ceiling and the surrounding walls. Principle Fix coughed a heavy wheezy gasp as he shivered in the empty cellar. “It’s gotta be here.” he whispered in a gravely voice tinged by the bug he was suffering from. Principle coughed again and wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow. With fumbling childlike hands he found the loose stone and removed it with a gentle pull. His relief was unfettered by the knowledge that he was alone, He prayed, “Let there be other survivors god.” Principle reached into the cool recess and removed the tiny plastic case. Holding the case in his hands he remembered the sun, the blue revolutions of sky and the shimmer of endless horizons in white, it had snowed the evening before, a foot at least and the wheat fields stood empty except for the dark shoots of weed and stray wheat between the furrowed acres of land. Hail Wister lived on the neighboring farm and construction on the old stone swimming hole behind the rows of cow stalls had ceased, it was a giant hole filled with gravel loose stone sand, dry thankless soils. Hail had predicted a great swimming hole for the grandchildren and the missus. “It’ll be the perfect pool for all of us…….swimming and tea.” he had exclaimed. That was last summer and here it was mid winter. The pond had never materialized, construction had gone on until the hole had bubbled mud like hot molasses and smoke. Principle looked from the kitchen window past the fence row to the great snow filled crater. Hail and his family had left suddenly one day, without notice. Hail, Alma and the two gray hounds they owned had vanished in the space of a day. The day before they left the backhoes and bulldozers had ceased to dig the swimming hole. Hails truck had stood idling in his driveway for a few moments, gray exhaust puffing out a final Farwell to the life they had known. His truck was loaded down and full of household items, the things that had gone on for years in the ancient two story farmhouse. Here today and gone tomorrow, no rhyme or reason or goodbyes to remember. The sun had been bright and the terrain cool, frosty, sharp with the snows of a sleeping horizon. Principle remembered turning the radio on. “It’ a great time to find the signs In Generville. Come visit our green tree shoppers Mall, everything for a deal, everything For a steal.” The commercial continued on with a disco tune from the late seventies and a screeching hoot like an owl then the news came on. “Every hour on the hour.” Principle turned the volume up as he turned away from the snowy vista and the red and white kitchen curtains. Gossip, laughter and then a panicked announcer….., “……….a giant, it tore through Peresville Common like a bomb, it rained and the meteor belched a red colored mist, Red rain, the entire area was deluged by the crimson shower. I repeat a meteor landed in Peresville Common Today leaving no survivors. The president Has declared a state of emergency for the area and the state. Once again a meteor hit Peresville Common Where it apparently rained blood……” Principle thought about the gravel pit, the swimming hole Hail had attempted to build, obscured acquired by the land, it lay in silent reproach to the efforts of a farmer, a failed attempt at Champaign and hotdogs, river springs and the dreamy castes that filled the grand law of want and will. He had left in defeat after years in the land. The salt of the earth, Hail had left without explanation. Principle looked back out the window it was sprinkling tiny droplets of moisture, red, thick and viscous like blood; the snow was speckled red and white with tiny depressions like teardrops. The window reflected rivulets of moisture in long streaks, slashes of crimson against the glass. That damn hole in the ground he couldn’t get around it. Hail had fashioned the guest and here it was in a moment of silent acceptance. Give me red rain to fill the cracks and crevices, come swim in my depths, but now it was deserted except for the snows, the red rains and principle. Principle thought about all of those things, those moments…..seconds in motion as he removed the red and blue case from the hole in the wall. It was a first aid kit he had acquired from the good-will. Inside lay two gauze and a bottle of camphor oil. Principle took the camphor and rubbed it across his brow in the shape of a cross. “To the hole.” he coughed, it was the cold or the flu or some kind of nasty bug he wasn’t sure….he knew he was sick. The hole…..go to the hole He thought. Principle climbed the stairs, wooden slats splintered and old, they creaked as he tested his weight. The living room stood empty at the top of the stairs, Debbie gone now and the children grown. The sky shone bright through the pinkish red sheen on the windows. The hole, go to the hole he thought again; he opened the backdoor to the frost and the blood, to aged fields of wheat in summers gone by as he made his way to the deserted hole in the ground. His feet came away in frigid layers of frozen scarlet, puffs of loose cotton beneath. Staring ahead he looked at the depression in the ground and sighed in quiet contemplation. Great strands of ivy covered the surface of the snow in layers across the bottom of the pit and gouts of steam wafted from the center. The truck gone now, Hail had missed it his hole was gushing hot water and steam, Roses and daisies lined the edges growing up defiantly through the snow. His hole, and hails failure, hails reason for leaving. Principle exhale and moved down the edge of the slope where he stepped into the steaming water. It felt good and he discovered that he really didn’t care about the rain much as he submerged himself in the springs warmth and asylum. For a moment he dreamed of pools and pearls, he owned it for that moment, forgiving the sky and the blood that poured down around the secret oasis. |
April 10, 2010
Ron Koppelberger
By the Lore of Beasts
Profusely scented in briar row and palm
Commons, a struggle unto Marigold bloom and
Wild raspberry stain. The allure of tender
Blossoms in climbing adventures of mossy
Address, a lazy tendril of smoke unto mists and dreams of
Wolves and fairy fortune, by pine boughs and seed beds in straw,
The seconds told, by the lore of beasts and tender
Assurance.
By the Lore of Beasts
Profusely scented in briar row and palm
Commons, a struggle unto Marigold bloom and
Wild raspberry stain. The allure of tender
Blossoms in climbing adventures of mossy
Address, a lazy tendril of smoke unto mists and dreams of
Wolves and fairy fortune, by pine boughs and seed beds in straw,
The seconds told, by the lore of beasts and tender
Assurance.
April 3rd, 2011Ron Koppelberger
Go Down Swinging Wilfred Katie was surrounded. The group of Levi clad men and boot kicking fighters took turns yelling obscenities at Wilfred and finally they attacked. The first was a sandy haired beanpole dressed in a red woolen shirt. He threw a right cross at Wilfred. “Come on, get em Manny!” a voice called out. Wilfred dodged the punch and slammed his fist into Mannies throat. Manny looked startled as his hands went to his crushed windpipe. Moments later he fell to the dirt and gravel strewn ground. “You sonofabitch!” a voice growled. A stocky man, older than the first swung a metal pipe toward the back of Wilfred’s head. Wilfred ducked grabbed the mans arm and brought his other hand down on his elbow joint. “Snap” the arm sang. Wilfred grabbed the pipe in a smooth yanking gesture then the scruff of the mans shirt slamming the pie into his head in easy rhythm; blood sprayed Wilfred’s face and he wiped his eyes with his white cotton shirt now covered with speckles of scarlet. “You gonna die MOTHHHHAAAAAAA HUMMMMMMPPPPPER!” a third man screamed as he rushed Wilfred with the sharp end of a Jim Bowie. Wilfred jumped as the blade nicked his side, a well of blood appeared there and the man snickered. Wilfred waited in measured patience as the man waved the knife in front of him. Suddenly he lunged; in a perfect ballet Wilfred pivoted and grabbed the mans wrist, swinging upward with his momentum he plunged the Bowie into the mans neck. He gagged as a warm spray of crimson spattered the dusty ground and his face. Collapsing the man died immediately. Wilford stood there, drenched in blood waiting for a hesitant fourth man. “I’ll get em!” he said to the others. His hand slid like a snake, a deadly rattler to the waistband of his pants as he grabbed for the snub nosed revolver he carried. Wilfred leapt at the man, pinning him to the ground. “DDDDAAAAAAAMMMMMNNNNNN YYYYYOOOOOUUUUUU!” the fourth man groaned as he shifted the gun to his other hand. Wilfred grabbed, twisted and punched. The mans finger found the trigger and he pulled reflexively. “Pop…Pop…Pop!” the gun chided as the left side of the mans head exploded in a shower of bone and gray crimson brain matter. Wilfred wiped his mouth as he unstraddled the man; bits of soft, spongy flesh smeared across the back of his hand and he stood shaking. All he saw was a cloud of smoke as a blushing red faced demon plowed through the man in front of him with a black SUV. The men flew into the air and one got caught against the grill of the truck. He was screaming as his legs bowed askew under the roaring SUV. Wilfred jumped behind a gnarled stand of oaks and the SUV slammed into the biggest one with a sickening crunch. The man on the grill exploded showering the tree with a fountain of blood. The red faced driver flew through the windshield his neck breaking with a loud snap as he impacted the glass. Wilfred watched, gasping as the remaining men ran to their vehicles in a rage of fear. They left Wilfred, blood drenched and to his own. He had faith in the demeanor of a miracle, the prospect of survival against the odds. He heard the tender yet forceful words of his father again. “Always go down swinging Wilfred!” |
April 3rd 2011Ron 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. |
March 22, 2011
Visit Wolffray.blogspot.com........March 22, 2011
Butterfly in red
|
Ron Koppelberger
Irons Coral Fundy wore leg irons and a faded orange jumpsuit lettered bold in black, FUNDY 320983. Following the mornings sin against his grumbling stomach, a breakfast of runny eggs and charred bacon, came day number 2,457. Coral laced up his work boots, heavy tanned leather hide and stained earthen hues of dirt and brown dust, tinctured by green grass stains. In a prelude to the grass trimming and weed removal, the guard banged on the row of cells one by one, “Work detail!” he yelled. Corals cell door slid open with an aching screech that was all bones and age. He shuffled out onto the gray shellac of the polished hall. “Follow the yellow line!” Quincy bellowed. Quincy fell in behind Mars as he followed the yellow strip painted along the center of the of the concrete floor. Quincy guided the inmates through the birthing process finally emerging through locked iron gates and a foyer with thick bullet proof glass. The two white vans were marked with the logo of the Hammock Correctional institute and an official state seal. Coral and the other inmates moved into the vehicles, single file and silently attentive to Quincy and the other guards. The daybreak sunshine chided motes of dusty reverence through the window glass in the van. The taboo of freedom rolled past the oily smudged panes of glass as they moved closer to the south Hammock Oak and Rose Sanctuary. Coral perched in expectation of the route he was in visible expectation of the flower, the amaranth, the magic blossom that released him from bondage. The vans crowded the row of parking spaces as they pulled in at a sideways angle. The spoils of nature and lively freedoms unchained the inmates sensibilities as Quincy unlocked the silver metal doors of both vans. He marched the prisoners out in a neat row of assessment. Head count and assignments of labor were shouted out. Coral stepped out onto the pebbled concrete parking area. The assurance of roses in bloom and the perfumed remains of flowers in acclaim filled the warm summer air. Quincy led Coral to a secret grove, an enclave that sported ragweed and bordered the outer edge of the sanctuary. As Quincy left Coral to his work at clearing the ragweed from the sheltered roses, He looked back and saw a furious Coral pulling weeds from the between the rows of flowers. The mystery of the amaranth was shaded under a narrow ornament of oaks. Coral exhaled a musing sigh as he weeded the successive rows of rose bloom. Attending the lines of fate he admired the beauty of the amaranth, the magic trifle of god. Pausing for a moment, he went to the shade of the oaks and the resting place of the amaranth. He touched the delicate blossom with gentle care in holy reverence for its wonder. Quincy ran the work detail for another four hours before he spotted the empty leg irons. Quincy yelled and whistled as the silent roses kept their divine secret. |
The Cricket
|
Ron Koppelberger
Chewing Foil She tangled the bit of string around her index finger, “Foil,” she whispered “Foil.” She was predisposed to sanguine delights, a dollop of crimson for a dollars worth of rouge she thought. She had been in a slow molasses sleep, the lyric ascension of hangdog elements filled her twilight temper with nightmares and the promise of tinfoil. She reserved the expectation of blood for her evening tide triplet, symphonies of scarlet and fuzzy decrees of sated triplet, blood, blood, blood. Unfortunately she needed the temper of foil, chewing in electric passions of repugnant surrender. Sprayed by the baptisms of blood denied, a thirst unquenched, a dry bone dust desert. The vampire chewed the foil as she existed in a nimbus of acquiescent accident. A measure of blood for a touch of tinfoil. She thanked the angels of abstinence for her tinfoil and willed the world to revolve in dry gulps of evermore mercy, mercy for the average bond between man and sustenance, between curses and gods blessings, between demons and angels, between heaven and hell, night and day, sunshine and complete desolation. In resolute suffering she thought tinfoil. The gospels of flavor and tinfoil, gnawing potluck temperance and the will to span the gulf between human and vampire, in knowledge of tinfoil, in ascending jawbone chaw and chewing considerations of necessity. Her salvation and sway, the rhythms of tinfoil. |
Feb. 25, 2011
|
Feb. 25, 2011Ron Koppelberger
SLOB The possibility spoke of mongrel revolutions. A greasy shadow covered his wild growth of stubble. Consummated in the pasta and quickening stain of spilled bear, his recliner creaked as he moved his bulk. Chaperoned by the conventions of numerous pizza boxes and garlic butter stained foils his living space screamed for a maid, a loving touch. The beige walls were stained with oily fingerprints and the remnants of smashed flies. He wiggled his toes in the remains of a half eaten bag of potato chips and belched. Empty beer bottles and soda cans littered the folding chair next to his recliner and the stain of dried vomit, milk and chunky chocolate covered the front of his shirt. He sipped a soda can and yelled, “ Six points booger men!” the doors were all locked and the dust caked windows were nailed shut, “Can’t get me booger men!” he whispered as a bubble of spit formed on his lower lip. “Booger Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeecccchhhhhhhhh!” he screamed to the trash strewn apartment. The doorbell sounded an electric chiming promise, a promise of fresh supreme, absolutely supreme pizza and cold liters of frosty cola. He stood and shuffled through piles of wrappers, bags and food wrappers. Strangers, strangers and booger men he thought, “Booooooogggeerrrrrrrrr.” He pressed his eye to the keyhole and peered out. The smiling face of a pizza delivery boy grinned back at him. Fumbling with the latch and deadbolt he unlocked the door and yanked it open. Terror and gibbering horror greeted him in screams of bound resonance. He stumbled, “Boooooooooooogggggggeeeeeeerrrrrrrrr, Booooooooooo…………..” he gasped as he passed gas uncontrollably. The head of the delivery boy bounced among the plastic sacks and cardboard assortments of trash in a scarlet spray. “BBBBBBBOOOOOOOGGGGGEEEERRRRRRRR!” he gasped in breaths of hot suspiring fear. A fetid blast of air whooshed at him ruffling his hair and filling him with dread. The thing, a gelatinous mass of flesh and glistening Vaseline shimmer slid the pizza box into his shaking hands. “YIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, Booooooooooggggggggeeeeeeerrrrr!” he screamed as he waited to die. The beast grabbed the door and swung it closed as it left. Peeking in through the closing crack in the door the creature growled “Booger indeed, booger indeed my man!” Passing out he would wake later to cold pizza and warm cola. He shifted in his recliner and through a gulp of pizza whispered, “ooooggggerrrrr men.” |
Feb. 25, 2011
Ron Koppelberger
Freedoms of Perception
The skirmish neglected the companion of petition, sunup claims in resounding conscious perception. The shift in music defined the radios bondage , its rare script and dialogue. With the sovereignty of choice, a choice in burden and season.
“A choice!” Agnes said to Cleveland, “we have a choice in honest rows of garnered harvest and dominion.” she ministered in courageous proclamation and perfect will. The radio in endless repetition unveiled an unwavering encouragement.
“Bloodied and neglected by distance, conform the
Symmetry of the wine, conform the symmetry of the wine,
Conform the symmetry of the wine.”
Agnes revealed the quarter she held to Cleveland. The small shiny coin had the stamp of an inscription, “SAFFRON AND PASSAGE TO FREEDOM”. Cleveland took the coin and cushioned it between his fingers. The radio drifted in then out. Agnes smiled and lovingly patted Cleveland on the head.
Freedoms of Perception
The skirmish neglected the companion of petition, sunup claims in resounding conscious perception. The shift in music defined the radios bondage , its rare script and dialogue. With the sovereignty of choice, a choice in burden and season.
“A choice!” Agnes said to Cleveland, “we have a choice in honest rows of garnered harvest and dominion.” she ministered in courageous proclamation and perfect will. The radio in endless repetition unveiled an unwavering encouragement.
“Bloodied and neglected by distance, conform the
Symmetry of the wine, conform the symmetry of the wine,
Conform the symmetry of the wine.”
Agnes revealed the quarter she held to Cleveland. The small shiny coin had the stamp of an inscription, “SAFFRON AND PASSAGE TO FREEDOM”. Cleveland took the coin and cushioned it between his fingers. The radio drifted in then out. Agnes smiled and lovingly patted Cleveland on the head.
Feb 17, 2011
Ron Koppelberger
A Mans’ Fated Garden
The bond of perfect happenstance expressed the result of wisdom in degrees of chance. He amended his spirit, the core of his soul with the temperance of everlasting whiskey tumblers and vodka vision. A sober regard for the drink in respite of an eternal drunk. Cool in longing, cold in tastes of sour sweets and worshiping alters of drama, intoxicating, he thought. He was hunted by parched passion and dabbles of bourbon. Distinguished in jiggers of juice and shots that benumb the desolate isolation of being alone.
He drank and drank and drank, sugary spoils rushing in waves of inebriated assurance. Tumblers of rumble and staggering whim. A humble concoction in beds of dew and fall leaves. He slid to the forest floor, whiskey glass in hand. He found himself growing tired and old, soon he was coated in moss and mold, mushrooms and bold stones of marble and ash. The spirit of stone had concealed the man in secret and excess had gone to seed with the flesh of a foregone conclusion. “ be ye aware of the stinging shade of temperance that lies in the soils of a sober harvest.” The man sighed an immediate amen to the sibilant voice that spoke to him. Soon after he returned to the dream of verdant eternities in sylvan wilds and drunken excess, sleeping in quiet fortitude, in serene breaths of nature and the return to mother earth.
A Mans’ Fated Garden
The bond of perfect happenstance expressed the result of wisdom in degrees of chance. He amended his spirit, the core of his soul with the temperance of everlasting whiskey tumblers and vodka vision. A sober regard for the drink in respite of an eternal drunk. Cool in longing, cold in tastes of sour sweets and worshiping alters of drama, intoxicating, he thought. He was hunted by parched passion and dabbles of bourbon. Distinguished in jiggers of juice and shots that benumb the desolate isolation of being alone.
He drank and drank and drank, sugary spoils rushing in waves of inebriated assurance. Tumblers of rumble and staggering whim. A humble concoction in beds of dew and fall leaves. He slid to the forest floor, whiskey glass in hand. He found himself growing tired and old, soon he was coated in moss and mold, mushrooms and bold stones of marble and ash. The spirit of stone had concealed the man in secret and excess had gone to seed with the flesh of a foregone conclusion. “ be ye aware of the stinging shade of temperance that lies in the soils of a sober harvest.” The man sighed an immediate amen to the sibilant voice that spoke to him. Soon after he returned to the dream of verdant eternities in sylvan wilds and drunken excess, sleeping in quiet fortitude, in serene breaths of nature and the return to mother earth.
Feb. 17, 2011
Ron Koppelberger
The Perfect Child
Nocturnal indigo shadow and the silhouette of swaying sylvan whimsy lay near the boarders of his sleep. A subdued misty star shine shone in twinkling diamond brilliance through Josh Holles bedroom window. He hugged the stuffed Panda close to his young bosom. The sound of crickets chirping in symphony with his exhalations, his heartbeat served to advance the notion of fear in his young mind.
The memory of the fracas, the fray, the perfect boy in scarlet and emerald sash tumbled through his mind in slashes and slices of little boy trauma. The chaperone and headmaster had walloped the adorned boy, mister perfect, the wild child and bully boast. Now Josh lay in beaded sweat waiting for the reprisal from the perfect monster, the demon of the Crombes’ orphanage. Josh lay in silent contemplation of the symptom.
“Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the lord my soul to keep.” he prayed out loud as the perfect boy pushed open the door to Joshes room. He stared at Josh with glowing red eyes as he levitated into the room. The love of god would protect him. The boy became unbound, his silhouette becoming larger, looming and satisfying the contrary likeness of perfect humanity. In fear, Josh hugged his stuffed Panda closer and the perfect monster towered closer to the faded blue tinctured ceiling. Red and orange haired clowns stared back from the multicolored walls as the demons mouth opened in a gaping silent growl. Fanged dripping saliva and blood , josh abided his fear with a whimper at the sight. The light flashed on suddenly and Cromber Yegg stepped into the bedroom. The monster abated and became a boy again.
“Master Nick!” he yelled. The perfect guise of human innocence and guileless childhood ambiance staggered in bleary eyed half-sleep to the command of Cromber Yegg. Cromer swatted the boy on the behind and grabbed his hand leading him out of the room. Josh smiled at the tearful guise of a perfect demon as he laughed gleefully. The boys eyes flashed a bright crimson for a moment, the whites filled with blood and hate as Cromber jerked him from the room. Josh hugged his Panda close and closed his eyes. Tomorrow night was a million miles away.
The Perfect Child
Nocturnal indigo shadow and the silhouette of swaying sylvan whimsy lay near the boarders of his sleep. A subdued misty star shine shone in twinkling diamond brilliance through Josh Holles bedroom window. He hugged the stuffed Panda close to his young bosom. The sound of crickets chirping in symphony with his exhalations, his heartbeat served to advance the notion of fear in his young mind.
The memory of the fracas, the fray, the perfect boy in scarlet and emerald sash tumbled through his mind in slashes and slices of little boy trauma. The chaperone and headmaster had walloped the adorned boy, mister perfect, the wild child and bully boast. Now Josh lay in beaded sweat waiting for the reprisal from the perfect monster, the demon of the Crombes’ orphanage. Josh lay in silent contemplation of the symptom.
“Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the lord my soul to keep.” he prayed out loud as the perfect boy pushed open the door to Joshes room. He stared at Josh with glowing red eyes as he levitated into the room. The love of god would protect him. The boy became unbound, his silhouette becoming larger, looming and satisfying the contrary likeness of perfect humanity. In fear, Josh hugged his stuffed Panda closer and the perfect monster towered closer to the faded blue tinctured ceiling. Red and orange haired clowns stared back from the multicolored walls as the demons mouth opened in a gaping silent growl. Fanged dripping saliva and blood , josh abided his fear with a whimper at the sight. The light flashed on suddenly and Cromber Yegg stepped into the bedroom. The monster abated and became a boy again.
“Master Nick!” he yelled. The perfect guise of human innocence and guileless childhood ambiance staggered in bleary eyed half-sleep to the command of Cromber Yegg. Cromer swatted the boy on the behind and grabbed his hand leading him out of the room. Josh smiled at the tearful guise of a perfect demon as he laughed gleefully. The boys eyes flashed a bright crimson for a moment, the whites filled with blood and hate as Cromber jerked him from the room. Josh hugged his Panda close and closed his eyes. Tomorrow night was a million miles away.
Feb. 17 2011
Ron Koppelberger
Ebony Swans
The preparation for the chase was faithful to the cause and the reverends decree. The entrance to the flock of caged ebony swans was chocked with the spectacle of kinship, nearness and common bond. The reverend opened the scarlet sash and payment to the soil fell in tiny cascades of ancient ritual. The stones plopped into the rich soil as the gate was pulled open. A dozen and one swans ran in helter-skelter scurry as the crowd screamed in glee. True to form, the wind conveyed the gathering and conceding nothing, nudged the company of forward motion.
The reverend feigned a smile as the trust purchased the storm. Running after the ebony swans in arrayed uncoordinated frenzy, the rush tended the chase. Outward and in testimony, the collection of souls betrayed the indulgence of a sated respite, in recurrent drama, black swans and melee’, the bird in feathered because, a notion that the reverend finished the parishioners with, just because in screaming, chanting feathered illusion. A sensation, A season in fleeting evanescent following, they ran and shouted after the birds.
The swans ran in raging wilds of untold story, each bargaining a pact with the sympathies of survival. The ripe wines of the chase, the quest, the turn in paths to evermore a hereafter, flowed and ebbed with the excitement of the hunt. The reverend wept after the parishioners and swore an oath to descry the perseverance of the drama, one by one, day by day he would tell all of their stories. The grace of a dusty, parched agreement was in his eyes as the fray disappeared into the mists one by one. He fixed the sash, stained scarlet as he fumbled for the story, the myth in muse, the legend that had begun with the birth of the chase and the unaware, they had been children in essence and season and he vowed again to unmask the veil and tell all of their stories. The reverend paused for a moment as a single feather in shadow drifted close to his feet. “ May god have mercy, may god have mercy.” The reverend whispered in prayer.
Ebony Swans
The preparation for the chase was faithful to the cause and the reverends decree. The entrance to the flock of caged ebony swans was chocked with the spectacle of kinship, nearness and common bond. The reverend opened the scarlet sash and payment to the soil fell in tiny cascades of ancient ritual. The stones plopped into the rich soil as the gate was pulled open. A dozen and one swans ran in helter-skelter scurry as the crowd screamed in glee. True to form, the wind conveyed the gathering and conceding nothing, nudged the company of forward motion.
The reverend feigned a smile as the trust purchased the storm. Running after the ebony swans in arrayed uncoordinated frenzy, the rush tended the chase. Outward and in testimony, the collection of souls betrayed the indulgence of a sated respite, in recurrent drama, black swans and melee’, the bird in feathered because, a notion that the reverend finished the parishioners with, just because in screaming, chanting feathered illusion. A sensation, A season in fleeting evanescent following, they ran and shouted after the birds.
The swans ran in raging wilds of untold story, each bargaining a pact with the sympathies of survival. The ripe wines of the chase, the quest, the turn in paths to evermore a hereafter, flowed and ebbed with the excitement of the hunt. The reverend wept after the parishioners and swore an oath to descry the perseverance of the drama, one by one, day by day he would tell all of their stories. The grace of a dusty, parched agreement was in his eyes as the fray disappeared into the mists one by one. He fixed the sash, stained scarlet as he fumbled for the story, the myth in muse, the legend that had begun with the birth of the chase and the unaware, they had been children in essence and season and he vowed again to unmask the veil and tell all of their stories. The reverend paused for a moment as a single feather in shadow drifted close to his feet. “ May god have mercy, may god have mercy.” The reverend whispered in prayer.
Feb. 17, 2011
Ron Koppelberger
The Spaceship
The spaceship was a sensational vastness in wary shadow; it eclipsed the sun and cast a silhouette across the endless acres of saffron Nate had planted. The delicate stitch of a drama in arrays of spider silk crept and cajoled the Black Widow in the corner of Nates barn, she predicted night because the lattice light shining through the slats in Nates ancient barn had gone gray with the advent of the spaceship. She began spinning silk in wide patterns of glossy weave only pausing to survey the flies she had captured. Outside Nate stared upward at the encroaching visitor. “Damnation,” he whispered, “….it’s as big as a planet.”
Nate watched the spaceship as it rippled and wavered at strange angles and soft humming dance. He swayed in rhythm to the oscillating disk, entranced by a rapturous peace.
The spider had accomplished ten rounds of silk in perfect circles of creation when she discovered the flies she had wrapped tightly in silken cocoons were breaking free. She fought the urge to attack and skewer her fare as the buzz of three or four flies, the delicate want of a Black Widow spider, queen of kings and deadly in demeanor began to fly in circles of unbroken light; a halo of flies in measured resurrection from the dark abyss of death, flew and celebrated their new life.
Nate swayed and stared at the giant disk as it sang to him in secret music, in sweet tones of youth and awakening bloom. If anyone had been watching the North pasture near the edge of the saffron expanse, they’d have been startled as the ground tore open and old Zeke, Nates horse and former partner, crawled out of the ground as good as new, in fact the horse was younger and in perfect shape.
Nate watched as birds by the dozens flew up from the soils of the farm and there was a buzzing as a thick cloud of resurrected insects flew up into the sky.
The last thing Nate remembered was the sound of his wife’s voice. She had been dead for ten years, buried in the family cemetery. There were others, some in ancient cloths but all cautiously young again.
The spaceship traveled the great expanse of the planet and near twilight tide the earth was new, nascent, reborn.
The Spaceship
The spaceship was a sensational vastness in wary shadow; it eclipsed the sun and cast a silhouette across the endless acres of saffron Nate had planted. The delicate stitch of a drama in arrays of spider silk crept and cajoled the Black Widow in the corner of Nates barn, she predicted night because the lattice light shining through the slats in Nates ancient barn had gone gray with the advent of the spaceship. She began spinning silk in wide patterns of glossy weave only pausing to survey the flies she had captured. Outside Nate stared upward at the encroaching visitor. “Damnation,” he whispered, “….it’s as big as a planet.”
Nate watched the spaceship as it rippled and wavered at strange angles and soft humming dance. He swayed in rhythm to the oscillating disk, entranced by a rapturous peace.
The spider had accomplished ten rounds of silk in perfect circles of creation when she discovered the flies she had wrapped tightly in silken cocoons were breaking free. She fought the urge to attack and skewer her fare as the buzz of three or four flies, the delicate want of a Black Widow spider, queen of kings and deadly in demeanor began to fly in circles of unbroken light; a halo of flies in measured resurrection from the dark abyss of death, flew and celebrated their new life.
Nate swayed and stared at the giant disk as it sang to him in secret music, in sweet tones of youth and awakening bloom. If anyone had been watching the North pasture near the edge of the saffron expanse, they’d have been startled as the ground tore open and old Zeke, Nates horse and former partner, crawled out of the ground as good as new, in fact the horse was younger and in perfect shape.
Nate watched as birds by the dozens flew up from the soils of the farm and there was a buzzing as a thick cloud of resurrected insects flew up into the sky.
The last thing Nate remembered was the sound of his wife’s voice. She had been dead for ten years, buried in the family cemetery. There were others, some in ancient cloths but all cautiously young again.
The spaceship traveled the great expanse of the planet and near twilight tide the earth was new, nascent, reborn.
Feb. 7, 2011
Ron Koppelberger
The Shaggy
The Shaggy was the vanguard of natural incandescent light, twilight lanes and orange glowing eyes of everything absolute at night. The shaggy, a molasses commune with the easy beasts of oaken sap and sylvan wild, the design of concealed secret, clandestined legend, phantoms and freaks of earthly exhalation were in allay with the beast.
The tidal flow of day and night, night to dawn, dawn to twilight, twilight dreams, aspirations and misted bouquets of fantasy continued on in revolutions of smoke, the smoke of unconscious madness and shaggy exclamation.
Verna Marmalade knew the tramp, the vagabond bohemian they called the Shaggy. Verna gathered her knowledge of the shaggy in direct proportion to the howling screams she heard every evening near the edge of the night-tide horizon. The distant glen, the ragweed stomp near fields of saffron gold, she had seen it there for a few fleeting moments. It stood on four legs and was covered with gray tufts of fur. She had been on her way back from the village market. The fortune of circumstance and an early winter evening had left her near the frayed edge of the wood. Conveying itself in whispers and agile wakeful dispatch it had circled her cautiously, drawing near then away in a finesse of exploration.
Verna had been terrified, the shaggy was rumored to be a man-eater and she was sure that included the delicacy of female flesh. Shaking she dumped out her purchases from the market. The Shaggy came close and sniffed at the pears and grapes that lay scattered near her feet. She closed her eyes, it’s paws were shaped like human hands and it’s incisors were of a vicious length. The eyes were yellow and it rippled with muscular stealth. She screamed and ran blindly, thrashing and flailing in hysterics.
It had seemed like days and she remembered little about her temporary madness, except for the delirium she might have imagined the whole thing. She did have a reminder, an indicator that she hadn’t imagined the beast, her swollen pregnant stomach was the mysterious result of her encounter with the shaggy. She was betrothed, betrothed to the unknown, the father a roaring shaggy beast.
She turned from the twilight glow at her window and began counting the days, outside the shaggy howled with glee and the instinct of an expectant father.
The Shaggy
The Shaggy was the vanguard of natural incandescent light, twilight lanes and orange glowing eyes of everything absolute at night. The shaggy, a molasses commune with the easy beasts of oaken sap and sylvan wild, the design of concealed secret, clandestined legend, phantoms and freaks of earthly exhalation were in allay with the beast.
The tidal flow of day and night, night to dawn, dawn to twilight, twilight dreams, aspirations and misted bouquets of fantasy continued on in revolutions of smoke, the smoke of unconscious madness and shaggy exclamation.
Verna Marmalade knew the tramp, the vagabond bohemian they called the Shaggy. Verna gathered her knowledge of the shaggy in direct proportion to the howling screams she heard every evening near the edge of the night-tide horizon. The distant glen, the ragweed stomp near fields of saffron gold, she had seen it there for a few fleeting moments. It stood on four legs and was covered with gray tufts of fur. She had been on her way back from the village market. The fortune of circumstance and an early winter evening had left her near the frayed edge of the wood. Conveying itself in whispers and agile wakeful dispatch it had circled her cautiously, drawing near then away in a finesse of exploration.
Verna had been terrified, the shaggy was rumored to be a man-eater and she was sure that included the delicacy of female flesh. Shaking she dumped out her purchases from the market. The Shaggy came close and sniffed at the pears and grapes that lay scattered near her feet. She closed her eyes, it’s paws were shaped like human hands and it’s incisors were of a vicious length. The eyes were yellow and it rippled with muscular stealth. She screamed and ran blindly, thrashing and flailing in hysterics.
It had seemed like days and she remembered little about her temporary madness, except for the delirium she might have imagined the whole thing. She did have a reminder, an indicator that she hadn’t imagined the beast, her swollen pregnant stomach was the mysterious result of her encounter with the shaggy. She was betrothed, betrothed to the unknown, the father a roaring shaggy beast.
She turned from the twilight glow at her window and began counting the days, outside the shaggy howled with glee and the instinct of an expectant father.
Welcome to SwampLit.
Ron Koppelberger
About 3016 Words
Possum Desperation
Trace Merchant had driven the same eighty mile track for the last three years, from Hammock Orange to Orlando and back. The route wasn’t simple, nevertheless Trace found it to be the most expedient way to point B. He had to travel the back road passage between blossom preserve and East Orlando, fifty of the eighty miles through tangles of ancient oak, mossy swamp lands full of alligators and snakes; through the mystery of ancient drama, through vistas uninhabited and he had chanced to wonder what would happen if he broke down somewhere in the midst of the morass? It was a passing thought, not really meriting further consideration, besides this was the shortest route between the Hammock and Orlando.
The Impala was black with fat silver trim and she ran like a top. Trace was nearly twenty miles into the lush jungle terrain, nearly half way there he thought as the speedometer pushed eighty around one of the meandering curves.
The possum scraped at the loose soil with it’s front paws, looking for beetles and grubs, she was hungry. She lifted her head for a second at the sound of the approaching car; in that moment she decided to cross the concrete path.
The car sped closer and the possum scrabbled into the road near the yellow painted divider. She watched as the car, a huge black silhouette roared around a blind curve. She remained still in fear, it won’t see me she thought crouching down in the center of the road.
For Trace the moment hung suspended in a flash. He saw the crouching possum and jerked the wheel hard to the left. The car leaned on two wheels and flipped over into the rushing shadow of palm scrub and cattail filled ditch. The car careened off the soft mossy embankment and into a pine tree; there it came to rest on it’s side wheels turning and motor revving for purchase.
Trace groaned and reached for the key, turning it he cut the engine. For a moment of hypnotic divorce, divorce from the reality of the moment, in a breath of seconds he saw himself lying against the drivers side door. There was a deep gash on his right hand, the patter of dripping blood filled the silence. He tried to move and a sharp grinding pain blossomed in his left leg. Was it broken? He wasn’t sure but it hurt like hell.
Trace inhaled deeply and unbuckled the seatbelt. At least he had worn the belt, it had probably saved him from flying through the windshield. He had to work at it and the pain in his leg was nearly overwhelming, but he managed to move into a sitting position. Looking upward at the passenger door he realized he’d have to climb through the window. The glass was shattered and it lay in piles around his bottom.
The sky went from a shadowy azure and piercing yellow to a burnt orange twilight as the hours passed silently. A flock of seagulls flew east toward the distant ocean and Trace saw them through the shattered passenger glass; they were flying in a triangle heading toward warm seas and inland perch.
He maneuvered himself into a crouch, his leg hurt and he determined it wasn’t broken but sprained, nevertheless the pain was a terrific pulsing heartbeat in his hip and knee. Reaching upward he pulled himself into a standing position. His head poked through the passenger window. Orange twilight reflected in his tired eyes and the gentle whisper of a warm wind ruffled the bloody strands of hair against his forehead.
Trace pressed his good leg against the side of the drivers seat and began climbing through the window. After struggling for a few moments he found himself sitting atop the door, feet dangling down into the smashed Impala.
Trace sat there looking at the curve in the road, there were skid marks and a dirty slash in the embankment. He was lucky, no major injuries or at least he didn’t think so. He tapped out a cigarette from his breast pocket and lit it. The cool mentholated burn of the smoke filled his lungs as he leaned back and blew a cloud of smoke into the bloody twilight above.
The bleeding on his right hand had stopped, drying into a thick maroon scab. He wouldn’t bleed to death anyway. Swinging his injured leg over the side of the car he prepared to jump down to the mossy embankment. He had his good leg pointed down as he dropped down to the weedy ditch. A sharp stinging jolt traveled through his leg as he hobbled to the side of the road.
*******
The shadows were a reflection of it’s eyes, it’s demeanor of ancient embrace, it’s silhouette in awe of the hammock, it’s eternal end and it’s place of secret, in wrath by degrees of hunt. Up until now it had been sated with small deer, and last week a coyote, separated from it’s companion travelers. It had been tough, stringy and unsatisfying. This was the promise, it’s time of imprisonment would come to an end. The promise, it’s destiny to purvey the wants of a greater ascension, he would have the man, for his promise for the future of his need, in blood, in triumph in the dark caress that would bring the others from the ethereal prison that bound them to the dreadful primitive substance of exile and isolation; the man would be his and the promise would come on the heals of dark stars and bleeding passions of flame. It waited and watched as the man stepped into the road. The two lane pass stretched into the distant swamp. Trace looked both ways’ left then right. He realized the odds of another car courting the back ally trail was unlikely. There were patches of grass and cracked unused pavement for another thirty or so miles. He would head south. Remembering the route he knew there was a service station near the end of the secondary passage. Thirty miles on a bad leg he thought. He began limping toward the frayed indigo line of darkness opposite the bloated orange sun.
*******
The possum sat still, silent watching the man, smelling blood, his blood and something else, something dark waiting for the man or maybe the small scrabbling purchase it held on life. It was old and grown black with the despair of a hundred monsters; it had an eye for the hunt. The possum crept along the shaded wood following the man south. The possum would leave the security of it’s home, a hollow stump in the forest edge for the pilgrimage south. The possum followed the man and the glimmer of nightmares in desire, in wont of unbidden passion, of dreams in unleashed fury and freedom. A freedom of dark secret ambition in the abodes of man, in stealth and eternal hunt, it would peruse; it knew the others would come. The shadows and bent angles of egress birthing freedom from the captive alliance of the swamp. All in all the beast thought about it’s pain and how to slake it’s thirst with the blood of the man.
*******
Trace watched the sky go from a sapphire glow to pinpoints of starlight and a crescent moon giving only a small sliver of pale light. He was wearing whit tennis shoes and he quietly thanked god for Fridays; Friday was casual dress day at the office. He was wearing a gray t-shirt, blue jeans and the white tennis shoes. On any other day he would have been wearing patent leather loafers, black thin soled bad for walking long distances, and a three piece suit.
He worked at mortgage Estates Inc., he was an estate distributor and an agent for the dearly departed. The long track to work had been worth it, his first year he had grossed Three hundred and fifty thousand and now he was earning over a million a year. The god’s had been very good to Trace Merchant.
Trace thought about the Dryer account as he limped forward. He had fudged the receipts, Eleanor Dryer had left Four million in bearer bonds behind. Trace had access to the safety deposit box they were carefully stored in. A key, a secret key to greener vistas; he had taken the bonds never mentioning them to his partners or Eleanor’s family. Four Mill free and clear. He wasn’t really greedy nevertheless he had taken advantage of the opportunity. He knew he had worked the option to the max, the grand plot and the key to a diamond bonus.
His eyes wandered to the tall pines on either side of the road, whispers of guilt, He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Hard crusted blood scratched his dry lips.
Trace hobbled along in the darkness for an hour or so. The enchanting trail marked by moss laden trees and scrabbling sounds that emanated by the woods set him on edge a cautious trepidation in a strange dream. He looked into the shadows ahead and the narrow line of concrete stretched forward to an eternity of crickets and croaking toads. He worried about snakes, alligators from the swampy prayers of ethereal smoke and hanging hammocks. Pausing, he moved to the side of the road, he would need a crutch to walk with, something to balance his aching hip and sprained knee. The ditch line was half full of swampy green water and cattails in bloom.
He moved to the edge of the water line and tried to jump to the opposite bank. He’d find a tree branch to support his aching sprain. His good leg propelled him about half way across the ditch as he landed knee deep in water and weed. Pin wheeling he fell backward to the edge of the ditch. His eyes squinted reflexively at the cool rush of water that soaked his legs and back. “Dammit!” he gasped. He pulled himself across the channel and into the grassy overgrowth. Laying there, soaked warmth from his body gluing his shirt to his back, he listened to the cascade of chirping insects and something a heavy crashing sound.
He thought of the black bears that were native to the area, huge paws and sharp crushing teeth. He was silent, controlling his exhalations as he lay in the secret of a drama told in sashes of evening tide dreams, maybe it’s a nightmare he thought as he pictured the bear and it’s hungry maw, the wild passage and the nighttime mists were surreal almost like a cloak of otherworldly illusion, maybe a dream he thought as well.
*******
He watched from a distance in the pine and gnarled oaken root. The man was moving slow, it would have plenty of time to take him, to make his substance his own in chance and fated fathers of darkness, darkness from distant vistas in the sky and the endless cycle of travelers in wont. It would wait for the right moment, the second the stars told their song of shadow and embracing desire for freedoms unbound, by the fetters of ancient prisons and the shaped lines of rebuke. It would wait.
*******
The possum crouched still near the man away from the hunter, away from the odor of decay and swamp gas silhouettes. She was in rare wonder of his journey, seeking the destiny of possums and man in instinct. She dug into the soft soil finding a mole cricket, she swallowed it in one gulp satisfying her hunger.
*******
Trace looked at the wan paper machet sliver of light the moon gave. He lay there damp, chilled in a humid brackish adornment. Gathering his will he climbed the weedy embankment to the line of trees. After searching for a few moments he found a branch. “Perfect.” he said aloud. The branch would act as a crutch.
Trace followed the tree line opposite the ditch until he came to a yielding stretch, a pine tree declared the promise of the opposite bank as it weighed cradles of fallen leaves, pine needles in thick morass against the small stream. Trace used the fallen pine and it’s sprawl to cross the murky ditch.
Calm, casually compliant he sat down on the warm pavement of the two lane passage. He wondered, overtures of greed he thought in quiet devotions of conscious guilt. “What the hell is it to you? It’s only four friggen million.” he said to the rolling clouds overhead, to the darker enticement of night skies and wild swamp. Prickling heat coursed through his sprained leg as he changed position on the concrete. Reflex, it had been reflex and utility; he had proclaimed the shores of bearer bond worship at alters green, four million green, and here he sat soggy, wounded and crowned king shit by the way of a friggen possum, a shade of punishment made for a wayward bastard.
Trace rubbed his eyes and listened to the crashing sound moving closer from within the forest, closer to the edge of the ditch. It sounded heavy, maybe hungry, hunting for food, maybe an alligator or a bear, A panther on the yeowl.
*******
It moved slowly through the Lilly pads and brackish muck, belonging to the cognate flow of shadow and dark substance, closer to the man. It paused as it listened to the mans breath, warm distantly beseeching the call of towers in stone, the rustle of human existence. It moved closer, arguing force purpose and bond, the bond of pursuer and prey, for the will of the silhouettes waiting by patient shores, by the sufferance of prisons in rhythm with the ebony night horizons of elder pass, of ancient captive waiting; it moved closer in anticipation of a new way, the way of men, bent unto the wont it was destined to fulfill.
It watched, closer now, near the edge of the ditch, hidden in secret by the fronds and cattail evanescence of its terrain, holding its exhalations it’s green moss laden back rippling in power, the power of ageless embrace. It opened its mouth prefacing it’s need for the mans blood; lichens and black soil fell from its awakening maw closer, closer to the second it would find liberation from the realms of damp earth to stony trespass along the child of humanity and its perseverance.
The man shimmered in auras of unseen remedy, first red then pale blue. Its eyes perceived those moments and the thirst it felt was staggering. It hummed in a low growl and the man moved to a standing position, seeing him, in fear, in horror of its presence, its terrible visage.
*******
Trace heard the crashing in the palm metto scrub and cattails move closer. Thoughts of wild wolves, bears and panthers on the hunt filled his mind and tempered his nerves to the point of fear. He turned, catching a glimpse of something in the shadow, huge, dark and growling in hungry instinct. Trace stood ready to run, bad leg to hell he thought. He watched the cattails separate and listened to the heavy rhythm of giant unbidden footfalls, animal, wicked smashing closer across the bank into view. The sliver of moon glow shone in vivid appeal to the terror of a thousand demons, a backwoods visage of hell lured by the smell of freedom and blood, nightmares wrought to heights of fiendish revolt, monsters by nameless horrible beyond, careening insanity and the core of secret existence.
The creature exuded the cloying odor of swamp decay, moss moldy bread and molasses sweetness. It stood nearly two feet taller than traces six feet, and it was in a crouch hunched forward as it moved toward him yellow eyed and rippling in damp soils of ancient mystery. It screamed and the sound disturbed the sleeping thrush as they sang and flew upward in unison, sensing the beast and its desire.
Trace watched as sharp edged talons, spears of deadly grasp…..long he thought they looked like yellow ivory knives on it muscled hands. Its teeth ground together in a loud sandpapery dance back and forth, they were dirty moss covered in need in yearning wont for him.
Trace held his crutch like a spear in front warding off the dark countenance of the aged aberration. In a moment of insane revelation he saw the stack of bearer bonds in bloom, blowing in the wind, crisp and brittle like fallen leaves, an autumn death and the beast devouring him, his blood spraying across the stack of bearer bonds.
*******
The possum moved in an uncomplicated arc behind and around the beast, dashing to the front, near its enormous mud laden feet. Traces leg gave in that moment and a symphony of coincidence occurred. The beast stumbled a second later, tripping over the scrambling possum. Trace held his crutch like a sword as he lay on the warm gritty concrete. The creature tottered for an instant screaming and flailing clumsily then fell forward onto Trace, impaled by the crutch. Its shadow covered Trace in an assembly of moss and swamp silt. Trace expelled a mouthful of dirt and clawed at the moldering pile of moss that covered him in heaps and soggy piles. In an infantile effort he rolled out of the damp pile of decaying leaves, pine needles, moss and swamp mud.
Gathering his will he overcame the storm, the tempest swollen by the reverie and worship of demons and legends in darkness. Once again he saw the lie, the sin in his tempered world of finance and quick cash. He discovered his spirit in that moment of contemplation. “Monsters and men.” he whispered as he hobbled away from the remains of the demon and the approach of sin. He realized he didn’t really need the cash, the experience heeded the birth of innocence, the basic awakening of what was possible in a world wrought with the weight of blind horizons and beggars in play.
About 3016 Words
Possum Desperation
Trace Merchant had driven the same eighty mile track for the last three years, from Hammock Orange to Orlando and back. The route wasn’t simple, nevertheless Trace found it to be the most expedient way to point B. He had to travel the back road passage between blossom preserve and East Orlando, fifty of the eighty miles through tangles of ancient oak, mossy swamp lands full of alligators and snakes; through the mystery of ancient drama, through vistas uninhabited and he had chanced to wonder what would happen if he broke down somewhere in the midst of the morass? It was a passing thought, not really meriting further consideration, besides this was the shortest route between the Hammock and Orlando.
The Impala was black with fat silver trim and she ran like a top. Trace was nearly twenty miles into the lush jungle terrain, nearly half way there he thought as the speedometer pushed eighty around one of the meandering curves.
The possum scraped at the loose soil with it’s front paws, looking for beetles and grubs, she was hungry. She lifted her head for a second at the sound of the approaching car; in that moment she decided to cross the concrete path.
The car sped closer and the possum scrabbled into the road near the yellow painted divider. She watched as the car, a huge black silhouette roared around a blind curve. She remained still in fear, it won’t see me she thought crouching down in the center of the road.
For Trace the moment hung suspended in a flash. He saw the crouching possum and jerked the wheel hard to the left. The car leaned on two wheels and flipped over into the rushing shadow of palm scrub and cattail filled ditch. The car careened off the soft mossy embankment and into a pine tree; there it came to rest on it’s side wheels turning and motor revving for purchase.
Trace groaned and reached for the key, turning it he cut the engine. For a moment of hypnotic divorce, divorce from the reality of the moment, in a breath of seconds he saw himself lying against the drivers side door. There was a deep gash on his right hand, the patter of dripping blood filled the silence. He tried to move and a sharp grinding pain blossomed in his left leg. Was it broken? He wasn’t sure but it hurt like hell.
Trace inhaled deeply and unbuckled the seatbelt. At least he had worn the belt, it had probably saved him from flying through the windshield. He had to work at it and the pain in his leg was nearly overwhelming, but he managed to move into a sitting position. Looking upward at the passenger door he realized he’d have to climb through the window. The glass was shattered and it lay in piles around his bottom.
The sky went from a shadowy azure and piercing yellow to a burnt orange twilight as the hours passed silently. A flock of seagulls flew east toward the distant ocean and Trace saw them through the shattered passenger glass; they were flying in a triangle heading toward warm seas and inland perch.
He maneuvered himself into a crouch, his leg hurt and he determined it wasn’t broken but sprained, nevertheless the pain was a terrific pulsing heartbeat in his hip and knee. Reaching upward he pulled himself into a standing position. His head poked through the passenger window. Orange twilight reflected in his tired eyes and the gentle whisper of a warm wind ruffled the bloody strands of hair against his forehead.
Trace pressed his good leg against the side of the drivers seat and began climbing through the window. After struggling for a few moments he found himself sitting atop the door, feet dangling down into the smashed Impala.
Trace sat there looking at the curve in the road, there were skid marks and a dirty slash in the embankment. He was lucky, no major injuries or at least he didn’t think so. He tapped out a cigarette from his breast pocket and lit it. The cool mentholated burn of the smoke filled his lungs as he leaned back and blew a cloud of smoke into the bloody twilight above.
The bleeding on his right hand had stopped, drying into a thick maroon scab. He wouldn’t bleed to death anyway. Swinging his injured leg over the side of the car he prepared to jump down to the mossy embankment. He had his good leg pointed down as he dropped down to the weedy ditch. A sharp stinging jolt traveled through his leg as he hobbled to the side of the road.
*******
The shadows were a reflection of it’s eyes, it’s demeanor of ancient embrace, it’s silhouette in awe of the hammock, it’s eternal end and it’s place of secret, in wrath by degrees of hunt. Up until now it had been sated with small deer, and last week a coyote, separated from it’s companion travelers. It had been tough, stringy and unsatisfying. This was the promise, it’s time of imprisonment would come to an end. The promise, it’s destiny to purvey the wants of a greater ascension, he would have the man, for his promise for the future of his need, in blood, in triumph in the dark caress that would bring the others from the ethereal prison that bound them to the dreadful primitive substance of exile and isolation; the man would be his and the promise would come on the heals of dark stars and bleeding passions of flame. It waited and watched as the man stepped into the road. The two lane pass stretched into the distant swamp. Trace looked both ways’ left then right. He realized the odds of another car courting the back ally trail was unlikely. There were patches of grass and cracked unused pavement for another thirty or so miles. He would head south. Remembering the route he knew there was a service station near the end of the secondary passage. Thirty miles on a bad leg he thought. He began limping toward the frayed indigo line of darkness opposite the bloated orange sun.
*******
The possum sat still, silent watching the man, smelling blood, his blood and something else, something dark waiting for the man or maybe the small scrabbling purchase it held on life. It was old and grown black with the despair of a hundred monsters; it had an eye for the hunt. The possum crept along the shaded wood following the man south. The possum would leave the security of it’s home, a hollow stump in the forest edge for the pilgrimage south. The possum followed the man and the glimmer of nightmares in desire, in wont of unbidden passion, of dreams in unleashed fury and freedom. A freedom of dark secret ambition in the abodes of man, in stealth and eternal hunt, it would peruse; it knew the others would come. The shadows and bent angles of egress birthing freedom from the captive alliance of the swamp. All in all the beast thought about it’s pain and how to slake it’s thirst with the blood of the man.
*******
Trace watched the sky go from a sapphire glow to pinpoints of starlight and a crescent moon giving only a small sliver of pale light. He was wearing whit tennis shoes and he quietly thanked god for Fridays; Friday was casual dress day at the office. He was wearing a gray t-shirt, blue jeans and the white tennis shoes. On any other day he would have been wearing patent leather loafers, black thin soled bad for walking long distances, and a three piece suit.
He worked at mortgage Estates Inc., he was an estate distributor and an agent for the dearly departed. The long track to work had been worth it, his first year he had grossed Three hundred and fifty thousand and now he was earning over a million a year. The god’s had been very good to Trace Merchant.
Trace thought about the Dryer account as he limped forward. He had fudged the receipts, Eleanor Dryer had left Four million in bearer bonds behind. Trace had access to the safety deposit box they were carefully stored in. A key, a secret key to greener vistas; he had taken the bonds never mentioning them to his partners or Eleanor’s family. Four Mill free and clear. He wasn’t really greedy nevertheless he had taken advantage of the opportunity. He knew he had worked the option to the max, the grand plot and the key to a diamond bonus.
His eyes wandered to the tall pines on either side of the road, whispers of guilt, He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Hard crusted blood scratched his dry lips.
Trace hobbled along in the darkness for an hour or so. The enchanting trail marked by moss laden trees and scrabbling sounds that emanated by the woods set him on edge a cautious trepidation in a strange dream. He looked into the shadows ahead and the narrow line of concrete stretched forward to an eternity of crickets and croaking toads. He worried about snakes, alligators from the swampy prayers of ethereal smoke and hanging hammocks. Pausing, he moved to the side of the road, he would need a crutch to walk with, something to balance his aching hip and sprained knee. The ditch line was half full of swampy green water and cattails in bloom.
He moved to the edge of the water line and tried to jump to the opposite bank. He’d find a tree branch to support his aching sprain. His good leg propelled him about half way across the ditch as he landed knee deep in water and weed. Pin wheeling he fell backward to the edge of the ditch. His eyes squinted reflexively at the cool rush of water that soaked his legs and back. “Dammit!” he gasped. He pulled himself across the channel and into the grassy overgrowth. Laying there, soaked warmth from his body gluing his shirt to his back, he listened to the cascade of chirping insects and something a heavy crashing sound.
He thought of the black bears that were native to the area, huge paws and sharp crushing teeth. He was silent, controlling his exhalations as he lay in the secret of a drama told in sashes of evening tide dreams, maybe it’s a nightmare he thought as he pictured the bear and it’s hungry maw, the wild passage and the nighttime mists were surreal almost like a cloak of otherworldly illusion, maybe a dream he thought as well.
*******
He watched from a distance in the pine and gnarled oaken root. The man was moving slow, it would have plenty of time to take him, to make his substance his own in chance and fated fathers of darkness, darkness from distant vistas in the sky and the endless cycle of travelers in wont. It would wait for the right moment, the second the stars told their song of shadow and embracing desire for freedoms unbound, by the fetters of ancient prisons and the shaped lines of rebuke. It would wait.
*******
The possum crouched still near the man away from the hunter, away from the odor of decay and swamp gas silhouettes. She was in rare wonder of his journey, seeking the destiny of possums and man in instinct. She dug into the soft soil finding a mole cricket, she swallowed it in one gulp satisfying her hunger.
*******
Trace looked at the wan paper machet sliver of light the moon gave. He lay there damp, chilled in a humid brackish adornment. Gathering his will he climbed the weedy embankment to the line of trees. After searching for a few moments he found a branch. “Perfect.” he said aloud. The branch would act as a crutch.
Trace followed the tree line opposite the ditch until he came to a yielding stretch, a pine tree declared the promise of the opposite bank as it weighed cradles of fallen leaves, pine needles in thick morass against the small stream. Trace used the fallen pine and it’s sprawl to cross the murky ditch.
Calm, casually compliant he sat down on the warm pavement of the two lane passage. He wondered, overtures of greed he thought in quiet devotions of conscious guilt. “What the hell is it to you? It’s only four friggen million.” he said to the rolling clouds overhead, to the darker enticement of night skies and wild swamp. Prickling heat coursed through his sprained leg as he changed position on the concrete. Reflex, it had been reflex and utility; he had proclaimed the shores of bearer bond worship at alters green, four million green, and here he sat soggy, wounded and crowned king shit by the way of a friggen possum, a shade of punishment made for a wayward bastard.
Trace rubbed his eyes and listened to the crashing sound moving closer from within the forest, closer to the edge of the ditch. It sounded heavy, maybe hungry, hunting for food, maybe an alligator or a bear, A panther on the yeowl.
*******
It moved slowly through the Lilly pads and brackish muck, belonging to the cognate flow of shadow and dark substance, closer to the man. It paused as it listened to the mans breath, warm distantly beseeching the call of towers in stone, the rustle of human existence. It moved closer, arguing force purpose and bond, the bond of pursuer and prey, for the will of the silhouettes waiting by patient shores, by the sufferance of prisons in rhythm with the ebony night horizons of elder pass, of ancient captive waiting; it moved closer in anticipation of a new way, the way of men, bent unto the wont it was destined to fulfill.
It watched, closer now, near the edge of the ditch, hidden in secret by the fronds and cattail evanescence of its terrain, holding its exhalations it’s green moss laden back rippling in power, the power of ageless embrace. It opened its mouth prefacing it’s need for the mans blood; lichens and black soil fell from its awakening maw closer, closer to the second it would find liberation from the realms of damp earth to stony trespass along the child of humanity and its perseverance.
The man shimmered in auras of unseen remedy, first red then pale blue. Its eyes perceived those moments and the thirst it felt was staggering. It hummed in a low growl and the man moved to a standing position, seeing him, in fear, in horror of its presence, its terrible visage.
*******
Trace heard the crashing in the palm metto scrub and cattails move closer. Thoughts of wild wolves, bears and panthers on the hunt filled his mind and tempered his nerves to the point of fear. He turned, catching a glimpse of something in the shadow, huge, dark and growling in hungry instinct. Trace stood ready to run, bad leg to hell he thought. He watched the cattails separate and listened to the heavy rhythm of giant unbidden footfalls, animal, wicked smashing closer across the bank into view. The sliver of moon glow shone in vivid appeal to the terror of a thousand demons, a backwoods visage of hell lured by the smell of freedom and blood, nightmares wrought to heights of fiendish revolt, monsters by nameless horrible beyond, careening insanity and the core of secret existence.
The creature exuded the cloying odor of swamp decay, moss moldy bread and molasses sweetness. It stood nearly two feet taller than traces six feet, and it was in a crouch hunched forward as it moved toward him yellow eyed and rippling in damp soils of ancient mystery. It screamed and the sound disturbed the sleeping thrush as they sang and flew upward in unison, sensing the beast and its desire.
Trace watched as sharp edged talons, spears of deadly grasp…..long he thought they looked like yellow ivory knives on it muscled hands. Its teeth ground together in a loud sandpapery dance back and forth, they were dirty moss covered in need in yearning wont for him.
Trace held his crutch like a spear in front warding off the dark countenance of the aged aberration. In a moment of insane revelation he saw the stack of bearer bonds in bloom, blowing in the wind, crisp and brittle like fallen leaves, an autumn death and the beast devouring him, his blood spraying across the stack of bearer bonds.
*******
The possum moved in an uncomplicated arc behind and around the beast, dashing to the front, near its enormous mud laden feet. Traces leg gave in that moment and a symphony of coincidence occurred. The beast stumbled a second later, tripping over the scrambling possum. Trace held his crutch like a sword as he lay on the warm gritty concrete. The creature tottered for an instant screaming and flailing clumsily then fell forward onto Trace, impaled by the crutch. Its shadow covered Trace in an assembly of moss and swamp silt. Trace expelled a mouthful of dirt and clawed at the moldering pile of moss that covered him in heaps and soggy piles. In an infantile effort he rolled out of the damp pile of decaying leaves, pine needles, moss and swamp mud.
Gathering his will he overcame the storm, the tempest swollen by the reverie and worship of demons and legends in darkness. Once again he saw the lie, the sin in his tempered world of finance and quick cash. He discovered his spirit in that moment of contemplation. “Monsters and men.” he whispered as he hobbled away from the remains of the demon and the approach of sin. He realized he didn’t really need the cash, the experience heeded the birth of innocence, the basic awakening of what was possible in a world wrought with the weight of blind horizons and beggars in play.
Rons Favorite Websites
Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com
wolffray.blogspot.com ravenswont.blogspot.com Photobucket.com Facebook.com Ralan.com Darkmarkets.com Yesteryearfiction.com Necrologyshorts.com Thehorrorzine.com dailylove.net Ravenimages.com indigorising.com Writersmarket.com poetshaven.com postcardshorts.com Farthermostdream.blogspot.com Youtube.com E-Bay.com |
Woe. |
In his head......thoughts
and images from the realm of swamps, dreams and the shadowy horizons of twilight.
Swampland.Angles in Transit.The shadow of an angel in veil. |
Welcome to my website. This is a place where you might let your mind wander for a few brief moments of respite, read a story, a poem or a piece of flash fiction you might even play a game while your here or simply comment on my blog. My artwork is inspired by the things i've imagined or seen in my life, perhaps you'll see something you can post to your website. At any rate this is SwampLit; we live in the Mondex a wild and sometimes magical place in the swamp. Stay awhile the bonfires are burning next to the beaten down trailers and old sheds, the twilight is forever a reminder of this secret place where you might find some measure of comfort or solace. The gators are sleeping pull up a lawn chair and listen to our tales.
Websites-Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com
Blogsite- WolfFray.blogspot.com Ron Koppelberger
The Neighborhood The disposition of slavery frustrated him and he screamed for release, “YYYYYiiiiieeeeeeeeee!” Rain was falling in exasperating waves of teardrop blessing. The neighborhood was unaware, entranced by the ethereal drama, the presence that defined their true transport, their mode of life, their actual status in the universe, in a prevailing evil smoke of duel reality. The televisions were dressed in a myriad of programs, they saw game shows, but underneath, they saw soap operas, but underneath, they saw movies, but underneath, they saw Sunday football, but underneath lay the truth, the secret reality of a thousand nightmares in scarlet neon. Juke Sober was watching a movie about Viet Nam, yet beneath his wife was being eviscerated; the action pushed ahead occluding the truth……..and the strange thing was that she was in the next room making a decision between hamburgers and hotdogs. Juke saw up top. Pepper Holly was watching a western, yet what lay beneath her subconscious and the enchanting dance of a car slamming into a brick wall, a young couple catapulting through the windshield like crimson angels. Flashes of light lit the cotton dander of a cloudy twilight sky. The sound of a woman sobbing drifted across the neighborhood in quiet desperation. Juke prayed asking god if he was in heaven or hell. The sobbing continued and the mass continued to watch, to act in reverence of what appeared to be their lives, their existence, oblivious to the shadows that surrounded them. Somewhere distantly a wolf howled in the midst of saffron fields and wheat, in a flash of insight the wolf thought, “ A gilded plane for innocent dreams and waking endeavors unto the promise of what wont pretends.” For a moment they all saw the great garden of wheat bloom. The wolf rested, waiting for them. |
Ron Koppelberger
Moss and Damp Earth
The row in another soul, a spirit in notorious deserts
Of breath, a course in textures of spider silk
And orange guttering fire, the conforming hiss
In empathy with stones and dust heavy darlings,
A coalescence in black shades of evening desire,
Childlike, racy wind whispering the wont of aghast,
Bursting blood and evanescent seduction.
To fall, to drift down with the autumn locus and
Shadowy touch of specters and speckled eyes
Of prophecy, the sense of moss and damp earth,
Listening in wait,
In twilight ice.
Ron Koppelberger
Whispering Silence The scattered knowable yield of Half-breed motley twilight in slavery And tethered horizons, a berth in Abandoned indigo treasure, in unborn Scarlet sunglow and pleasures of Whispering silence. A shepherded angel In shadowy silhouette. |
Ron Koppelberger
The Dreams of Tigers Cries of whiskered fascination allayed by cattail tuft And dandelions in bloom, by purring grumbles Of jawbone instinct and cool dispassionate Hunts, a tender decree in vaunt of whispers and tears, In diffuse thorns of intimate desire, by sworn aching Claws of willing passage unto the dreams of Tigers and ally-cats. |
Ron Koppelberger
What Destiny Desires
Churning in tempest raptures and unyielding
Tempers of taunt, narrow season, a wish in the
Daydream loves of princesses and paupers,
Of beasts in life’s constant revolution and heaven’s thrashing bliss.
An embrace torn by the winds of attention and seared by the
Embers of what destiny desires.
The worshiping twilight in clear shades of musty
Shadow and diversions in orange ash.
Ron Koppelberger
Wild Wolf
The mournful conviction of love’s desolate
Abandon and passion’s swelling penance,
The useful rant and roar in searing tinder
And special races of tender contrition, the intimate
Whisper in assay and allay, a developing sufferance
In slavering raves and wild wolf fascination.
Wild Wolf
The mournful conviction of love’s desolate
Abandon and passion’s swelling penance,
The useful rant and roar in searing tinder
And special races of tender contrition, the intimate
Whisper in assay and allay, a developing sufferance
In slavering raves and wild wolf fascination.
If you have a suggestion or a comment that might help to improve this website please feel free to use the form below. I'll answer any questions you might have. I'm always available to contribute poetry, art, flash fiction and short stories to your website. E-Mail [email protected].
Artwork ispired by AMC.Native Feather.
Ron Koppelberger
Daisies and Dust
Encouraging the embrace of distant unions and beloved
Opposites in ashen advances alight, a delicious
Existence, genuine in tempered cascades of rain,
A thrust against the torn claims of fires and flame,
Embers and sand, the childlike will of faith
And dreaming consciousness, to cause the company
Of availing sheep and bearable sparrow song, to
Fullfill the sufferance of blood and cattail dander on
August tendrils of possession, in misty obsession, in tears
Of twilight belief and the tired sweat of brows and
Savage wilds, a dirty profusion of daisies and dust.
Daisies and Dust
Encouraging the embrace of distant unions and beloved
Opposites in ashen advances alight, a delicious
Existence, genuine in tempered cascades of rain,
A thrust against the torn claims of fires and flame,
Embers and sand, the childlike will of faith
And dreaming consciousness, to cause the company
Of availing sheep and bearable sparrow song, to
Fullfill the sufferance of blood and cattail dander on
August tendrils of possession, in misty obsession, in tears
Of twilight belief and the tired sweat of brows and
Savage wilds, a dirty profusion of daisies and dust.