March 8, 2012
Ron Koppelberger
High Tea
The arrangement of cookies and honey wafers was nearly bursting with provident beauty. Tea from the roots of domestic cactus arrays and in bouquets of attar and raspberry. The fate of a celebrated transport, dreams of high tea and valued curtseys of pregnant esteem; the flesh needs the indulgence of insurgent thirsts and unfettered savor.
He tapped his finger in thoughtful impulse against the saucer. A champion spirit, a tendency to flavored forecast. He pondered and in vagabond , bohemian tatters of vision, compiled an amorphous collage of brilliance. Chaste balances of cookie magnificence and crunching limbos of thrilling hungry rapture. He smiled as he thought of irony in irony, tea and cookies at the hour of infamy, the moment of cauldrons begat by saucers of ancient purchase. The cure for all of mankind, he sipped the cactus tea and in mystifying bounty repeated the motion in ethereal graces of tasteful, undaunted joy.
The table melted away and the angel in evanescent breaths of relief cast the shadow of a divine conclave. The angel had fielded his human guise for the pleasure of tea and cookies. He enjoyed his professed bond of high tea in companion seas of heavenly thirst quenched by the guardianship of passage to Eden.
Ron Koppelberger
The Rider
The mystery of sagebrush dogs and mongrel coyote howls followed the faceless rider of desert dust and shaded infinity. The stallion flexed and sped through the shifting winds. A season of negotiated determination, the skillful acclaim of waterless bone dust and dried cactus flower rode in passionate graces of dark sashay as the chiding sunshine glimmered in his eyes like a bright beacon to home style illusions of fertile farmland and waves of rolling saffron bloom.
The tempter of decreed dress rode in absolute acceptance and desire, in harmony with his dark calling, the silhouettes of allowable gloom. Clap, clap, clap, the stallion advanced in ethereal purpose, pausing only for the faceless rider as he put his finger to the wind. The rider smelled the scent of wheat fields and havens in promise of heaven. The heat followed him with flame. He was the faceless rider on the fray of god, on the vast horizon of what will be and what has happened with the guard of the angel. The black season, the bleak rapture followed the rider and his purpose, to defray the will of man and ride into the twilight horizon on a razors edge.
Ron Koppelberger
Discovering Bruises
Tidings of slowdown haunted the wont of a horizon around the next bend in the road. He drove and he drove fast, deliriously in confusions of future arrival, he drove. The car roared and the yellow lines in the road blurred. He turned toward the rising edge of an indigo dawn and as he turned he peered forward to the coming light.
The road stretched far into the countryside and the promise of a better fortune secreted the bruises of where he had been, past the reason of whiskey and old bone dust, he found bruises in number from head to toe. He found bruises in the applause of a ventured dream in the want of real sustenance, forgiven by hope, forgiven by future roads untrod. He had bruises upon bruises and the only way home was ahead, toward bright sunglow and the want of a cool water and clean air, to the realm of honest romance, toward the endless unfolding passage unto the morrow and the dream of unsullied adventure. He discovered the old bruises bore little burden on the path to freedom, escape velocity and the eye of a mistress in wait.
High Tea
The arrangement of cookies and honey wafers was nearly bursting with provident beauty. Tea from the roots of domestic cactus arrays and in bouquets of attar and raspberry. The fate of a celebrated transport, dreams of high tea and valued curtseys of pregnant esteem; the flesh needs the indulgence of insurgent thirsts and unfettered savor.
He tapped his finger in thoughtful impulse against the saucer. A champion spirit, a tendency to flavored forecast. He pondered and in vagabond , bohemian tatters of vision, compiled an amorphous collage of brilliance. Chaste balances of cookie magnificence and crunching limbos of thrilling hungry rapture. He smiled as he thought of irony in irony, tea and cookies at the hour of infamy, the moment of cauldrons begat by saucers of ancient purchase. The cure for all of mankind, he sipped the cactus tea and in mystifying bounty repeated the motion in ethereal graces of tasteful, undaunted joy.
The table melted away and the angel in evanescent breaths of relief cast the shadow of a divine conclave. The angel had fielded his human guise for the pleasure of tea and cookies. He enjoyed his professed bond of high tea in companion seas of heavenly thirst quenched by the guardianship of passage to Eden.
Ron Koppelberger
The Rider
The mystery of sagebrush dogs and mongrel coyote howls followed the faceless rider of desert dust and shaded infinity. The stallion flexed and sped through the shifting winds. A season of negotiated determination, the skillful acclaim of waterless bone dust and dried cactus flower rode in passionate graces of dark sashay as the chiding sunshine glimmered in his eyes like a bright beacon to home style illusions of fertile farmland and waves of rolling saffron bloom.
The tempter of decreed dress rode in absolute acceptance and desire, in harmony with his dark calling, the silhouettes of allowable gloom. Clap, clap, clap, the stallion advanced in ethereal purpose, pausing only for the faceless rider as he put his finger to the wind. The rider smelled the scent of wheat fields and havens in promise of heaven. The heat followed him with flame. He was the faceless rider on the fray of god, on the vast horizon of what will be and what has happened with the guard of the angel. The black season, the bleak rapture followed the rider and his purpose, to defray the will of man and ride into the twilight horizon on a razors edge.
Ron Koppelberger
Discovering Bruises
Tidings of slowdown haunted the wont of a horizon around the next bend in the road. He drove and he drove fast, deliriously in confusions of future arrival, he drove. The car roared and the yellow lines in the road blurred. He turned toward the rising edge of an indigo dawn and as he turned he peered forward to the coming light.
The road stretched far into the countryside and the promise of a better fortune secreted the bruises of where he had been, past the reason of whiskey and old bone dust, he found bruises in number from head to toe. He found bruises in the applause of a ventured dream in the want of real sustenance, forgiven by hope, forgiven by future roads untrod. He had bruises upon bruises and the only way home was ahead, toward bright sunglow and the want of a cool water and clean air, to the realm of honest romance, toward the endless unfolding passage unto the morrow and the dream of unsullied adventure. He discovered the old bruises bore little burden on the path to freedom, escape velocity and the eye of a mistress in wait.
December 30, 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.
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.
Ron Koppelberger
Sheppard’s Wisdom
Streams of complete, immigrant wisdom paid the greater part of his debt to the nascent birth of a generation. He reclaimed the accident of circumstance with musing poetry and the wonts of a teacher, in midnight moons and shadowy whispers of common invocation. He found the poles of near and far, between the age of innocence and the labor of the ancients; his students soared, flew in easy enchantments of air sorcery. A dragon and his underlings in sated castes of flight from the gardens of peace, rose blush unto the mountains of obsidian shadow.
He taught in perfect coincidence to the wind, the gentle currents of forever and a second, in convicted dragon sense and glimmers of cherry blossom rain. The dragon studied the students and in turn they challenged the skies with awkward wings and soaring souls. In this endeavor he found hope, hope for the legend of the dragon and the fast bidden sun alight by distant vistas.
A monument to the advent of reason, renaissance and eternity, the old dragon discovered peace and covenants of respite with the rise and fall of a breath, with the eyes of a babe borne by the frayed edge of an immortal dream.
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.
December 10, 2011.........New fiction.
Ron Koppelberger
Automatic Outlaw
The wreck resisted the urge to beg a pittance from the passion of black boots and tight leather audacity. She followed the lines on his face with a remembrance of declared bond. The wreck coughed and furrowed his forgiving brow. She had assumed the guise of a recollection, a homeward movement in sashay and tempest, he remembered the dither of do’s and don’ts , of want and aspiration; they had been one.
He fingered the tiny totem that the stranger had offered him so long ago, the automatic outlaw, the electric passport to better times and pregnant futures. He saw flames and passion, he smelled the roasted scent of crackling wheat and tender harvest. The totem glowed and became warm in his hand. She watched the wreck and puzzled the common anchor that had brought them to destinations in scarlet saddle. She surveyed the wreck and seized the moment.
He was destitute and yet he was real and here, in her trespass. The fire burned in her eyes and she adjusted her Stetson. Found by fate, the black Nova supreme belched exhaust as she gathered him in her arms. He smelled Jasmine and she smoke. They climbed into the waiting car and headed North, toward saffron fields and azure skies, toward destiny.
He smiled and massaged the totem; thank god he whispered.
Ron Koppelberger
Flourishes of Half Dollar Renown
The sole resemblance of chance and need, wont and waiting freedom, was a struggle in scarlet battles of wine and snakes that shorn confederate passage allow. He considered the wisdom of promise and pose, able arts and existence.
The half dollar fell to the concrete and the wind sang, tiny tempests swirled in the rain tinctured sunshine spears of light. The coin spun on the edge of a grain of sand as the seconds passed. He saw the design of dust and the savor of oaths in ash and dew, in sovereign applause and ether, in affirmed delight and amazing, absolutely amazing taboo. The coin fell still and random wills sighed in relief as the sun whispered and the world continued to revolve. He had half dollar renown and a distant love of life.
Ron Koppelberger
A Breed of Rain
The eclipse of mystery in omens was a deluge in the life of Prey Claw. He found the crème in his coffee was curdled yet sweet and allayed to the harmony of sunshine dawns and wont. A wonder of ascending taste and a mildly amused rhythm of tender embrace. Prey sanctified the contents of his cup and swallowed the bidden blood, “Ahhhhhhhhaaaaaahhhhhh.” he whispered in satisfaction and passage.
The springtide fray he thought in simmering reserve, the course of maelstroms and the way of weeping rain, he considered the beholden day and birth in trade with the gentle assay of what is and what has been a tear in the depth of miracles and myths of coffee care, a sweet and a bitter barter. He sipped and found respite, reprieve in rages of fortune.
Pray strapped the leather harness across his waist and shoulders in easy movements of bond. Bond between the gods of chance and the fates that tell muzzy dreams where to sleep, where to amend the night and the calm in secret repast. Prey secured his harness to the edge of the cliff and around the trunk of an enormous weeping willow. The sun whirled immigrant beams of warmth and stray moted substance of soul. Prey took a final sip of coffee and in betrothal to the arrangement of wind and sun, teasing mountain balance and rapt crowns of revelation, secured the poise of his task and he sang as he absorbed the present.
“Foretell the blessings
Of daisies and dandelions
In tempers of rare wine
And wild adventure, A
Consonance with salvation.”
The will of god saved Prey that morning and he endured in courage and sighs, wonder and sensation.
* The rope snapped and a child would amend the faith in Prey, she would make him whole and in sunshine and rain, she would show him the paths of harvest saffron.
Automatic Outlaw
The wreck resisted the urge to beg a pittance from the passion of black boots and tight leather audacity. She followed the lines on his face with a remembrance of declared bond. The wreck coughed and furrowed his forgiving brow. She had assumed the guise of a recollection, a homeward movement in sashay and tempest, he remembered the dither of do’s and don’ts , of want and aspiration; they had been one.
He fingered the tiny totem that the stranger had offered him so long ago, the automatic outlaw, the electric passport to better times and pregnant futures. He saw flames and passion, he smelled the roasted scent of crackling wheat and tender harvest. The totem glowed and became warm in his hand. She watched the wreck and puzzled the common anchor that had brought them to destinations in scarlet saddle. She surveyed the wreck and seized the moment.
He was destitute and yet he was real and here, in her trespass. The fire burned in her eyes and she adjusted her Stetson. Found by fate, the black Nova supreme belched exhaust as she gathered him in her arms. He smelled Jasmine and she smoke. They climbed into the waiting car and headed North, toward saffron fields and azure skies, toward destiny.
He smiled and massaged the totem; thank god he whispered.
Ron Koppelberger
Flourishes of Half Dollar Renown
The sole resemblance of chance and need, wont and waiting freedom, was a struggle in scarlet battles of wine and snakes that shorn confederate passage allow. He considered the wisdom of promise and pose, able arts and existence.
The half dollar fell to the concrete and the wind sang, tiny tempests swirled in the rain tinctured sunshine spears of light. The coin spun on the edge of a grain of sand as the seconds passed. He saw the design of dust and the savor of oaths in ash and dew, in sovereign applause and ether, in affirmed delight and amazing, absolutely amazing taboo. The coin fell still and random wills sighed in relief as the sun whispered and the world continued to revolve. He had half dollar renown and a distant love of life.
Ron Koppelberger
A Breed of Rain
The eclipse of mystery in omens was a deluge in the life of Prey Claw. He found the crème in his coffee was curdled yet sweet and allayed to the harmony of sunshine dawns and wont. A wonder of ascending taste and a mildly amused rhythm of tender embrace. Prey sanctified the contents of his cup and swallowed the bidden blood, “Ahhhhhhhhaaaaaahhhhhh.” he whispered in satisfaction and passage.
The springtide fray he thought in simmering reserve, the course of maelstroms and the way of weeping rain, he considered the beholden day and birth in trade with the gentle assay of what is and what has been a tear in the depth of miracles and myths of coffee care, a sweet and a bitter barter. He sipped and found respite, reprieve in rages of fortune.
Pray strapped the leather harness across his waist and shoulders in easy movements of bond. Bond between the gods of chance and the fates that tell muzzy dreams where to sleep, where to amend the night and the calm in secret repast. Prey secured his harness to the edge of the cliff and around the trunk of an enormous weeping willow. The sun whirled immigrant beams of warmth and stray moted substance of soul. Prey took a final sip of coffee and in betrothal to the arrangement of wind and sun, teasing mountain balance and rapt crowns of revelation, secured the poise of his task and he sang as he absorbed the present.
“Foretell the blessings
Of daisies and dandelions
In tempers of rare wine
And wild adventure, A
Consonance with salvation.”
The will of god saved Prey that morning and he endured in courage and sighs, wonder and sensation.
* The rope snapped and a child would amend the faith in Prey, she would make him whole and in sunshine and rain, she would show him the paths of harvest saffron.
November 17, 2011.
Ron Koppelberger
The Bachelor
Rendered in pleasant ignoble pastures of escape, the bachelor yielded the temptation to cleave to sensual creams and flaxen flowers, to rubies in rose rush and eyes of emerald allure. He gripped the counter and growled, “Must not regress, MUST NOT REGRESS!” He crossed his legs and pounded his bosom, “ARRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAA!” he screamed. Labors of love and scented bouquets in amazing coquet danced like sweet savory transport and dream before his bulging eyes.
“Oh succulent mistress, seductions of mascara and rose tincture, tempt me in chaste realms of restraint!” He repeated in frayed consciousness and desire, the mazy mists circled him with passionate possessions of promise. Cut to an end, a postponed fate, a snug umbra and womb, an alien rapture, he conjured the int6rinsic art of blazon tethers and strange confines as he separated the curtains, an entertaining masquerade, a drama in horizons of azure and ash, the ash of a smoldering ruin and a dismal abandonment, he was in summons to the ships dilemma. A broken transport the refuge of astronauts and pilgrims searching the new vistas. The ship was beyond repair, smashed and scattered destroyed by design, perhaps by gods design.
The brood stood outside the small vagabond shelter, milling about in the grainy dust of a barren planet, they numbered in the thousands.
He dreamed and dared a glance, beauty and hell, frail yield in the from of a maw. A crowd of women in waiting suspicions of pregnant desire, and yet…….their teeth, beneath the full pouting lips, desolate sandpaper flesh….it looked so soft…….breathing smoke and were those flames coming from their mouths…….it couldn’t! “Oh God!” he moaned. They waited with open arms in vast chains of claim to his seed to his heirs.
They sang the song of sirens and hydras in cobwebs of mystery and illusion, the witches of the rift between earth and far distant planets.
The bachelor sighed and opened the door to slavery.
The Bachelor
Rendered in pleasant ignoble pastures of escape, the bachelor yielded the temptation to cleave to sensual creams and flaxen flowers, to rubies in rose rush and eyes of emerald allure. He gripped the counter and growled, “Must not regress, MUST NOT REGRESS!” He crossed his legs and pounded his bosom, “ARRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAA!” he screamed. Labors of love and scented bouquets in amazing coquet danced like sweet savory transport and dream before his bulging eyes.
“Oh succulent mistress, seductions of mascara and rose tincture, tempt me in chaste realms of restraint!” He repeated in frayed consciousness and desire, the mazy mists circled him with passionate possessions of promise. Cut to an end, a postponed fate, a snug umbra and womb, an alien rapture, he conjured the int6rinsic art of blazon tethers and strange confines as he separated the curtains, an entertaining masquerade, a drama in horizons of azure and ash, the ash of a smoldering ruin and a dismal abandonment, he was in summons to the ships dilemma. A broken transport the refuge of astronauts and pilgrims searching the new vistas. The ship was beyond repair, smashed and scattered destroyed by design, perhaps by gods design.
The brood stood outside the small vagabond shelter, milling about in the grainy dust of a barren planet, they numbered in the thousands.
He dreamed and dared a glance, beauty and hell, frail yield in the from of a maw. A crowd of women in waiting suspicions of pregnant desire, and yet…….their teeth, beneath the full pouting lips, desolate sandpaper flesh….it looked so soft…….breathing smoke and were those flames coming from their mouths…….it couldn’t! “Oh God!” he moaned. They waited with open arms in vast chains of claim to his seed to his heirs.
They sang the song of sirens and hydras in cobwebs of mystery and illusion, the witches of the rift between earth and far distant planets.
The bachelor sighed and opened the door to slavery.
Ron Koppelberger
A Blessed Blossom
The naturalness of the gentle blossom was in fine-spun magic with the seasons of both ash and harvest. A bloom in blushing chagrin with the accounts of angels and saints, full in sleep and boundaries of frayed glory. There was a perplexing innocence in the beginnings of reflection and birth, bearth and gusty meandering sanctity.
It came in sad sorrow of shadow and shade, a departure from love and animate intimacy. It was a cold proposition in favor of demons and blackened berserkers, the season in rebuke, the time of parched acquiescence and discreet dark diversion. It was the bane of passerby, the wane desire of soliloquies in bone dust, rattle and gossiping devils.
The flower cringed and withered in lieu of passion and sated cycles and in the miracle that defines the amaranth it found purchase in a new day as the specter of loves lost and declared diabolic dissolved into the soils of perdition, passing without further fanfare. A bloom in crowns of possession, a soul in search of harvest hearth, the amaranth of dark confessions.
A Blessed Blossom
The naturalness of the gentle blossom was in fine-spun magic with the seasons of both ash and harvest. A bloom in blushing chagrin with the accounts of angels and saints, full in sleep and boundaries of frayed glory. There was a perplexing innocence in the beginnings of reflection and birth, bearth and gusty meandering sanctity.
It came in sad sorrow of shadow and shade, a departure from love and animate intimacy. It was a cold proposition in favor of demons and blackened berserkers, the season in rebuke, the time of parched acquiescence and discreet dark diversion. It was the bane of passerby, the wane desire of soliloquies in bone dust, rattle and gossiping devils.
The flower cringed and withered in lieu of passion and sated cycles and in the miracle that defines the amaranth it found purchase in a new day as the specter of loves lost and declared diabolic dissolved into the soils of perdition, passing without further fanfare. A bloom in crowns of possession, a soul in search of harvest hearth, the amaranth of dark confessions.
November 7, 2011
Flash that burns bright!!!
Ron Koppelberger
Secret Trains
It was entirely dappled with the crimson droplets , the box, the damn crate. Will Sky stood near the end coach at the rear of the Evening Bullet; the train sang the ever moaning rails with grunts and pounding rhythm, with complaining progress, she had been making the route for a lifetime.
The mystery of the cargo that the dark train carried was an empty, vague illusion draped in shadow and passion, vague like the motes of dust that infer a distance, age and an old character. Will touched the red beaded spray covering the heavy oaken crate, “ What the hell is this?” he wondered.
Will felt older like the tinctured blood of a rusty machine, oil, blood and oil, moving at a snails pace. Oil, human……yet what had happened to this curious rider, the owner of the blood. A Murder had perhaps taken place, who knows he thought.
The train moved closer to its conclusion through darkness and wild advances.
The box ballooned and swelled before Wills tired eyes, unveiled, laid bare it throbbed and proposed secret enormity and a dark hazy mist. Will watched as the nails holding the framework of the box popped free, one by one. Blood poured in streams from the edges and seams of the box. Like some dark magic the box fell open and terrors and surreal dreams prevailed in a cloying mix of blood and oil. Was he an innocent passenger on a midnight train to oblivion, a desperate rider, “Oh god, what is it, Oh god!”
Unclad the doppelganger stared naked beneath an ashen gray sheet covered in oil. What was this…….it had his face……it was him! How, he thought, this can’t be…..“I’m me not this thing!” he gasped aloud.
Exactly like him the sheeted man stood and showed him the wounds on his hands, deep, deadly, final. Will trembled in fear split between curiosity and phantasmic unreality. The doppleganger sang an old song and collapsed to the floor of the box in a heap of gray cloth, oily rags and smoke. Afterward Will looked at his hands and sighed, he must have had something evil to eat he thought wondering about the hallucination.
* Later there was a fire on the night train. Someone had stored oily rags too close to a lantern and the entire car had gone up in flames. Will had run to the front of the car and pounded on the locked door separating the cars. There was a small window between the cars and Will smashed it with his bare hands cutting him severely and mortally wounding hi,.
Thus the cycle moved forward as did the train to futures told in blood and smoke, each car a different story, Wills only one of many. All told by portent and fortune, the Evening Bullet moved ahead on the tracks and for some it was just a way home, for others an endless cycle of revolution, turns given an end to an end to an end………
Ron Koppelberger
A Picnic Betrothal
Gamble Awe studied the humble embrace of green grass and wild forest daisies. The Picnic basket weighed heavy in his right hand. “Sweet eras of youth and gentle dreams of beauty.” he sang aloud.
Setting the basket down he surveyed the small clearing in the dense forest. The scent of fried chicken and the promise of chilled Burgundy excited his grumbling and gauntly defined stomach. Gambol opened the wicker basket and pulled out a crisp blue sheet checked and faded from use. After laying it across the grassy leaf strewn slope and shadowy clearing in the path he sighed and whispered, “For only a moment the view coming to a lovers request, an aged wish for a companion dream.”
Gambol sat on the sheet his aching arthritic legs consenting to the rest. The chicken was sealed in a green plastic bowl and the Burgundy in a small thermos; unscrewing the lid he let the fragrance flow into the air.
The creature hid in the thistle and Palm scrub, watching, she relaxed and hummed releasing her instinctive balance, a fawning desire to restore the man, to fulfill his wish and her need to remain secret. He ate and sipped at the perfumed drink. She sniffed the air with slender tend riled coils and silky fluttering wings, great mosaics in hues of scarlet and gray. She rustled the bushes around her and shivered as she edged closer to the man.
Gambol took a bite of chicken and froze. He sensed something in the thicket near the far side of the clearing. He quickly emptied the thermos and his head swam in heady mists. Peering into the woods with aged blurry eyes he said, “Show yourself, I can hear you!” He considered the possibility that a bear or a curious Raccoon had made the noises.
The brush shook and parted; he screamed, “Oh my God………what!”
She moved to the man and touched him softly, he fell and slept. She coiled a long tendril into his hand and pulled him upright. He was frail she thought as she restored him, lines of age disappearing and strength, she returned his strength.
When she was finished she opened her great motley wings and flew to the tree tops away from the man. She had revealed herself to him, he would search for her and the idealist in her hoped for communion with the man, nevertheless she took the memory from him. He would remember roses and sunshine instead.
Ron Koppelberger
The Arrival of Man and Wolf
The secret messenger shrunk from the wildfire and the skies became a torrent, rain and warm heavenly flows of patient breadth. The resolute indulgence of wheat bloom and saffron passion distinguished the unconscious gift of vision and dreams as a thousand thousand ventured into the grain.
The outline in stone hid in shadow and temptation, a circle in granite and obsidian, a gathering of baron toil, it waited and the wager in torments of fire would yet evolve, nevertheless it raged and fought the tethers in dangerous rebellion. The wheat gathered its blossoms and in rooted diversities of method quelled the quandary with incense and the light of the divine, Eden in times of ascension and quest, the wont of what would be.
The angel, quiet and sure, went before inland seas and wild jungle brush to the man and the wolf, he satisfied a dream and the temper of reflection. The endless fields of wheat honored the gain of ceaseless passage to test and reason in the fondness of forever.
* In labors of omen the dawn sheltered the pair as tides in stone, also, amassed the run, the destiny of smoke and fire.
Ron Koppelberger
A Drama
Forevermore a change, a silhouette in summits of soul. He shaped in contours of garden labor, intricate fangs and forepaw change. He entreated the image of manifest passage unto the existence of détente’, a peace amongst wolves and the morning-tide glow of fresh skies and sparrows in anxious array.
He considered the flower blossom and the bumble-bee buzzing in fervent revolutions of flight. A pleasant riot of dandelion dander flittered against his paws as he played with the dandelion seed, a dream, a boundary between here and the there. He saw they baby girl, the angels sang and the soaring gossip relinquished the name of a curious dandelion, the discerning destiny of an awakened spirit. The wolf calmed the conference of seed and rushed toward the horizon in mysteries of bidden heaven and the secret of saffron shelter. The child would be the salvation of wolf and man and any other class of earth bound soul. He lay still for a moment and contemplated the arrival of the blessed child. He knew there were forces at work and some of them were fighting for the chance to rule in darkness and sorrow. The sun glimmered against his eyes and he looked west, to the distant clouds and his destiny. He would find the child and his path, for the sake of future dreams.
Ron Koppelberger
Netherworld Outcasts
The doorway was neglected and defiantly, day by day, in its affirmed rush of energy and mystery, mystery for the birth of rivers that define netherworld rebels and wolfs that grin in tender assay with the sunshine and the rain. They employed the doorman and the password was “DAISY DAYS”, a growling consent and entrance. He watched as the doorman grunted and a tiny panel in the scratched oaken door slid open, “Daisy Days!” he responded. The panel slid back and the sound of locks turning and tumbling echoed in the shadows.
A gaunt man with the features of a female hen greeted him, “Cluck, Cluck!” he chuckled as he shifted to pose in the form of a welcoming wolf. His lips curled and he snarled, “Welcome Firefly.” Firefly fell to his knees and bound the fabric of a dream as he padded into the secret enclave.
The door swung shut and the clan of the gray fray and southeastern wilds convened in gauze and smoke and misty lace. The rest of the world pushed on and secrets were shared in the meeting place, secrets that would shape the future of mankind and, indeed wolf kind. Suffice it to say the wolf found solace in the encroaching twilight that would find their final acceptance by man.
Secret Trains
It was entirely dappled with the crimson droplets , the box, the damn crate. Will Sky stood near the end coach at the rear of the Evening Bullet; the train sang the ever moaning rails with grunts and pounding rhythm, with complaining progress, she had been making the route for a lifetime.
The mystery of the cargo that the dark train carried was an empty, vague illusion draped in shadow and passion, vague like the motes of dust that infer a distance, age and an old character. Will touched the red beaded spray covering the heavy oaken crate, “ What the hell is this?” he wondered.
Will felt older like the tinctured blood of a rusty machine, oil, blood and oil, moving at a snails pace. Oil, human……yet what had happened to this curious rider, the owner of the blood. A Murder had perhaps taken place, who knows he thought.
The train moved closer to its conclusion through darkness and wild advances.
The box ballooned and swelled before Wills tired eyes, unveiled, laid bare it throbbed and proposed secret enormity and a dark hazy mist. Will watched as the nails holding the framework of the box popped free, one by one. Blood poured in streams from the edges and seams of the box. Like some dark magic the box fell open and terrors and surreal dreams prevailed in a cloying mix of blood and oil. Was he an innocent passenger on a midnight train to oblivion, a desperate rider, “Oh god, what is it, Oh god!”
Unclad the doppelganger stared naked beneath an ashen gray sheet covered in oil. What was this…….it had his face……it was him! How, he thought, this can’t be…..“I’m me not this thing!” he gasped aloud.
Exactly like him the sheeted man stood and showed him the wounds on his hands, deep, deadly, final. Will trembled in fear split between curiosity and phantasmic unreality. The doppleganger sang an old song and collapsed to the floor of the box in a heap of gray cloth, oily rags and smoke. Afterward Will looked at his hands and sighed, he must have had something evil to eat he thought wondering about the hallucination.
* Later there was a fire on the night train. Someone had stored oily rags too close to a lantern and the entire car had gone up in flames. Will had run to the front of the car and pounded on the locked door separating the cars. There was a small window between the cars and Will smashed it with his bare hands cutting him severely and mortally wounding hi,.
Thus the cycle moved forward as did the train to futures told in blood and smoke, each car a different story, Wills only one of many. All told by portent and fortune, the Evening Bullet moved ahead on the tracks and for some it was just a way home, for others an endless cycle of revolution, turns given an end to an end to an end………
Ron Koppelberger
A Picnic Betrothal
Gamble Awe studied the humble embrace of green grass and wild forest daisies. The Picnic basket weighed heavy in his right hand. “Sweet eras of youth and gentle dreams of beauty.” he sang aloud.
Setting the basket down he surveyed the small clearing in the dense forest. The scent of fried chicken and the promise of chilled Burgundy excited his grumbling and gauntly defined stomach. Gambol opened the wicker basket and pulled out a crisp blue sheet checked and faded from use. After laying it across the grassy leaf strewn slope and shadowy clearing in the path he sighed and whispered, “For only a moment the view coming to a lovers request, an aged wish for a companion dream.”
Gambol sat on the sheet his aching arthritic legs consenting to the rest. The chicken was sealed in a green plastic bowl and the Burgundy in a small thermos; unscrewing the lid he let the fragrance flow into the air.
The creature hid in the thistle and Palm scrub, watching, she relaxed and hummed releasing her instinctive balance, a fawning desire to restore the man, to fulfill his wish and her need to remain secret. He ate and sipped at the perfumed drink. She sniffed the air with slender tend riled coils and silky fluttering wings, great mosaics in hues of scarlet and gray. She rustled the bushes around her and shivered as she edged closer to the man.
Gambol took a bite of chicken and froze. He sensed something in the thicket near the far side of the clearing. He quickly emptied the thermos and his head swam in heady mists. Peering into the woods with aged blurry eyes he said, “Show yourself, I can hear you!” He considered the possibility that a bear or a curious Raccoon had made the noises.
The brush shook and parted; he screamed, “Oh my God………what!”
She moved to the man and touched him softly, he fell and slept. She coiled a long tendril into his hand and pulled him upright. He was frail she thought as she restored him, lines of age disappearing and strength, she returned his strength.
When she was finished she opened her great motley wings and flew to the tree tops away from the man. She had revealed herself to him, he would search for her and the idealist in her hoped for communion with the man, nevertheless she took the memory from him. He would remember roses and sunshine instead.
Ron Koppelberger
The Arrival of Man and Wolf
The secret messenger shrunk from the wildfire and the skies became a torrent, rain and warm heavenly flows of patient breadth. The resolute indulgence of wheat bloom and saffron passion distinguished the unconscious gift of vision and dreams as a thousand thousand ventured into the grain.
The outline in stone hid in shadow and temptation, a circle in granite and obsidian, a gathering of baron toil, it waited and the wager in torments of fire would yet evolve, nevertheless it raged and fought the tethers in dangerous rebellion. The wheat gathered its blossoms and in rooted diversities of method quelled the quandary with incense and the light of the divine, Eden in times of ascension and quest, the wont of what would be.
The angel, quiet and sure, went before inland seas and wild jungle brush to the man and the wolf, he satisfied a dream and the temper of reflection. The endless fields of wheat honored the gain of ceaseless passage to test and reason in the fondness of forever.
* In labors of omen the dawn sheltered the pair as tides in stone, also, amassed the run, the destiny of smoke and fire.
Ron Koppelberger
A Drama
Forevermore a change, a silhouette in summits of soul. He shaped in contours of garden labor, intricate fangs and forepaw change. He entreated the image of manifest passage unto the existence of détente’, a peace amongst wolves and the morning-tide glow of fresh skies and sparrows in anxious array.
He considered the flower blossom and the bumble-bee buzzing in fervent revolutions of flight. A pleasant riot of dandelion dander flittered against his paws as he played with the dandelion seed, a dream, a boundary between here and the there. He saw they baby girl, the angels sang and the soaring gossip relinquished the name of a curious dandelion, the discerning destiny of an awakened spirit. The wolf calmed the conference of seed and rushed toward the horizon in mysteries of bidden heaven and the secret of saffron shelter. The child would be the salvation of wolf and man and any other class of earth bound soul. He lay still for a moment and contemplated the arrival of the blessed child. He knew there were forces at work and some of them were fighting for the chance to rule in darkness and sorrow. The sun glimmered against his eyes and he looked west, to the distant clouds and his destiny. He would find the child and his path, for the sake of future dreams.
Ron Koppelberger
Netherworld Outcasts
The doorway was neglected and defiantly, day by day, in its affirmed rush of energy and mystery, mystery for the birth of rivers that define netherworld rebels and wolfs that grin in tender assay with the sunshine and the rain. They employed the doorman and the password was “DAISY DAYS”, a growling consent and entrance. He watched as the doorman grunted and a tiny panel in the scratched oaken door slid open, “Daisy Days!” he responded. The panel slid back and the sound of locks turning and tumbling echoed in the shadows.
A gaunt man with the features of a female hen greeted him, “Cluck, Cluck!” he chuckled as he shifted to pose in the form of a welcoming wolf. His lips curled and he snarled, “Welcome Firefly.” Firefly fell to his knees and bound the fabric of a dream as he padded into the secret enclave.
The door swung shut and the clan of the gray fray and southeastern wilds convened in gauze and smoke and misty lace. The rest of the world pushed on and secrets were shared in the meeting place, secrets that would shape the future of mankind and, indeed wolf kind. Suffice it to say the wolf found solace in the encroaching twilight that would find their final acceptance by man.
September, 18 2011
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
The Plague
(Love in the Rebirth of Hope)
Spate Groove said, “Fabulous, absolutely fabulous!” The countryside was littered with the castoffs of a thousand, maybe hundreds of thousands, deserters. They had all left in a rush, a gosh darn rush Spate thought.
Spate walked into the background, the remnants of what they had left behind. Dusty cars and old plastic shopping bags drifted and lay unattended by their former owners. They had all left when the plague had blossomed. At first a few died then they started dropping like….like what he thought, like water balloons. Plop and splash in leaking crimson buckets, they fell apart at the seams bleeding from the eyes and ears and finally from their pours. Squish, splat and into the dirt, plop against the concrete walks and streets, eventually they all fell. The news had said, “Temporary……a temporary problem with the Scarlet Pox.” Most believed they could outrun the plague, some died in their cars, some died miles away from home, mostly they all just died and bad, as bad as it gets.
Spate went into the drug store on a whim. Maybe ther’ll be something cool he thought with an amazing thirst. The shelves were nearly empty and there were splashes of red on the counter where someone had sneezed. He went to the dairy section, it was small but a cause for a grin, the back up generators were still functioning. He grabbed a bottle of OJ from the shelf and guzzled it down in two gulps.
Spate wiped his mouth and went to the rear of the store where the Vitamins and athletes foot powder were.
Pausing, he surveyed a horror in tune with the desolation of the country. He was splayed hands outward feet tied together with lengths of variegated yarn, blue and brown, someone had bound his hands to the top edge of the shelf and he hung there crucified by unknown shadows. Spate sidestepped his feet, askew and angled to the edge of the isle.
The day wore on and the sun shone through the plate glass at the front of the store; mottled sunshine and the remnants of a coke, Spate sat there at the front of the store leaning against the counter sun illuminating his tired face with the silhouette of a few flies and an empty cloudless horizon.
Spate marked the passing seconds and minutes by the shadow of the sun against the tiled floor. By his best estimate it was four or five in the afternoon.
Standing he stretched and yawned, the jewelry counter held a revolving display of watches and crucifixes. He went over to the Plexiglas display and knocked it to the floor. It bounced without breaking; staring down at the case he noticed a tiny rainbow of light shining through the thick plastic. Grabbing the case again he slammed it down into the floor with a great heave and a yell, “YYYYAAAAAAAAAA!” The plastic cracked and he stomped on it a few times breaking it open and scattering the watches across the floor. Reaching into the shattered plastic he grabbed a silver Timex; it had a simple elastic band and was waterproof. The watch read four-thirty-eight. Slipping it on his wrist he went to the front of the store and looked out the double glass doors.
A stray newspaper flittered in pieces across the street. There were a few cars lining the edge of the two lane blacktop. The closest one was a gray Camry; its hood was up and there were the bodies of a man and a woman slumped over in the front seat. There was a portable cloths rod in the backseat, cloths, suits and dresses even a few t-shirts hung on plastic hangers from the rod.
Spate went to the Camry and opened the rear passenger door. A whoosh of hot air rushed out as the reek of decay overwhelmed him. The couple were glued to the seats by leaking pools of congealed blood and strangely enough the flies that swarmed from the car were more interested in the spilled milkshakes that had dried across the dash than the couple.
Spate closed the door as quick as he had opened it. He had been thinking about a change of cloths. There must be a clothing store around here somewhere he thought as he looked up the empty street.
Spate made his way further into town. He had come from the southern side of End house Street from the countryside. He had passed a few houses and a gas station and there hadn’t been any signs of life, not even a stray cat or dog. The idea that there might be other survivors was the notion he held on to as the hours wore on, there must be others he had thought, instead he had been greeted by the ghost of a once thriving city……empty streets and the crimson splashed bodies of those who had died in the plague.
Spate moved further down the street until he found a clothing store. Bay worth Tuxedos, he climbed inside through a smashed plate glass window. Inside there were mannequins dressed for weddings, parties and ceremonies that would never be. The store was dark in shadowy echos of what had been, what was. Spate grabbed a ruffled shirt and a gray jacket. Stripping off his t-shirt he put the cloths on. The ruffles followed the button-line of the shirt and the jacket was a French cut tailored for someone much larger than him. He stood there for a moment, silent conscious realization, he knew he was alone. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed; he’d have to find a place to sleep before long, he was famished and dog-tired.
Spate looked North toward the center of the city and for an instant, just the briefest of moments he caught the light and silhouette of a figure moving along the West side of the street. He walked then ran toward the woman making her way up the sidewalk.
The sun shone an orange twilight cloak across the cityscape. A gauzy dream in vacant storefronts and abandoned cars. The sounds of both laughter and joyful tears filled the empty spaces around them. They met, running to each other arms outstretched in greeting.
Embracing they knew the promise of a new beginning, they would make it…together. They were survivors and they had finally found each other.
“Thank God!” Spate said as he hugged her. She wiped the tears away from her eyes hesitantly with the back of her palm.
“I thought everyone was dead!” she said in half gasping sobs.
“So did I!” he replied smiling widely. She wore a tan skirt and a pleated top with a name tag attached to it. She was a waitress, or had been and her name was Elaina.
“I’ve been staying over there!” she pointed to a squat brick building with the words “JAYKEMP LIVERY” it looked to be a hotel and a restaurant. They walked hand in hand to the hotel.
Ultimately they would have children and the city would hold them close to what had been with the promise of what would be again, someday through love, laughter and moments given them both as the mother and father of a new generation, a new world in revolution.
Through all the years they lived and raised eight children and thirty-seven grandchildren they never met another soul on earth, indeed they had been the only survivors of the plague.
Ron Koppelberger
The Order of the October Chaff
The magic of quiet attire in twilight seasons and Fall address wore the melancholy of Halloween mists, the shadowy sensation of wistful winds and the throes of an aged bargain; Summer for Winter and Fall breaths of intermission, the moments considered the change from Summer to Autumn orange, tattered leaves blown in a heaping blanket of crumbling decay and cool airs of approaching snows.
The town of Hallowawe lay hidden in secret anonymity near the edge of Acres Woods; The surrounding vistas were well worn in harvest bloom, fields of sorghum and wheat cloaked the landscape between Hallowawe and Acres Woods like a great ghost of undulating saffron sky in the distant Summer sun. The houses were old with character and old fashioned regard. Main street lay in the center of Hallowawe, running East to West through the heart of the town. A Texaco gas station, the Prow Pharmacy and Hanson’s Grocery among others lined the street with easy promises and simple satisfactions.
Race Case, his mother had believed his name was perfect for him. When he was a baby she found herself racing after his curiosity; he was always into something she had told him when he was older, “Race Case, chased ya all over the place. “ she had laughed. He considered his mother for a moment as he stepped into the Hallowawe Feed. He missed his mom. She had died about three years earlier. She hadn’t suffered, she’d died in her sleep quietly and without exclamation. She was the reason he had moved to Hallowawe. His parents had been farmers until his dad passed. The farm had gone to seed literally after his death. Maybe he was meant for this life, the farmers lot he thought as he ordered seed from Barley Huss the owner of Hallowawe Feed.
“ Near Winter now Race,” he said with caution, “You aren’t thinking bout plantin are ya?” he asked.
“Nope, this is for next year Barley; I thought I’d get a jump on it before the others, sides it’s savin me money. Always buy my seed early Mr. Huss.” Barley handed Race a receipt and said,
“Yer one of the good ones.” Race grinned and said,
“See ya in the spring.” as he walked out into the street where his truck was Parked.
The evening twilight was a portent of the Halloween season, children in costumes and candy buckets full of Beer Barrels, Hershey Bars and a scattering of pennies. The sky lay in orange silhouette on the horizon, frayed bleeding spears of crimson as Race drove East toward the farm.
The old truck, A Ford F-150, smelled of oil and exhaust. He turned the radio on as the silhouette of the setting sun shone in his eyes painting him in a soft amber hue. He had turned the radio to an oldies station; a song by The Doors was playing and Jim Morrison was commanding,
“Break on through to the other side……
Break on through to the other side…..”
Race traveled the two lane road into the countryside. A flock of crows sat next to the road pecking at a dead raccoon and squawking, “Caw, caw!” Race rolled the truck window up muffling the sound of the birds as he passed.
Unwinding in a long reassurance of farm country vista, his property lay directly ahead, the curving dirt driveway flowing into the main road. The truck bumped and rattled in aged complaint as he turned off the main road onto the bumpy two-track. Trees, oaks and pines, lined the stretch of driveway for a quarter of a mile ending with a small three bedroom ranch and a two story red barn.
Race parked the truck and glanced at the burnt orange twilight horizon, tomorrow was Halloween. He rarely got any treaters nevertheless tonight was devil’s night and his mailbox was fare game; he didn’t think anyone would venture as far as the house. Last year they had smashed his mailbox beyond repair, he had replaced it with a brick and stone pillar with the box securely cemented inside. The evening sky was a bloody smear and drifting from distant points of life came the Oder of wood smoke, tinctured crisp Fall air in seasons sure.
Race got out of the truck and listened; he had seen the silhouette, the shape of something fast and tall reflected in the glimmer of frayed indigo and saffron light, near the corner of the house, the far side near the Azalea bushes. There were flittering shadows and an echoing whisper, a soft hush of sound like a swarm of flies, big bluebottle, buzzing in mass.
The front of the ranch was prefaced by a big bay window, the quiet yellow glow of interior lights shone through the part in the heavy drapes. Warm and safe he thought nervously. The yeowl of a cat in heat tore the silence in pointed wild wont. The buzzing continued a bit louder now and the shadows near the tree line called secret mysteries of fear. Maybe he should go back into town and get the Hallowawe police, maybe he should get the hell back in the truck and drive as fast as he could toward Hallowawe he thought as the shadows multiplied and spread out into the wood line near the edge of the house.
Race swallowed his fear and the trepidation that held him in place as he moved to the front door of the house. The stone steps were covered in a slick mess of crimson, blood, thick, viscous and fresh. Race inhaled in shaky contemplations of death; devils night, was it animal blood, he didn’t think so.
The shadows near the corner of the house shifted and swayed and Race made a conscious effort to ignore the buzzing sound and the whimpers he heard, the howling groans of some great goblin phantasm, the demon spirit of Halloween, in all souls confection, Candy and blood. Blood and dandelion weed, syrupy cotton tufts and black droplets of jagged leafy growth led to the side yard, he had used weed killer on the ragged grass but he was plagued with dandelion weed. The scattered weed sang copper near the edge of the walk, perfumed in dark stain and accented by the buzz of a million flies.
Race glance at the gray and ebony shadows at the corner of the ranch, whimpering he definitely heard a whimpering sound. What was the secret hidden behind the corner? Were they fearful conveyances of pain, injury, was someone hurt, perhaps a child, a babe in distress. He walked slowly to the corner of the house. The blood was smeared in scarlet palm prints on the wooden lattice trim. “ Here goes.” he said in a whisper to himself. Looking around the edge of the house he took several steps back.
The flies, there was a shape swarmed in flies. A human sized mound completely enveloped by flies, a whirling shifting mass of winged green and blue bottle flies. The sound was deafening. The whimpering was coming from beneath the thick blanket of flies. He had to do something, but the flies, he thought cringing . He had to help.
Race touched the whimpering figure and a great cloud of inky black flew up like an explosion, buzzing madly. It was a woman, he could see she had long ravens black hair and full pouting lips. Her eyes glowed a bright neon green and they implored him, pleaded with him to help. She was dressed in a burlap dress, an old grain bag; it was covered in blood from the neckline to the bottom hem.
She moved her legs and Race noticed they were covered in welts, scratches and angry purple bruises. She grabbed his arm as he stood there in silent waves of shock. The flies were crawling into his eyes and mouth tickling his lips wildly. She pulled herself up with his hesitant help. “What the hell Happened?” he said through the buzzing swarm.
“Help me.” she moaned in response, “The order, the order are coming. We’ll have to get away, they’ll kill us!” she said in a halting stutter of what was obvious terror.
“ Come on, we’ll go inside, “ he offered as he held her up. “I don’t know who’s after you, but I have guns in the house. We’ll be safe there.” She took a few shake steps and whispered,
‘Guns……..guns won’t stop the order, they’ll kill us both! ” she groaned as
they moved to the front door.
Visions in ancient drama, the caste of flies followed to impossible conclusions of darkness. Race edged the front door open after finding the lock, with his help she stumbled through the door. Once they were both inside, Race pulled the screen door shut with a rattling metallic bang, the glass in the top portion of the screen door crawled with the blue flies. A few lingering flies found the freedom of the house but the majority had been held at bay outside.
She was beautiful, her features, subtle, soft , primal in flushed checks and glistening eyes of fire. He shut the interior door blocking out the cloud on the screen glass. She crumpled to the floor in a heap. A few errant flies buzzed around her face as she sighed in relief.
Race listened as she confessed the better part of her nightmare, her soul bared for him to see in confused gushes of fear and tremulous vision. He looked more closely at her thinking the blood on the burlap bag came from some horrible injury, she’d need a hospital he thought but after a quick survey he realized the blood wasn’t hers.
“The Order of the October Chaff, they’ll find us here! We’re not safe! They’ll kill us with magic’s and the road to hell!” she said in halting unstrung fear. He listened to her labored breath , the sound of her terrified exhalations. The air was thick with the coppery odor of blood and something else, the scent of fresh cut flowers, lilacs and blood red roses. She looked at him and whispered, “Please help!”
The sound of an echoing howl, a thirsty exclamation, by the edge of the wood line, surrounded the house, flittered through the walls in a dull muffled screech. She began to cry, tears welling up in the corners of her almond shaped eyes, trailing to the hollow of her checks and spattering against her bruised legs. He couldn’t help staring at her, she was the pinnacle of beauty, dark and enchanting the wants of a passionate embrace. He touched her check, brushing away the tear there; it was a damp silken droplet and before he could think he put the tip of his finger to his lips. The tear was warm, salty and tinged with the desire of a careless abandon.
The howling and the screeches continued outside, closer and more insistent.
“We’ll have to leave now! They’re near now…..” she implored Race. He stood there staring down at her in quiet reverie , sated by her tears; magic illusions of Eden he thought. “Sweet, sweet siren, yer the perfect picture of love , the sure sense honey.” She stood up on shaky legs. Grabbing his hand she said,
“We have to go!” the howling continued and the sound of high pitched screaming filled the air, the currents of October chill, the Halloween season and realms of the unbidden, by degrees and dire darkness.
Race pulled the heavy drapes away from the front window and peeked out. The woman screamed behind him and he staggered back a few steps. There was a face in the window coated in thick sheets of insect life, cockroaches, crawling and filling and spilling from his mouth. In the midst were a pair of scarlet rimmed eyes, bulging and wild.
There were four or five of them standing in a semicircle in the center of the front yard. The figure in the center was covered by thick mats of gray fur and two wolves stood guard beside him. The figure to his left was covered in waning tides of butterflies, monarchs and yellow buttercups, flittering, floating in clouds around her; he assumed the figure was female. The shape to the wolf’s right was horned like a twelve point buck and covered by thick ropey braids of hair, knotted in dreadlocks like a rastapharian. The last was winged like a raven, dark shadowy and screeching, the silhouette of a thunderhead in dark skies, momentarily illuminated to reveal thousands of ebony colored birds, ravens, like a tornado, circling in loud bands of sound, pulsing and haunting.
“The Order of the October Chaff. They’ll take me!” she screamed. The front window shattered and glass flew inward as a million flies filled the room and swallowed up the woman. She was a shapeless mound of black; shifting in commune with each other the flies buzzed and swarmed. Phantomlike she moved to the front door, step by step, the flies compelling her. Race grabbed at her in an attempt to restrain her. His hand came away in cloying gobs of flies. They were chocking him, filling his lungs, his mouth; he screamed and bit down, spitting as he crunched mouthfuls of the insects between his teeth.
The woman shifted through the glass door, opening it and stepping outside. Race collapsed in a heap of flies, smothering him with their want, their need, he fell unconscious.
Later that evening he awoke to the sound of children laughing and squeaking glass. He stood and looked out the screen door. He saw three or four small shapes running up the drive. Devil’s night, he remembered. They had waxed what was left of his front windows. He stepped outside as he began to recall the nightmare. The front of the house, it was painted in scarlet, in blood across the front of the house.
THE ORDER OF THE OCTOBER CHAFF
Race paused, thinking. The scent of lilac perfume was in the air. A moth flew close to the front porch light, fluttering, a half dozen or so, maybe more. One of them landed on him, then two, then more. He heard a howl in the distance. The moths came by the thousands and Race knew the order of the October chaff wasn’t complete yet.
Ron Koppelberger
The Mystery of the Gilded Mirror
Oral Practice surveyed the room with delicate secret and stealthy abandon. The curtains were a deep scarlet; velvet sashes, he thought. The walls were decorated with several reproductions, Monet and Picasso, “ A terrible combination.” he whispered to himself. Touching the nightstand his finger came away dusty and dry, “ Has anyone moved the deceased?” he asked the hotel manager and the night clerk. The manager spread his arms outward in exasperation.
“ This mess,” he pointed to the torn bleeding bodies, “ is as I found it Mr. Practice.” Practice, in steadfast summery, examined the bloody remains of Cordial Germ. The carpeting was a surge of amended beige and scarlet. The gouts of blood had splashed the entire room with what was now a congealed, sticky gloss. Cordial lay scattered about the room in an array of puzzle pieces, arms, legs and head; his head was in the flower basket and his arms were sticking upward like great bloody stems from the waste paper basket near the silken flowers.
A moment of silence passed between the three and in that space a gentle thunder rolled far away, distant, desolate yet exclaiming the grace of those who were in the arranged veils of life. Silent, the blood had streamed and spattered the wallpaper with tiny copper arrays of essence, essence of Cordial brought to you by unknown demons and affairs of fear.
The silence weighed like a chunk of lead in the stomachs of the three. Practice cleared his throat and scratched his scalp. “ What whimsy in tumult and two pennies for the eyes, what fury in wayward bond with the devil, what deed doth draw us into the will of fear and angry rebuke?” Practice paused for an instant and tapped the manager on the breast. “ Tis a storm, in arrays of price paid by those who live by shadow and silhouette.” He pointed to the gilded mirror hanging askew on the wall, “ Tis here, the answer, the secret, we need only capture in the reflection of a gilded mirror.”
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
The Plague
(Love in the Rebirth of Hope)
Spate Groove said, “Fabulous, absolutely fabulous!” The countryside was littered with the castoffs of a thousand, maybe hundreds of thousands, deserters. They had all left in a rush, a gosh darn rush Spate thought.
Spate walked into the background, the remnants of what they had left behind. Dusty cars and old plastic shopping bags drifted and lay unattended by their former owners. They had all left when the plague had blossomed. At first a few died then they started dropping like….like what he thought, like water balloons. Plop and splash in leaking crimson buckets, they fell apart at the seams bleeding from the eyes and ears and finally from their pours. Squish, splat and into the dirt, plop against the concrete walks and streets, eventually they all fell. The news had said, “Temporary……a temporary problem with the Scarlet Pox.” Most believed they could outrun the plague, some died in their cars, some died miles away from home, mostly they all just died and bad, as bad as it gets.
Spate went into the drug store on a whim. Maybe ther’ll be something cool he thought with an amazing thirst. The shelves were nearly empty and there were splashes of red on the counter where someone had sneezed. He went to the dairy section, it was small but a cause for a grin, the back up generators were still functioning. He grabbed a bottle of OJ from the shelf and guzzled it down in two gulps.
Spate wiped his mouth and went to the rear of the store where the Vitamins and athletes foot powder were.
Pausing, he surveyed a horror in tune with the desolation of the country. He was splayed hands outward feet tied together with lengths of variegated yarn, blue and brown, someone had bound his hands to the top edge of the shelf and he hung there crucified by unknown shadows. Spate sidestepped his feet, askew and angled to the edge of the isle.
The day wore on and the sun shone through the plate glass at the front of the store; mottled sunshine and the remnants of a coke, Spate sat there at the front of the store leaning against the counter sun illuminating his tired face with the silhouette of a few flies and an empty cloudless horizon.
Spate marked the passing seconds and minutes by the shadow of the sun against the tiled floor. By his best estimate it was four or five in the afternoon.
Standing he stretched and yawned, the jewelry counter held a revolving display of watches and crucifixes. He went over to the Plexiglas display and knocked it to the floor. It bounced without breaking; staring down at the case he noticed a tiny rainbow of light shining through the thick plastic. Grabbing the case again he slammed it down into the floor with a great heave and a yell, “YYYYAAAAAAAAAA!” The plastic cracked and he stomped on it a few times breaking it open and scattering the watches across the floor. Reaching into the shattered plastic he grabbed a silver Timex; it had a simple elastic band and was waterproof. The watch read four-thirty-eight. Slipping it on his wrist he went to the front of the store and looked out the double glass doors.
A stray newspaper flittered in pieces across the street. There were a few cars lining the edge of the two lane blacktop. The closest one was a gray Camry; its hood was up and there were the bodies of a man and a woman slumped over in the front seat. There was a portable cloths rod in the backseat, cloths, suits and dresses even a few t-shirts hung on plastic hangers from the rod.
Spate went to the Camry and opened the rear passenger door. A whoosh of hot air rushed out as the reek of decay overwhelmed him. The couple were glued to the seats by leaking pools of congealed blood and strangely enough the flies that swarmed from the car were more interested in the spilled milkshakes that had dried across the dash than the couple.
Spate closed the door as quick as he had opened it. He had been thinking about a change of cloths. There must be a clothing store around here somewhere he thought as he looked up the empty street.
Spate made his way further into town. He had come from the southern side of End house Street from the countryside. He had passed a few houses and a gas station and there hadn’t been any signs of life, not even a stray cat or dog. The idea that there might be other survivors was the notion he held on to as the hours wore on, there must be others he had thought, instead he had been greeted by the ghost of a once thriving city……empty streets and the crimson splashed bodies of those who had died in the plague.
Spate moved further down the street until he found a clothing store. Bay worth Tuxedos, he climbed inside through a smashed plate glass window. Inside there were mannequins dressed for weddings, parties and ceremonies that would never be. The store was dark in shadowy echos of what had been, what was. Spate grabbed a ruffled shirt and a gray jacket. Stripping off his t-shirt he put the cloths on. The ruffles followed the button-line of the shirt and the jacket was a French cut tailored for someone much larger than him. He stood there for a moment, silent conscious realization, he knew he was alone. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed; he’d have to find a place to sleep before long, he was famished and dog-tired.
Spate looked North toward the center of the city and for an instant, just the briefest of moments he caught the light and silhouette of a figure moving along the West side of the street. He walked then ran toward the woman making her way up the sidewalk.
The sun shone an orange twilight cloak across the cityscape. A gauzy dream in vacant storefronts and abandoned cars. The sounds of both laughter and joyful tears filled the empty spaces around them. They met, running to each other arms outstretched in greeting.
Embracing they knew the promise of a new beginning, they would make it…together. They were survivors and they had finally found each other.
“Thank God!” Spate said as he hugged her. She wiped the tears away from her eyes hesitantly with the back of her palm.
“I thought everyone was dead!” she said in half gasping sobs.
“So did I!” he replied smiling widely. She wore a tan skirt and a pleated top with a name tag attached to it. She was a waitress, or had been and her name was Elaina.
“I’ve been staying over there!” she pointed to a squat brick building with the words “JAYKEMP LIVERY” it looked to be a hotel and a restaurant. They walked hand in hand to the hotel.
Ultimately they would have children and the city would hold them close to what had been with the promise of what would be again, someday through love, laughter and moments given them both as the mother and father of a new generation, a new world in revolution.
Through all the years they lived and raised eight children and thirty-seven grandchildren they never met another soul on earth, indeed they had been the only survivors of the plague.
Ron Koppelberger
The Order of the October Chaff
The magic of quiet attire in twilight seasons and Fall address wore the melancholy of Halloween mists, the shadowy sensation of wistful winds and the throes of an aged bargain; Summer for Winter and Fall breaths of intermission, the moments considered the change from Summer to Autumn orange, tattered leaves blown in a heaping blanket of crumbling decay and cool airs of approaching snows.
The town of Hallowawe lay hidden in secret anonymity near the edge of Acres Woods; The surrounding vistas were well worn in harvest bloom, fields of sorghum and wheat cloaked the landscape between Hallowawe and Acres Woods like a great ghost of undulating saffron sky in the distant Summer sun. The houses were old with character and old fashioned regard. Main street lay in the center of Hallowawe, running East to West through the heart of the town. A Texaco gas station, the Prow Pharmacy and Hanson’s Grocery among others lined the street with easy promises and simple satisfactions.
Race Case, his mother had believed his name was perfect for him. When he was a baby she found herself racing after his curiosity; he was always into something she had told him when he was older, “Race Case, chased ya all over the place. “ she had laughed. He considered his mother for a moment as he stepped into the Hallowawe Feed. He missed his mom. She had died about three years earlier. She hadn’t suffered, she’d died in her sleep quietly and without exclamation. She was the reason he had moved to Hallowawe. His parents had been farmers until his dad passed. The farm had gone to seed literally after his death. Maybe he was meant for this life, the farmers lot he thought as he ordered seed from Barley Huss the owner of Hallowawe Feed.
“ Near Winter now Race,” he said with caution, “You aren’t thinking bout plantin are ya?” he asked.
“Nope, this is for next year Barley; I thought I’d get a jump on it before the others, sides it’s savin me money. Always buy my seed early Mr. Huss.” Barley handed Race a receipt and said,
“Yer one of the good ones.” Race grinned and said,
“See ya in the spring.” as he walked out into the street where his truck was Parked.
The evening twilight was a portent of the Halloween season, children in costumes and candy buckets full of Beer Barrels, Hershey Bars and a scattering of pennies. The sky lay in orange silhouette on the horizon, frayed bleeding spears of crimson as Race drove East toward the farm.
The old truck, A Ford F-150, smelled of oil and exhaust. He turned the radio on as the silhouette of the setting sun shone in his eyes painting him in a soft amber hue. He had turned the radio to an oldies station; a song by The Doors was playing and Jim Morrison was commanding,
“Break on through to the other side……
Break on through to the other side…..”
Race traveled the two lane road into the countryside. A flock of crows sat next to the road pecking at a dead raccoon and squawking, “Caw, caw!” Race rolled the truck window up muffling the sound of the birds as he passed.
Unwinding in a long reassurance of farm country vista, his property lay directly ahead, the curving dirt driveway flowing into the main road. The truck bumped and rattled in aged complaint as he turned off the main road onto the bumpy two-track. Trees, oaks and pines, lined the stretch of driveway for a quarter of a mile ending with a small three bedroom ranch and a two story red barn.
Race parked the truck and glanced at the burnt orange twilight horizon, tomorrow was Halloween. He rarely got any treaters nevertheless tonight was devil’s night and his mailbox was fare game; he didn’t think anyone would venture as far as the house. Last year they had smashed his mailbox beyond repair, he had replaced it with a brick and stone pillar with the box securely cemented inside. The evening sky was a bloody smear and drifting from distant points of life came the Oder of wood smoke, tinctured crisp Fall air in seasons sure.
Race got out of the truck and listened; he had seen the silhouette, the shape of something fast and tall reflected in the glimmer of frayed indigo and saffron light, near the corner of the house, the far side near the Azalea bushes. There were flittering shadows and an echoing whisper, a soft hush of sound like a swarm of flies, big bluebottle, buzzing in mass.
The front of the ranch was prefaced by a big bay window, the quiet yellow glow of interior lights shone through the part in the heavy drapes. Warm and safe he thought nervously. The yeowl of a cat in heat tore the silence in pointed wild wont. The buzzing continued a bit louder now and the shadows near the tree line called secret mysteries of fear. Maybe he should go back into town and get the Hallowawe police, maybe he should get the hell back in the truck and drive as fast as he could toward Hallowawe he thought as the shadows multiplied and spread out into the wood line near the edge of the house.
Race swallowed his fear and the trepidation that held him in place as he moved to the front door of the house. The stone steps were covered in a slick mess of crimson, blood, thick, viscous and fresh. Race inhaled in shaky contemplations of death; devils night, was it animal blood, he didn’t think so.
The shadows near the corner of the house shifted and swayed and Race made a conscious effort to ignore the buzzing sound and the whimpers he heard, the howling groans of some great goblin phantasm, the demon spirit of Halloween, in all souls confection, Candy and blood. Blood and dandelion weed, syrupy cotton tufts and black droplets of jagged leafy growth led to the side yard, he had used weed killer on the ragged grass but he was plagued with dandelion weed. The scattered weed sang copper near the edge of the walk, perfumed in dark stain and accented by the buzz of a million flies.
Race glance at the gray and ebony shadows at the corner of the ranch, whimpering he definitely heard a whimpering sound. What was the secret hidden behind the corner? Were they fearful conveyances of pain, injury, was someone hurt, perhaps a child, a babe in distress. He walked slowly to the corner of the house. The blood was smeared in scarlet palm prints on the wooden lattice trim. “ Here goes.” he said in a whisper to himself. Looking around the edge of the house he took several steps back.
The flies, there was a shape swarmed in flies. A human sized mound completely enveloped by flies, a whirling shifting mass of winged green and blue bottle flies. The sound was deafening. The whimpering was coming from beneath the thick blanket of flies. He had to do something, but the flies, he thought cringing . He had to help.
Race touched the whimpering figure and a great cloud of inky black flew up like an explosion, buzzing madly. It was a woman, he could see she had long ravens black hair and full pouting lips. Her eyes glowed a bright neon green and they implored him, pleaded with him to help. She was dressed in a burlap dress, an old grain bag; it was covered in blood from the neckline to the bottom hem.
She moved her legs and Race noticed they were covered in welts, scratches and angry purple bruises. She grabbed his arm as he stood there in silent waves of shock. The flies were crawling into his eyes and mouth tickling his lips wildly. She pulled herself up with his hesitant help. “What the hell Happened?” he said through the buzzing swarm.
“Help me.” she moaned in response, “The order, the order are coming. We’ll have to get away, they’ll kill us!” she said in a halting stutter of what was obvious terror.
“ Come on, we’ll go inside, “ he offered as he held her up. “I don’t know who’s after you, but I have guns in the house. We’ll be safe there.” She took a few shake steps and whispered,
‘Guns……..guns won’t stop the order, they’ll kill us both! ” she groaned as
they moved to the front door.
Visions in ancient drama, the caste of flies followed to impossible conclusions of darkness. Race edged the front door open after finding the lock, with his help she stumbled through the door. Once they were both inside, Race pulled the screen door shut with a rattling metallic bang, the glass in the top portion of the screen door crawled with the blue flies. A few lingering flies found the freedom of the house but the majority had been held at bay outside.
She was beautiful, her features, subtle, soft , primal in flushed checks and glistening eyes of fire. He shut the interior door blocking out the cloud on the screen glass. She crumpled to the floor in a heap. A few errant flies buzzed around her face as she sighed in relief.
Race listened as she confessed the better part of her nightmare, her soul bared for him to see in confused gushes of fear and tremulous vision. He looked more closely at her thinking the blood on the burlap bag came from some horrible injury, she’d need a hospital he thought but after a quick survey he realized the blood wasn’t hers.
“The Order of the October Chaff, they’ll find us here! We’re not safe! They’ll kill us with magic’s and the road to hell!” she said in halting unstrung fear. He listened to her labored breath , the sound of her terrified exhalations. The air was thick with the coppery odor of blood and something else, the scent of fresh cut flowers, lilacs and blood red roses. She looked at him and whispered, “Please help!”
The sound of an echoing howl, a thirsty exclamation, by the edge of the wood line, surrounded the house, flittered through the walls in a dull muffled screech. She began to cry, tears welling up in the corners of her almond shaped eyes, trailing to the hollow of her checks and spattering against her bruised legs. He couldn’t help staring at her, she was the pinnacle of beauty, dark and enchanting the wants of a passionate embrace. He touched her check, brushing away the tear there; it was a damp silken droplet and before he could think he put the tip of his finger to his lips. The tear was warm, salty and tinged with the desire of a careless abandon.
The howling and the screeches continued outside, closer and more insistent.
“We’ll have to leave now! They’re near now…..” she implored Race. He stood there staring down at her in quiet reverie , sated by her tears; magic illusions of Eden he thought. “Sweet, sweet siren, yer the perfect picture of love , the sure sense honey.” She stood up on shaky legs. Grabbing his hand she said,
“We have to go!” the howling continued and the sound of high pitched screaming filled the air, the currents of October chill, the Halloween season and realms of the unbidden, by degrees and dire darkness.
Race pulled the heavy drapes away from the front window and peeked out. The woman screamed behind him and he staggered back a few steps. There was a face in the window coated in thick sheets of insect life, cockroaches, crawling and filling and spilling from his mouth. In the midst were a pair of scarlet rimmed eyes, bulging and wild.
There were four or five of them standing in a semicircle in the center of the front yard. The figure in the center was covered by thick mats of gray fur and two wolves stood guard beside him. The figure to his left was covered in waning tides of butterflies, monarchs and yellow buttercups, flittering, floating in clouds around her; he assumed the figure was female. The shape to the wolf’s right was horned like a twelve point buck and covered by thick ropey braids of hair, knotted in dreadlocks like a rastapharian. The last was winged like a raven, dark shadowy and screeching, the silhouette of a thunderhead in dark skies, momentarily illuminated to reveal thousands of ebony colored birds, ravens, like a tornado, circling in loud bands of sound, pulsing and haunting.
“The Order of the October Chaff. They’ll take me!” she screamed. The front window shattered and glass flew inward as a million flies filled the room and swallowed up the woman. She was a shapeless mound of black; shifting in commune with each other the flies buzzed and swarmed. Phantomlike she moved to the front door, step by step, the flies compelling her. Race grabbed at her in an attempt to restrain her. His hand came away in cloying gobs of flies. They were chocking him, filling his lungs, his mouth; he screamed and bit down, spitting as he crunched mouthfuls of the insects between his teeth.
The woman shifted through the glass door, opening it and stepping outside. Race collapsed in a heap of flies, smothering him with their want, their need, he fell unconscious.
Later that evening he awoke to the sound of children laughing and squeaking glass. He stood and looked out the screen door. He saw three or four small shapes running up the drive. Devil’s night, he remembered. They had waxed what was left of his front windows. He stepped outside as he began to recall the nightmare. The front of the house, it was painted in scarlet, in blood across the front of the house.
THE ORDER OF THE OCTOBER CHAFF
Race paused, thinking. The scent of lilac perfume was in the air. A moth flew close to the front porch light, fluttering, a half dozen or so, maybe more. One of them landed on him, then two, then more. He heard a howl in the distance. The moths came by the thousands and Race knew the order of the October chaff wasn’t complete yet.
Ron Koppelberger
The Mystery of the Gilded Mirror
Oral Practice surveyed the room with delicate secret and stealthy abandon. The curtains were a deep scarlet; velvet sashes, he thought. The walls were decorated with several reproductions, Monet and Picasso, “ A terrible combination.” he whispered to himself. Touching the nightstand his finger came away dusty and dry, “ Has anyone moved the deceased?” he asked the hotel manager and the night clerk. The manager spread his arms outward in exasperation.
“ This mess,” he pointed to the torn bleeding bodies, “ is as I found it Mr. Practice.” Practice, in steadfast summery, examined the bloody remains of Cordial Germ. The carpeting was a surge of amended beige and scarlet. The gouts of blood had splashed the entire room with what was now a congealed, sticky gloss. Cordial lay scattered about the room in an array of puzzle pieces, arms, legs and head; his head was in the flower basket and his arms were sticking upward like great bloody stems from the waste paper basket near the silken flowers.
A moment of silence passed between the three and in that space a gentle thunder rolled far away, distant, desolate yet exclaiming the grace of those who were in the arranged veils of life. Silent, the blood had streamed and spattered the wallpaper with tiny copper arrays of essence, essence of Cordial brought to you by unknown demons and affairs of fear.
The silence weighed like a chunk of lead in the stomachs of the three. Practice cleared his throat and scratched his scalp. “ What whimsy in tumult and two pennies for the eyes, what fury in wayward bond with the devil, what deed doth draw us into the will of fear and angry rebuke?” Practice paused for an instant and tapped the manager on the breast. “ Tis a storm, in arrays of price paid by those who live by shadow and silhouette.” He pointed to the gilded mirror hanging askew on the wall, “ Tis here, the answer, the secret, we need only capture in the reflection of a gilded mirror.”
