April 14 2012
As He Prayed
Ron Koppelberger
App 1900 Words
Stone Rare stood on the precipice. The moon base was deserted and the only signs of life were the silent rush of air that filled the dome overhead and the screams of the undead population. The edge of the open vista standing before him was long and pointed to the distant sun, a twilight in moon phase. The raised Dias glowed a bright fiery red and the tendrils of light that spread out from around the platform stretched into the dust and open plaza below.
He looked down into the valley and prayed, there were tattered remnants of what had once been human shambling and shuffling across the dusty plaza walk. They moaned and moved closer, he was safe for now yet alone in his human mortality, except for the virus.
Stone continued to pray as the plaza filled with the damaged remains of what had been the moon bases population, destroyed, leaking blood and viscera, eyes sunken and purposeful to the allegiance of need, wont, wild fury and desire. They craved the human experience, the flesh of what was not dead, what stayed close to the bosom of god. Perhaps it was because they were cursed by the virus or maybe they were in the silent grasp of a more powerful force, something dark and evil.
Stone turned from the platform and made his way back into the complex, he had his Rambler, a laser gun, powerful and ready for the undead meandering the depths of the station. His face wore days of stubble and he rubbed his check, chapped and sore from the dry air in the station, the humidifiers weren’t working right. He prayed again, a miracle was what he needed.
Pushing open the door to lavatory A he went to the wash basin and splashed some warm water onto his face, something moved in the last bathroom stall. He looked close to the floor and saw a pair of ankles, pants around them next to the porcelain base of the toilet. Two hands, flesh mottled and reddish crept down and pulled the waistband of the pants up. He looked into the mirror again, his eyes were lined weary and old, he felt old. The stall door banged open and a man shuffled out with some effort. He was bluish and his lips were bulled taunt in a snarl. He could tell the man had been one of the bases technicians, he had died recently.
Stone moved backward and away from the man, he was slow and unable to manipulate his shamble into a run. As the lavatory door shut tightly behind him he looked into the dim light of the hallway toward the rows of security lockers.
The goal was to find the main lab, locked and behind a security veil, then with an antidote, what he hoped was, the antidote in hand, he would make his way to the launch station where the small craft waited for flights to earth. He knew there was a chance they had gone home infected, the virus active and waiting for the unsuspecting population of the planet. The cure he thought with a touch of hope, a brief moment of approaching sunshine. He knew they had a vaccine, the problem was the lab techs had all died and behind locked vaults.
He went to the lockers in the long hall and tried a few. Locked and several hanging open with the remnants of what had been a normal existence. A sound from the darkness of the shadowy hallway, the sound of approaching bodies, and screams, there were a crowd of them, bloodied torn and decaying in the confines of the moon base. Stone paused for a moment, turning toward them, he fired a few shots from the Rambler toward the ceiling panels overhead. The tiles collapsed to the floor in a heap of tangled framework and plastic tile. It would slow them down.
He moved back down the hall and turned left toward the science labs, lockers lined this part of the base as well. For a moment he considered the virus and how it had come to be, what had they been aiming for. Fields popped into his mind. Fields had been the last living person he had talked to. One minute he had been sleeping and the next he was yelling and thrashing with angry need. Stone had placed a single shot to Fields head and finally he had ceased to move. He had cried and mourned the loss because he knew he was alone with the undead.
The shadows stretched in fuzzy rows confined mostly by the steel doors to the labs. Stone thought for a moment, the coming winter, cold lonely and dead yet shambling, aching for the warmth of new blood…food, all they wanted was a taste, a taste left for the undead and here he was pulsing with life and, he considered, the will to survive, the will to get home and away from the nightmare. Stone pulled out the key card and moved closer to the locked doors of the science lab. There was a narrow metal gash in the left hand side of the door, carefully he pushed the card into the slot. He prayed, would it work; near the end of the hall plopping wet and methodical, a leaky faucet, the sound of a water balloon making contact with a hard surface. The figure was standing then falling face forward, up and down inches at a time with each fall. Its legs were broken and the shambling gate was more like a lunge as the dead man fell over and over again.
The door hummed and opened for stone, his prayers had been answered. Slipping inside he pressed a green button on the wall and the door slid shut.
The lab was empty except for the rows of metal cages and test tubes lining the counter; there was an observation room lined with red smeared glass and behind a half dozen peering faces, licking at the glass, tapping for weak spots , he turned away from the taboo to the far side of the room, Salvation. The refrigeration unit was working, he could see the yellow flashing light above the door. Stone moved to the refrigeration unit and pulled open the heavy double doors. Inside were an array of plastic bottles and syringes filled with the vaccine. What a tragedy, they had never had the time to use it.
Stone grabbed one of the syringes, the liquid inside was clear and pure looking. Rolling up his sleeve he inserted the needle into his arm and injected the clear substance labeled X-243 into his arm. His arm tingled from the injection as he sighed with relief. There were several portable freezer packs on the shelf and he loaded them up with the syringes. Strapping them across his shoulders he made his way back to the entrance.
Stone grabbed the Rambler from his waistband and prepared to shoot his way back down the long dark corridor. He pressed the green button again and the door slid open with a whoosh. The hall smelled terrible, all decay and coppery as he let the shadows close in around him again. The crowd at the end of the hall was bigger now and they were screaming as they bumped into one another, otherwise they hadn’t made it as far as the science labs.
He had to make it to the docking bay, one floor down from him. Maybe he could avoid the crowd. He turned left into the darkness as he headed for the stairwell at the end of the hall.
He was burning the breach between what was real, what was nightmare and what had become real as he stepped across the torn and broken remains of several lab workers, for a moment he had spotted movement, there wasn’t much left of them the others had eaten them nearly to the bone yet tiny groans came from one of them, in that moment he cursed the scientists and what they had done, he had to make it back to earth. He knew there was a chance the others had been infected, they needed the vaccine and he needed to be away from this god forsaken hell.
Yanking at the green metal door near the end of the hall he peered into the darkness of the stairwell, Silence and the distant echo of the stations air control units. He stepped in and felt his way to the rail near the stairs. Cautiously he made his way down the two flights of stairs to the launch deck.
Light crept in from the corners of the door and he tugged at the handle. The door moved a couple of inches outward as it bumped up against something. Looking through the crack in the door he spotted the problem, there was a body directly in front of the door. He pushed harder and the body sat up and screamed wildly. Stone pulled out the Rambler and poked it through the door at the thrashing figure. He fired a few quick bursts and the dead man lay still.
A nascent moment of breath stole over him and he felt energized, he would make it, to earth, with the cure. He hoped for the morrow with a passionate intensity, the struggle would be worth it, he had to make it. Another pulse of energy overwhelmed him and he pushed the door open wide to the space port and the loading dock.
He paused for a moment to pick something up out of the floor, a broach, silver and ancient etchings, it opened and a picture of a young eager couple stared out at him. He closed the broach clasp and placed the jewel in his pocket.
There were three ships at dock and another three that had managed to escape. Stone walked up the boarding ramp into one of the ships. He closed the ramp behind him and made his way to the control area. Purveyors of revolution and space travel had never foreseen this situation. He rolled open the port doors and looked through the bay window into the cool dark confines of space. There were a few dozen bodies spinning lazy circles around the entrance, weightless and unseeing. He fired the main engine and the rocket roared to life. The coordinates would be preset for earth all he had to do was launch.
The child in him was thrilled with the legend in myth, space travel and home away from the awful horror of the moon base, “Do you own what belongs to the heart of desire and eternal rest, scarlet tears and the love of another day for tomorrow will be with the help of our breath.” he said aloud as the rocket launched into space for earth.
The starlit sky called the heavens and the hope that Stone felt was overwhelming, but what if. They had gone on infected, what if the vaccine had never made it to earth, what if? He looked forward to the approaching earth and a shiver of fear ran down the length of his body. A new frontier, he had to hope and he did have two freezer packs filled with the vaccine. “What lay before the temple in seasons of chance and change, an alm and a prayer for mankind, a prayer for mankind.
Ron Koppelberger
App 1018 Words
Supernatural Ease
The delicate touch of the endless eternal twilight horizon lit the mid point between dark and light on 531- G, daydreams and cold coffee filled the days with the fruit of long passions and an aching desire to see spring blossoms rather than Krokus bloom and weed. Hunter Nobel stretched his tired legs and stood up from the metal folding chair. He thought of home and the sun, the earths sun, steady, bright and forever. She hadn’t wanted to come to the new west as they called it, she hadn’t wanted him to go to the new frontier either.
She had stood before him, haughty, emerald eyed and lanky with auburn hair, hands on hips with a defiant look on her face. “You don’t need to go to that Damn planet Hunter, we have everything we want here on earth!” she had proclaimed with a gentle nod of her head. The argument had lasted two hours and in the end he had watched her walk out of his life.
The sky bleed spears of crimson stain and to the rear all was pitch black. Gathering his camp he moved toward the distant horizon. The whisper of forgotten ghosts caressed the landscape and ruffled the endless sea of Krokus; the flowers had been the settlers choice and they flourished with a supernatural ease like everything else on 531. In the distance bright stars glimmered and called for the discovery of other worlds, other lands and adventures, adventures in darkness and light, heaven and hell, sought diversities that sang the songs of lonely and populated worlds.
Dandelion wine and the taste of bitter alms whet his thirst, a strange combination but quenching, fulfilling the moment with fact, the fact that he was alive and alone in his day or perhaps night, the defining line had become blurry 531 blurry. The shadows of a faraway mountain range stood behind him calling out to the sea of glass that poured from the sky, the wavering blooms of thousands of Krokus blooms and ragged weed. He had planted Oaks and Maples in the darkness of the plain, always hoping for the best, trees and some semblance of earth; closer to the light side of the division he had planted apple trees and Blackberry bushes. The planet was not quite ready for the populace that longed to populate her shores. The oceans were vast and of both fresh water and salt, salt and tears, fresh water and marine life that resembled earths.
He had seen the seas from the bay window of the ship that had dropped him off. He had thought of emerald eyes and the desire to run, full speed backwards, nevertheless he had pushed. The natural ponds and lakes were in the thousands and the water was clean and unpolluted, filled with what looked like trout and tasted like chicken.
A season of passing marked the trail between the delivery ship and where he had come from. He would plant and prod the soil hoping for new life, the prospect of shadowy dreams bequeathing the future, and that alone made it worth it, the prospect of futures bidden to the heart of 531, for everyone on earth, for the spirits of South, North, East and West, the new west done in flourishes of harvest wont, the spirit and soul of holy blossoms and discovery, lands anew, the tide of tomorrow. A stand of rock lay before him outlined in jagged points and edges. He headed toward the rocks and his footprints left the evidence of his passing between one point and another, between the seas of flowers and a small outcropping of stone with a pond in the center. He made his way to the center of the rocks and opened a small metal container. Eggs, from a variety of fish, with a toss he dumped the contents into the small pond. The trifles of god he thought as he peered into the water after the eggs. The evidence of his purpose was the fireflies that scattered from the surrounding weed, they were big as big as dragonflies and bright like tiny light bulbs. They were a sight to behold and there were thousands of them brought by the settlers before. After a few moments he moved away from the pond and headed further toward the twilight forgetting the dark side of the planet for a moment and knowing that his journey into the light would take months, nevertheless he saw the sun in his dreams and he moved forward toward the rendezvous point.
He watched as shooting stars lit the horizon for a moment, a meteor shower, dozens of fire bright stars in the distance. The day saw the ancient taboo of man and new life rather than the old ways of war and confusion. He moved ahead and the path remained long as he planted and sowed saving the last for the sun. The wheat seed, the promise of what would feed the planet, the wonder of saffron colored fields in endless arrays of freedom and passion, he would save the wheat for the sunshine on 531, making this the place of shelter the conclave of what fate would allow.
As the weeks passed he planted and sowed the terrain with life and promise, the sun grew larger and larger on the horizon as he moved out of the twilight to the eternal day. The sky glowed a hazy blue and gray as he planted the wheat field, and he took care to the soil making sure the toil would be beneficial to the need of a future population, always keeping in mind the fires that lit the earth and her wanting ways. As the tenth week approached he saw a tiny dot in the distance, a transport, a seed ship brought forth by the purveyors of the wheat and the Krokus. He moved forward with the hope and expectation of a fresh spirit, the soul of a new freedom that would bring 531 to its destiny.
March 8, 2012
First Scene, Part oneRon Koppelberger
The Tranquilizer (How to make an angel) The sweet freedom of sleep. Designed and kindred to rebirth. A mysterious shamble through fields of saffron and gold, sunshine and mist, he lay on the sane leather comfort of an overstuffed couch dreaming the dreams of angels and wild beasts, pilgrims and magic spray. He slept and the peril, the insistence of everyday living, passed him by in seconds, hours and years. The sun repeated its suspirations, day to night, night to day. The moon watched in nonchalance as it waned in tides of swollen romance. He sported chance and sustenance, never aging, remaining forever young while the countryside went through revolutions of change. The house decayed and the couch became a mound of fertile earth, melding with the wheat bloom and saffron spells of sanctity. When he awoke a winged myth he was in possession of brilliance and the blessings of heaven. |
Second Scene, Part oneRon Koppelberger
Endurance The misery of frequent voyage into the realms of pain and adrenalin rush was the most powerful motivation in Tom Snaps blameless existence. He pushed the rational of preventive measure to its limits. The treadmill hummed and Tom pushed and pumped, strove and exhaled in near exhaustion. The quality of faith in the machine, in the substance of obsession and wild allay with the soul of a healthy belief consolidated his balance, the balance of desire for perfection and hazy mists of ascending vapor, passage to the sweaty besides of raging rebellion and good, healthy exercise. The deeply satisfying bloom of flushed checks and visages of lean demeanor were the favored choices of those who exercised with ceaseless abandon he thought. Thirty-five miles and counting, the treadmill continued to hum and somewhere deep in the mechanism of metal essential, a stray screw unwound. The divine communion obeyed the holy orders of synchronous movement and straining sinew. He jogged on the rotating rubber mat and the beast hummed in confederate accord. A shoelace, the fetters of expensive running shoes hung loose, bouncing from the rotating track to the top of his shoe. Tap, Tap, Tap,……the screw continued to unwind. He pushed and pushed until his exhaustion bode fate. The loose shoelace caught in the plastic and metal mesh, the gears of the rolling consul, of miles undone, at thirty-seven point five miles caused him to fall. Smash and a yank…….his ankle twisted and snapped with a dull pop. He fell into the guard rail and his forehead bore the impact. Delirious, he lay on the humming beast, the mat blood spattered and a scarlet veil trickling into his eyes. The lockout key remained in place and the beast continued to hum, rolling against his skin in Indian burn and exacting tangle. Finally, after a moment that seemed to be hours he yanked the lockout key and the beast stopped. Smeared in crimson and maroon the black rubber mat cooled, settling in sated measure and degree. Crawling away he made it to the utility room where he kept his tools. Fumbling around for a moment he found what he needed. Dragging himself back to the treadmill he swung the heavy hammer killing the beast and in turn reconciling his desire for perfection, in triumph of the obsessive demon in guise of utility. |
October 15, 2011
Ron Koppelberger
Cataract
The experience of tangled romance and palls of moaning trembles in contemplation yielded to Cicero Canyons resourceful wrapper, his icy exterior in essence and calm. He was a definition of composure and purpose, nevertheless his shadow gripped him in it’s embrace, descrying a fear that ceremony and sufferance attempted to understand.
The sheen, the cataract was enmeshed with the attentions of writhing absurdity and silhouettes summoned to the deformed cluster of shapes that writhed within the cataract. It was near the drawn sash of virgin Tea Rose curtains and crème colored walls. A giant web, a thin gossamer of silk shifting and engaged in some funk, he thought what the funk. He’d counted their numbers to be in the thousands, a chrysalis full of creepy-crawly tidings; Cicero pulled the sash allowing a bit of light into the room.
The sun shone in bargains of warmth and wise delight. The amber rays caressed the engorged cataract and a flurry of undulating desire cried”Let us out, to be free and in the realm of men, to be free!” Cicero sensed the onset of a deluge as the cataract broke. The contents rolled out onto the beige carpeted floor, scarlet viscous and winged in fluttering cacophonies of lunatic glee.
He screamed, “ Beware, beware we come from an ancient scribe the cataract in the eye of moted demons!” Ferocious fanged and flying in tempests of great swollen rage, they circled the tiny apartment. Cicero thought back to the day he had found the ancient text, a plague, a plague.
He stumbled in delirium and suffocating rapture, falling to his knees supplicating the swarm in prayer. Cicero realized in the whispers of an ending and disintegrating reason that the wisdom of an ancient amend authors the action of those who would possess the secret of knowledge and wild power. The tenant would also arrange the saffron and rolling waves of wheat as the fates desired, the gift of the garden and the curse of that which devours all, in it’s path…..in it’s line of vision toward the horizon…..on wings of flame they flew west toward the endless seas of wheat and the freedom that defines the respite of man. West to the wonts of light in the semblance of a great swarm and a devils cloak come from cataracts in secret yearning. The yearning to capture man.
Cataract
The experience of tangled romance and palls of moaning trembles in contemplation yielded to Cicero Canyons resourceful wrapper, his icy exterior in essence and calm. He was a definition of composure and purpose, nevertheless his shadow gripped him in it’s embrace, descrying a fear that ceremony and sufferance attempted to understand.
The sheen, the cataract was enmeshed with the attentions of writhing absurdity and silhouettes summoned to the deformed cluster of shapes that writhed within the cataract. It was near the drawn sash of virgin Tea Rose curtains and crème colored walls. A giant web, a thin gossamer of silk shifting and engaged in some funk, he thought what the funk. He’d counted their numbers to be in the thousands, a chrysalis full of creepy-crawly tidings; Cicero pulled the sash allowing a bit of light into the room.
The sun shone in bargains of warmth and wise delight. The amber rays caressed the engorged cataract and a flurry of undulating desire cried”Let us out, to be free and in the realm of men, to be free!” Cicero sensed the onset of a deluge as the cataract broke. The contents rolled out onto the beige carpeted floor, scarlet viscous and winged in fluttering cacophonies of lunatic glee.
He screamed, “ Beware, beware we come from an ancient scribe the cataract in the eye of moted demons!” Ferocious fanged and flying in tempests of great swollen rage, they circled the tiny apartment. Cicero thought back to the day he had found the ancient text, a plague, a plague.
He stumbled in delirium and suffocating rapture, falling to his knees supplicating the swarm in prayer. Cicero realized in the whispers of an ending and disintegrating reason that the wisdom of an ancient amend authors the action of those who would possess the secret of knowledge and wild power. The tenant would also arrange the saffron and rolling waves of wheat as the fates desired, the gift of the garden and the curse of that which devours all, in it’s path…..in it’s line of vision toward the horizon…..on wings of flame they flew west toward the endless seas of wheat and the freedom that defines the respite of man. West to the wonts of light in the semblance of a great swarm and a devils cloak come from cataracts in secret yearning. The yearning to capture man.
October 15, 2011
Ron Koppelberger
Scraps
The tawny walled confession, passion, passion in sensuous sympathies of substance and reason exampled the warmth, in extremes of sweet blessed asylum. The coverings were primal, fury and tempered by release from the bond of woven stitch. A scrap for the sum, a scrap for the honest roll of waves and carefree abandon unto the instinct of primitive attire. Raves and fair battlegrounds in sheepskin and the blossoms of asylum full in wash, full proof of the decor and the sentiment defining courage.
The hallucinations were an opiate silk and the honey oozed from every pore of his body, in thrall of wheat and amber sunglow the tides sang sheepskin blessings of shelter. He was in clandestine array with the scraps of sheepskin , sheepskin that adorned his walls in rejoicing breaths of life and discourse unto the will of a man, a touch of heaven. In discourse of blossoms , marigolds, roses and dandelions in fearless sworn allegiance to the rift, the fury and the sharp toothed allure of chronic bounding adaptation…..wolves and men by the advance of wheels and machineries of evolution like a great rainbow weld gone to the wont of bonded instinct. Tales of brothers in savage pleasures of rhy whiskey and sheep stuffing, he loved in this and prayed and his prey approved of his passion. Imbibed by the wild dream of wolf unto the need of mere men, free affections and journeys of awe, by this he extended his consciousness to the twilight tide advance as he ran without fear toward the hand of god.
Scraps
The tawny walled confession, passion, passion in sensuous sympathies of substance and reason exampled the warmth, in extremes of sweet blessed asylum. The coverings were primal, fury and tempered by release from the bond of woven stitch. A scrap for the sum, a scrap for the honest roll of waves and carefree abandon unto the instinct of primitive attire. Raves and fair battlegrounds in sheepskin and the blossoms of asylum full in wash, full proof of the decor and the sentiment defining courage.
The hallucinations were an opiate silk and the honey oozed from every pore of his body, in thrall of wheat and amber sunglow the tides sang sheepskin blessings of shelter. He was in clandestine array with the scraps of sheepskin , sheepskin that adorned his walls in rejoicing breaths of life and discourse unto the will of a man, a touch of heaven. In discourse of blossoms , marigolds, roses and dandelions in fearless sworn allegiance to the rift, the fury and the sharp toothed allure of chronic bounding adaptation…..wolves and men by the advance of wheels and machineries of evolution like a great rainbow weld gone to the wont of bonded instinct. Tales of brothers in savage pleasures of rhy whiskey and sheep stuffing, he loved in this and prayed and his prey approved of his passion. Imbibed by the wild dream of wolf unto the need of mere men, free affections and journeys of awe, by this he extended his consciousness to the twilight tide advance as he ran without fear toward the hand of god.
October 15, 2011
Ron Koppelberger
The Highest Dry
A resonant scream echoed near the base of the hill. “Heed my call oh ye who would have my soul fer yer supper!” Forcefully, the man moved upward picking his way through the stones and boulders scattered along the path.
Several days passed and the man found himself halfway there, the valley lay far below and the sea stretched away endlessly toward the horizon. He rested and listened, a voice sang in grumbles, “If yer passing my realm, yer to be my slave in blood, I’ll drain yer spirit and break yer bones, by the depth of the secret pond you’ll bath in my eyes and shadow!”
The mans expression was stone and determination he would charge the demon and climb the pinnacle at the apex of the hill.
The monster cooed, “ Yer to be here forever human, forever and a day, forever!” The man moved forward and up toward the summit. Once at the peak he surveyed the secret pond that lay in the uppermost crest of the hill.
The monster sat on its haunches, on a precipice near the center of the pond. “Come to me!” it hissed blood bubbling from its fanged maw.
The man rested and broke bread near the waters edge. “ There’s a destiny fer ye to follow.” The beast coaxed. ‘ Come to the ledge, swim over here the water is cool and life giving!” The man ignored the creatures request.
“ I’ll throw the bones of my enemy into the pond.” the man said as he dumped a sack full of bones into the small lake. The creature stood on the upraised island near the center. “Yer to fulfill the prophecy with the drink, drink of the well, drink of the water, drink of the lake man!” The man paused for a moment and turned away leaving. “I’ll not humor your command beast, for you are surrounded by the bones of those who have lost, the water is tainted by that blood!”
The creature watched the man leave, its burden eternal and it’s fate the highest dry. The temptation to drink the water forever in its consciousness. Unable to drink or cross the pond the beast accepted its fate as it waited for the well to run dry.
The Highest Dry
A resonant scream echoed near the base of the hill. “Heed my call oh ye who would have my soul fer yer supper!” Forcefully, the man moved upward picking his way through the stones and boulders scattered along the path.
Several days passed and the man found himself halfway there, the valley lay far below and the sea stretched away endlessly toward the horizon. He rested and listened, a voice sang in grumbles, “If yer passing my realm, yer to be my slave in blood, I’ll drain yer spirit and break yer bones, by the depth of the secret pond you’ll bath in my eyes and shadow!”
The mans expression was stone and determination he would charge the demon and climb the pinnacle at the apex of the hill.
The monster cooed, “ Yer to be here forever human, forever and a day, forever!” The man moved forward and up toward the summit. Once at the peak he surveyed the secret pond that lay in the uppermost crest of the hill.
The monster sat on its haunches, on a precipice near the center of the pond. “Come to me!” it hissed blood bubbling from its fanged maw.
The man rested and broke bread near the waters edge. “ There’s a destiny fer ye to follow.” The beast coaxed. ‘ Come to the ledge, swim over here the water is cool and life giving!” The man ignored the creatures request.
“ I’ll throw the bones of my enemy into the pond.” the man said as he dumped a sack full of bones into the small lake. The creature stood on the upraised island near the center. “Yer to fulfill the prophecy with the drink, drink of the well, drink of the water, drink of the lake man!” The man paused for a moment and turned away leaving. “I’ll not humor your command beast, for you are surrounded by the bones of those who have lost, the water is tainted by that blood!”
The creature watched the man leave, its burden eternal and it’s fate the highest dry. The temptation to drink the water forever in its consciousness. Unable to drink or cross the pond the beast accepted its fate as it waited for the well to run dry.
Ron Koppelberger
Stray Strawberry
An antique possession, hunters delighting in the welcomed myth of unrestrained temptations. A bartered bewilderment in dovetail yesterdays and sated thirsty dawns, in the reflection of a polished metal trigger. They rumbled and grumbled in belching declarations of fraternity and in vision of unfurled freedom. They had placed the net in the center of the beasts run. Clandestined, entwined with a rush of wild strawberries and briar scrub the trap availed the promise of a grand trophy.
Glistening marshland bog wavered in waves of mist and ethereal smoke around them. Khaki shorn boot laced encampments of scandal and bloodlust followed the tides the hunters swam in. They hid unshackled and in clever contempt for the beast and it’s wild domain. They embraced the crush of primitive power and hoarded anger, anger that drove them to make an example of the hunt. “An arrow in the heart of the beast!” one of them whispered. Devised by measures of desolate glee they waited in blind hatred for their prey. “Absconder!” another one whispered. “Strength!” one of them muttered.
In sure order the beast obliged the hunt and an age of seconds and still hours halted as the beast tore the first one’s head off with razor sharp claws and gnashing teeth. “Strength!” he had muttered. The second one screamed and flailed as the beast eviscerated him in a flash of knifelike fangs. “Absconder!” he had whispered. The third one stood his ground shaking and waving a sharp blade. The beast contemplated this moment and disappeared after gulping up a few stray strawberries. The third had whispered the word, “Harmony.” in rebuke and fear, the arrow forgotten and the beast placated.
Ron Koppelberger
Clutches of Spider Secret
In courageous cause, enraged by the drama of a variegated sunglow vista, she fought for the harbors of life and patient sedative, in brandy dreams and hospice respite. A dissident mood of whiskey high expedited the stitching of a scarlet cloak, in spider silk and tender twofold covenant. She drank and she drank and she drank, Brandy for coffee, Brandy for the symmetry of a drunken embrace. The spider, the raspy haunt of a moth in the likeness of a soul borne of heresy and the sufferance of sin , her sin a spider bride and humble arrangements of conferring beggars. Begging for the wrath of spider secret.
A bond of evening and a designed indigo darkness enshrouded her dreaming temper. A wedded spider in eulogies of fat despairing consort. She emanated the value of a plaything and a parched child of fate. Spider sure in clutches of secret nourishment, she defined the route and the destiny of those who were chosen for the alter.
The crosscut pass ran next to a streamlet of rushing water, there she sat. Thermos and flask, hand in hand, waiting for the common amusements of a man, a special man. Smelling of wheat and saffron and sunshine. She had a spider secret, bones and breath, sweet and dusty piles of alabaster splinter and crimson gore. Piled in spider secret, clutches of men, the bones of a dozen husbands in crunchy decay. She waited, hungry for the flesh of the man, the special man……in clutches of spider secret.
Ron Koppelberger
Evading the Dark Pursuer
He suggested, hinted at the lifeblood and ancestry of rival factions and hunters in eventide sun. He rode the stallion through desert beds of ancient gully; the water was scarce in the midst of the chase, nevertheless he had his canteen. He took a sip and stitched the bottle back onto his hip.
They were closer than three miles of dust, sand and dry desert wind. He moved on patting the black skinned horse on the neck, his hand came away slick with the animals perspiration. The vampires never rested even in noon day sun, they were a certain brand, a breed made for daylight hunts. Although sensitive to the suns heat and glowing rays they wore heavy, dark robes and shadowy face masks. They were a persistent breed allowing only twilight avatars to press forward through their territory, all others were fair game.
He rode and the sky became red in great slashes of color, red like the essence of life, the blood they eagerly sought. He looked back and distant ripples of mist, dust and three pinpoints in black secured their place on the backward horizon. Rare stories said escape, farewells and long breaths of respite were in the reverie of a distant illusion. They’d persist, unless, he thought they found prayer, found the god of their source. Squat boulders and an oasis of tumbleweed lay ahead, he’d rest there; perhaps he’d make his stand in hopes the vampires would fall to worship.
They derived their power from an ethereal enchantment and were in constant debt to the source of their bloodlust. They were prone to long breaths of unconscious worship when confronted with the source of their power, during worship they were vulnerable, even helpless in trances oblivious. It was a chance at salvation, he climbed off of the stallion and surveyed the large stones, the sand and sage brush in the tiny clearing.
He didn’t have any choice, he pulled out the sharp blade he had fastened to his side. With a quick slash his palm bleed bright red droplets of blood. Moving to the front of the largest rock he drew a semicircle in blood. The design was a vampire symbol and sacred to the worship of their breed. It was his only hope.
The sun approached the horizon and spears of pointed light illuminated the boulders face. The vampire riders paused and got down from their horses. Their eyes shifted between each other and in unison they knelt down to pray.
The vampires had become the prey. They were oblivious as he severed their heads one by one. It had been a close call, he’d have to be on his guard now. There would be others and when they discovered the trio they’d be relentless.
He mounted his horse and headed North West toward the mountains and a chance at freedom.
Ron Koppelberger
Nocturne
The concord of jumping jacks and panting suspirations filled the darkness of the bedroom like an inflicted illusion tempered to the strident nocturnal eternity of another night in a shroud. The blackout had come on the eve of an illusory dream. He dreamed and in blinding fear of the darkness. He shivered by silhouette of shadow, fearing for his life.
The flashlight had burned out hours earlier, and the tiny wax angel had fluttered for exactly one hour and twenty-six minutes before sputtering to a pinpoint of orange light. One, two, three, four a demon desire at your front door, five, six, seven, eight, don’t forget to lock your front gate, a monster for your mines and a beast in double time. He hummed and sang as he did a series of jumping jacks, sit-ups and pushups in the deep dark confines of the bedroom. Chambers of shadowy hell he thought, convened of a suggested seizure, velvet thorns of silhouette and terror. He blinked the sweat from his eyes and screamed in terror, “YYYYYYIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEE!” Spittle flew from his mouth and his eyes bulged like blazon orbs of secret fiendish vision. He gasped and listened. Whispers, whispers of ghoulish purpose. “YYYYYIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE!” he screamed again. Venerated in eternal restless death , the creeping rudiments of wild psalms in forbidding benediction to the wicked professor, the evil amore’ of charcoal killers in bloodlust fervency and sated narratives in black.
His arms flailed and he pinwheeled onto the couch, screaming like a wounded dog. “YIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEooooooowowowowowo!” he lay shivering in a fumbling clumsy lump as he hugged the cushions. Shielding his eyes he whimpered. Suddenly the front door rattled as commissioners of possible Boogey beasts knocked. “Hey, you ok in there?” the muffled voice questioned. Employed by terrors he ran to the door and threw it open. Dead vacuous eyes of fire glared at him in winged demonic sashay. Framed by the knotted pine doorframe the demon sunk it’s claws in a miasma of rank bouquet into the tender flesh of his shoulders. “YYYYYIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE!”he screamed as the neighbors wife grabbed his shoulders, shaking him gently. Collapsing in a heap at her feet he died. Later when the light shone through their secret, they would discover the bodies of his wife and two teenage sons in one of the bedrooms.
After killing them he had apparently gone insane, yet in retrospect they had no explanation for the claw marks and burns covering all of their bodies.
Ron Koppelberger
Sure and smoothed over
Writhing, amongst the anomalies well kept taboo were the liquidy squirmings of flatworms and accordion legged millipedes. The anomaly
Stared at the small broken mirror above the sink; short cropped hair and azure eyes, a firm jaw line and tapering nose stared back at him. He pursed his lips and dipped his hand into the sink. The worms and millipedes wriggled as they became a part of the anomalies hand; smoothed over and sure, he thought.
His legs became whole as the rest of his body shuddered convulsively. Smoothed over and sure, he thought again. The demon had called him from the bowls of perdition and he was sure now, smoothed over in his three piece suit. He had purpose now and the freedom of human form overwhelmed him and he shook, “ Double, double.” he whispered as he tore in half becoming two, two anomalies, two in earthly companion and unearthly task. Identical, the suit tore and fell away in shreds. The anomalies grinned and shook hands with each other. “pleased to meet you. “ one said.
“ The pleasure is all mine.” the other replied. “Double, double, sure and smoothed over. “ they repeated in unison. The demon would be pleased, and in equal portions of joy, joy for the birth of their time they laughed and clapped each other on the back. “ Sure and smoothed over, sure and smoothed over.” they repeated as they began to divide again. Near twilights edge the apartment complex hummed and a crowd of anomalies, spilling over into the streets, packed into the apartment building, were laughing and singing aloud
“ Sure and smoothed over.” like the roar of a colossus.
Ron Koppelberger
Duck in degrees
The review was an important step in the process, eat, eat, and eat again. Chintz Toss was the foremost master of grilled, baked, roasted, toasted and
Broiled duck. Chintz dreamed duck , dressed in squat duck style and his favorite tune was Disco Duck. The review, he had to focus on the review. One day defined in fine eclectic script, Chintz received a breath of new life, a note of invitation,
“Vex, worry, distress ye heart
For naught, for luck come
And dine with us in gleeful
Affairs of rare duck!!!!!”
The note was signed Cleaver D. Delight purveyor and director of “Hungry Wolf” 210 Red Leaf Lane. Chintz could almost taste the delicious fare. “yum, yum, yum.” he muttered in nervous expectation. The endless progression of duck had finally begun to intrude upon Chintzes’ pleasure, the seduction of a fine meal, in distant horizons and close comfort. He thought of the precious invite. The will to carry on for the sake of flavor and hungry diversity. He knew the meal would revive his interests. To assure the divinity of professed pallets and express taste, he thought. He’d make the Hungry Wolf the bother of garden marms and brawny croakers. Forget the vegetables and frog legs, tis a season for duck and duck and duck. Chintz Marquis Toss dressed in gilded cotton adornments and delicate slippered hands; the white face powder gave him a gaunt definition. He was in earnest urges to exclaim the work ethic of feasting fortune; he slipped on his long black leather boots, leather and expressive. The Hungry Wolf, worthy of my conspiracy in affection for the feathered quarry, he thought as he swept the silken cape around his shoulders. The day moved forward and near noonday tide he made his way to the Hungry Wolf.
The front door was a silhouette done in delicate sprigs of amber glass and
Goldenrod design while the handle was a crystal globe, rainbow hued and in spears of sunshine glow. Chintz touched the knob expectantly as he rotated the crystal. The door gave way to it’s secret and the gravel strewn floor rolled and waved before him. Chintz wanted and continued to dream of duck. He stepped forward into the den of hungry wolves and divine wilds. The tables were wistful emerald spheres with enormous boulders as chairs, large, gray and crimson splashed with feathered gore and bird droppings.
Chintz gasped “breath Toss, Breath!!!” the tender remains of duck soufflés’ and broiled hare stew sat in a giant cauldron nearest the table to his left. The smell was enticing and his stomach intervened as he began shoveling the stew into his practiced mouth. Thus the hunters who had enticed the fare of a fine meal sat in patient compliance with Chintz and his obsession. Chintz faltered for just a moment as the hunting party whooped and howled and growled. The gallery was full, beastly aggressive. Chintz finished and belched in compliment. The paw of one of the hunters touched the gentle throbbing rhythm of his carotid artery and in a moment of realization he understood the penalty as he was devoured in grand fashion.
(The turn is torn by the feast of excess.)
Ron Koppelberger
Orphan Picnics and the Bandit
The sign wasn’t altered in it’s exclamation, nevertheless it was an indicator of past terrors, the harbinger of wild rumors and bloody exaltation, it read,
“Do not feed
The bears!!!”
The sign was a chipped gray and scarlet, the lettering a bold exclamation of warning. Handy Bandit sighed and touched the roughly speckled surface of the sign. The surface was covered in spatters of crimson, blood perhaps he thought. Wrinkling his brow he surveyed the pine straw littering the ground, the piles of freshly scattered dirt, in telltale mounds, half buried in moldering leaves and torn dirty soils, a row of graves.
“Do not feed the Bears.”
He read again as his sneakers left impressions in sporting claim against the blood sodden dirt.
“Do not feed the Bears.”
The graves were haphazard constructions, built in grizzly instinct and scarlet paw. A crow sang, yelled from atop the pine bows, “caw caw.”
Handy sat the picnic basket on the dry patch of earth and opened the burnished lattice lid. The scented desires of starving campers and hiking hunger poured from the basket. Fried chicken, Potato salad, and neat containers of potato chips.
“Do not feed the Bears”
He whispered reverently, by prayer and eyes revolving in desires of chance.
Handy unfitted the restraining straps of the backpack and removed a blue and white checked blanket. The nature of his aloneness forebode reason and rational as he layed the blanket across the bloody soil. The crimson tinctured the blanket in disdain, in warning. Handy closed his eyes for a moment as he sat down on the blanket. He saw seas of scarlet and suns blazing amber in painful clarity. The mists of a wrath untold and blind by the need of what sapphire eyes and mulberry wont express. Eating the call of ravaging danger and tears of senseless diversion. Handy ate chicken, potato salad, and the crisp chips lined neat in stacks.
The balance of night and day divided the hours as handy ate and thought. In the end he concluded the twilight ceremony with a prayer, “By Gods grace we take the wisdom of sense and the desire to live in passions of safe futures and asylum.” He prayed in quiet breaths of new resolve. The night sang sure and the remnants of old chicken bones and plastic containers marked the sodden ancient soil, by bidden release he was reborn and given the will to survive.
Ron Koppelberger
The Root Trader
The ground tugged at Louisiana Paleos’ supply of independence and mounted concern. The crop slapped at the stallions hindquarters leaving tiny welts of conveyed direction. The sleepy waters of Wabble Morass pulled at the hooves of the horse, Trembling, prepared for the worst Louisiana feared the payment of the root trader.
He had untangled the trail that the morass had presented and near the end of the quest he had found the day, hour and age of sublime barter with the root trader. A tiny wood and plank thatched house sat like a beacon for those who ventured the Wabble wash, the intervening morass. Knot holes let the fires of candles within show through the tattered walls of the cottage. He had stifled the urge to scream as the root trader had shuffled through the front door of the ramshackle construction. The house had shifted nervously as the jabbering fortune of boogey barter and dabbling reputation moved in slow halting breaths of swamp fire toward him.
“A bit o Arrow Root fer ye sir?” he questioned. “Arrow root on tha powers of love fer yer flame?” he chuckled as he held a small leather pouch outward in tempting offer.
Louisiana pushed the image of the root trader from his mind as the horse became entrenched in the morass, wallowing and floundering in frothy fear. The trader was covered in leaking pustules his face, or rather his nose, the place where it should have been was a vacuous set of holes bubbling crimson droplets with each of his wheezing exhalations. Louisiana gagged for a moment as he returned his attentions to the leather pouch. Arrow root for his love, the magic of the root trader, but at what cost.
The mark of Louisiana’s hand was swelling and leaking water like fluid. The root trader had scratched him in a giggling frenzy of chattering, gibbering ferocity. Louisiana had grabbed the pouch from the root trader, slapping the horses flanks wildly in fear. He endeavored to free the stallion from the bog as imagined the trail back to safety, back to his love, back to life and away from the root trader. The matter of pest house madness created suspicious fingers of pain and unbound vicious welts in his hand as the root traders scratch became a myriad of leaking cuts and spider web wounds. The Wabble root trader had tried to stop the stallion and Louisiana from leaving with a cattail frond and a screeching yell. The hose nothing but truth and a ferocious fear had trampled the root trader into the damp earth.
Louisiana thought about the crunch of his frail bones and the gasping curse he had spoken. “Heap o sleep and scratchy glue, let the death of Arrow Root be on you!”
The horse became dense shrub; the scratches became sprouting leaves and roots as Louisiana evolved, revolved and resolved the traders curse. An ancient oak grew from the seedlings of the curse and the spot became the center of the morass as a marker for the trader and the curse.
Ron Koppelberger
The Amulet
She wore it in stubborn perfect poise; silver and ruby meticulous, the amulet was in the shape of a cross. Smooth and eternal in it’s wisdom, it protected Phoenix Scarlet from the suppositions of death. A desire in glaring bloodstone jewels and sanctity, she fingered the cross and sighed in reverie. The requited exclamation of life, Phoenix gripped the amulet as death made it’s
case to her impressive cause. “Forward Phoenix, it’s been over two hundred years, aren’t you curious to move forward?” death said flirtatiously.
“Nay,” she replied, “ my place is in life.” the sound of wild gypsy rhythms filled the air, violins in furious fray, like crocodilian enticers to doom.
“ But what of your woodland greens and your family, they all await you Phoenix.” death coaxed.
“No sir, I prefer to be with the living.” Death sighed and said,
“You’ll change your mind eventually, for the purpose of life is to transcend the breech.” death explained.
“Even so, I refuse you.” she said curtly, “Now be gone.”
Death left and Phoenix prayed to the heavens with clear conscience. Phoenix vowed vigilance and renewed her covenant with the angels as the amulet renewed her and it’s purpose.
The Amulet
She wore it in stubborn perfect poise; silver and ruby meticulous, the amulet was in the shape of a cross. Smooth and eternal in it’s wisdom, it protected Phoenix Scarlet from the suppositions of death. A desire in glaring bloodstone jewels and sanctity, she fingered the cross and sighed in reverie. The requited exclamation of life, Phoenix gripped the amulet as death made it’s
case to her impressive cause. “Forward Phoenix, it’s been over two hundred years, aren’t you curious to move forward?” death said flirtatiously.
“Nay,” she replied, “ my place is in life.” the sound of wild gypsy rhythms filled the air, violins in furious fray, like crocodilian enticers to doom.
“ But what of your woodland greens and your family, they all await you Phoenix.” death coaxed.
“No sir, I prefer to be with the living.” Death sighed and said,
“You’ll change your mind eventually, for the purpose of life is to transcend the breech.” death explained.
“Even so, I refuse you.” she said curtly, “Now be gone.”
Death left and Phoenix prayed to the heavens with clear conscience. Phoenix vowed vigilance and renewed her covenant with the angels as the amulet renewed her and it’s purpose.
Ron Koppelberger
The light in Snake Fuss
She wriggled and questioned the deft snakeskin bond, the ceremony in sated beliefs, the belief that the viper would mind the miracle in course. She charmed and prayed. She committed her half-blood desires to the suspicions of an insatiable thirst, thirst for control over the cool, sleek craft of her performance and measure of passion.
The silence of her wild inborn assumptions weighed in equal parts lust and need. The snake shadowed the silhouette of ash and the woman waved the mists of perfected art with nimble hands, just a touch of blood and the serum of saints, she thought. The snake fell into a listless sleepy subjugation and the woman, in sanguine appetites of affection, danced and gestured in gleeful commune with the souls of those akin to the snake. Her fangs shimmered and the snake submitted its’ wrath to the devotion of a charm.
In assurances of divine resolute will, she sunk her fangs into the pliant flesh of the snake and sipped, just a bit, just the briefest reprieve in the mystical arena, the sure shed skins of existence. In the nature of creatures we wish, she grinned in triumph and slaked admittance. The portion of the snake that laid hold to the nether realms of whim and fancy completed the woman’s wish as she spun in circles of delight. The sweet nectar of the apple, the taste of blessings in snake fuss. In a moment of reflection she questioned the difference between apples and snakes blood, nevertheless the moment was flittering in distant thought as she thought of nothing but the gain of her appetites.
The light in Snake Fuss
She wriggled and questioned the deft snakeskin bond, the ceremony in sated beliefs, the belief that the viper would mind the miracle in course. She charmed and prayed. She committed her half-blood desires to the suspicions of an insatiable thirst, thirst for control over the cool, sleek craft of her performance and measure of passion.
The silence of her wild inborn assumptions weighed in equal parts lust and need. The snake shadowed the silhouette of ash and the woman waved the mists of perfected art with nimble hands, just a touch of blood and the serum of saints, she thought. The snake fell into a listless sleepy subjugation and the woman, in sanguine appetites of affection, danced and gestured in gleeful commune with the souls of those akin to the snake. Her fangs shimmered and the snake submitted its’ wrath to the devotion of a charm.
In assurances of divine resolute will, she sunk her fangs into the pliant flesh of the snake and sipped, just a bit, just the briefest reprieve in the mystical arena, the sure shed skins of existence. In the nature of creatures we wish, she grinned in triumph and slaked admittance. The portion of the snake that laid hold to the nether realms of whim and fancy completed the woman’s wish as she spun in circles of delight. The sweet nectar of the apple, the taste of blessings in snake fuss. In a moment of reflection she questioned the difference between apples and snakes blood, nevertheless the moment was flittering in distant thought as she thought of nothing but the gain of her appetites.