In Good Health

Ron Koppelberger

In Good Health

His defiance and grouchy persuasive savagery would soon be renown with the unfortunate tokens of trespass and an evasive thistle. They had Sundays blessing, the whole of them, but Monday was another day and tomorrow would tell the humble balance of his resolve.
Only three hours to go, they had used toilet paper in his trees, spray paint on his house and rocks against his now shattered windows. They had flattened the tires on his car and beaten him to a broken twig of uncertain existence.
He opened the bottle of chilled whiskey and toasted the window pane, a reflection of revolution he thought. “Here’s to your health!” he said raising the frosty bottle to his parched lips. He had tied lengths of wire in a crossfire circuit of woven gossamer, invisible silk, spider web sanctity through his yard. He had sharpened the stakes and dug the pits deep enough to cage a wild tiger. He cradled the shotgun in his lap and as the twilight drew its indigo cloak across the horizon he prayed, prayed to the shadows and silhouettes of an evening promise. He prayed in earnest supplication to the gods of vengeance and retribution. He flipped the light switch and settled himself down in front of the window; it was 12:01 AM.
A pleasant vista of rose blush and oak lined the yard and the beige shutters emphasized the eyes of the front windows, eyes of seduction in wooden thrall and sheets of glass, a taboo of blood and wrath, a defiant grace stepped in the promise of revolution and anger….tempting the violence, tempting the destruction of clapboard dreams. Simple coble stone pathways and loose garden hose tangles in subdued secret arrangements of invitation.
The car full of men pulled close to the curb, music throbbing; his heart pounded wildly and he raised the cool whiskey bottle in appreciation. The shotgun cradled in his lap clicked as he cocked it.
“Here’s to your health gentlemen………here’s to your health!” he whispered.

A Legend By Wing

Ron Koppelberger

A Legend By Wing

The derelict myth justified the impressions left by flourishing lemon sun glow, in wrangled perfection and the blue skies of endless summer. The dream was within the winged union of secret honors and agreements of surviving wombs. The serenity of its environment was in covenant with the dream and the dream was divine.
He exhaled and whispered, “Illusion or madness, possible or defended by god?” The myth moved in slow supple waves of lengthened berth and essential utterance, “The renown of accommodated seals crown the acceptance of redemption and common voyage unto the summons of an immigrant sunrise.”
The man endeavored to hold the westward horizon as the legend flew in lazy circles about his sky and off toward unseen coasts and inland seas, away yet pointing to the harvest of saffron and wheat in the distant fray.

Whispering Brand (New Poetry)

Ron Koppelberger

Whispering Brand

Wicked decrees in ash and blackened lace sash,

Desolate by empty measures of chance and fate,

In deserts of naught and the tempests of

Wild diversion, by dry cactus thorn and bones in dusty array,

Falling in thrall of stony hearts and cool eyed

Stores, a prayer amidst the fury of stumbling

Deliriums in scarlet, in wounded reach, the gulping precipice

Of what becomes a need for love and embracing passion, unto the sun

And the stars in quiet revolutions of longing,

By hearts trod, by silent survival and

Whispering brand.

Cotton Candy (new Poetry)

Ron Koppelberger

Cotton Candy

Sweet dander and glowing roses

Of fine-spun sugar, a delectable savor

Of necessity and unbroken youth, the tears of tolerable

Desire allayed and comforted by

The nectar and web of cotton confection,

By the promise of dreams and candy wishes, by the

Tangle of warm treasures in wanton tastes of

                                                                              Cotton candy.

Ice Milk (New Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger

Ice Milk

Sterling Glory spooned the icy treat into his mouth with perfect grace and compliant savor. Sweet blessed ice milk, a touch of heaven in a mystic hell. The bleached white cloth fluttered and caught in the arid breeze. The makeshift infirmary was little more than a tent begat and full of a never-ending array of patients all ill with the morphous virus, the shifting demon that wasted the vital essence of life.
Sterling stood near the entrance savoring his ice milk. Cool snowstorms in the midst of a broiling insanity, he had screamed and raged until the requisition had been fulfilled, rationed consideration, cool in the promise of a mosaic of earthen pleasure. He saw himself as a child, grinning with his quarter as the compact white cart revealed its treat. The ice crème man handed Sterling a cup of Vanilla ice milk and he savored the moment in an accomplished nearness to god, a panacea for the following of man.
Sterling watched as the mess hall guard and nursing staff made the rounds. Each and all received a cup of ice milk. Sterling realized what the distance was between today and yesterday and tomorrow and forever an eternity of life. “Ice milk, MMMMMMMMMAAAAHHHHHAAAAA.” he whispered as he fingered the quarter in his pocket.

When the Coast is Clear (New Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger

When the Coast is Clear

Persia Temperance saw the dead reckoning of an intimate, unshackled blood lust, it was a secret passion, a blessing, a blessing bartered for the eternity of forever. The merger of vampire raves and mortal conclusion was a consideration of the utmost for Persia. She liked being a vampire and her desires were weaned on blood, the blood of humans.
She licked the beaded scarlet droplets from her chin like a cat. She waited, she had to be sure the coast was clear. She hadn’t been interrupted in her pursuits with the young couple and she was roused to a sated lethargy. In a poised silent calm she stood before the plate glass window of the apartment window. She watched and waited for the streets to empty.
The Willena Bog was her asylum and she only had a few precious hours to return to her resting perch. There were vegetables scattered across the polished wood floor and parquet tiled kitchen. The couple had been out shopping in the nightly market that marked the town of Jenuessee’s Carnival celebration. Persia thought about the Hammock and the jungle wild, the tribes from ancient times, the subtleties had changed for Persia with the passage of time. The last hundred years had seen radical changes and some improvement for her lot. She always exercised caution as the tides of time were in her favor as long as she was careful in the hunt. The tribes had been savage in ancient times and the mortality rate, even for those who were immortal was low, nevertheless she had survived and her line had flourished.
The couple had been unsuspecting, unaware of her presence in the loft apartment. They had fallen to her thirsts with relative ease. Her foray into town was a curious one this evening, the carnival was in full swing. She wouldn’t be seen. The wild music and the painted denizens created a perfect air of secret purpose, still she waited lest someone see her leave the apartment. A band marched in crazy screams and beaded castaway dreams below and she realized her time to leave the apartment was at hand. With a passion for her safe haven she moved out into the streets, by back alleys and cobblestone she made her way back to the swamp and the frayed edge of an eternal night, a night marked by her unbidden desire and the wonts of a vampire life. As it was, she found solace in the fact that she had filled her belly and marched in a parade of frivolous abandon. The swamp called and she availed the call, her mind on the ethereal light that was her life, her existence in distant vistas of vampire heaven.

The Super Highway (New Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger

The Superhighway

Within the boundary of sense and fate, a covenant in procession, the man followed the route, like a superhighway. He was mystified by the length of the journey, a trip in perfect flawless rhythm with the heartbeat of the superhighway, Fifty-seven miles to Tampa the green reflective sign read. He tapped out a cigarette and lit it, a few cinders fell from the tip to his lap. He brushed them toward the floorboard leaving a gray smear on his black slacks.
The twilight-tide sunshine, orange and indigo velvet lit up the endless expanse of highway. Subtle designs in shadow swayed and yielded the welcome of his excursion to Tampa. An undeviating spear of concrete the superhighway derived from doubt, championed the conquest of stark barriers in feasts of fear. He was reincarnated in perfect psalms and in the instant of a breath, the purpose of infinite speculation. Reborn in union with the superhighway and its intent. He exhaled a puff of smoke in ancestral wonder, primal in reciprocating waves of fog. He reckoned with the knowledge that the divinity of custom and circumstance had brought him full circle. The sign on the sign of the road rolled by. Out loud he whispered, “Fifty-seven miles to Tampa.”

Aria In Shadow (New Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger

Aria In Shadow

The embryo grew in news and the tramp near the edge of Promise Nod looked to the name of Aria, the violent summoner of arid winds and fiery desire, a witch of reputation in promise.
He faced the front shingle on the ancient cottage door, all gray with scarlet lettering, “Aria The Steeple” it read. Humbled by the shame of poverty and the passion he felt for Aria, he stood waiting for her acceptance. A father to be he thought, a child in due by the fates and by the wont of a black witch.
Polly Dray knocked on the rough hewn oaken surface of the witches door. A rapt gift of practiced patience stole his haggard face in waves of anticipation. They had met by the Western Glenn, she in dark eyed attire, a rare mix of magic and satin ease and he in suffering regret, a pale faced clumsiness prefaced by the rags of misfortune.
She had come to him in a dream.
“Bidden by the wont of child, a dark need for the birth of an apprentice.” she had whispered in his sleep. She led him to the edge of a glass pond, silent, secret and in clandestined shadows. They had given the sky a moment to remember; twilight, scarlet desires in fervent passion, they had followed the crimson heart of ecstasy , of bliss borne from the grip of wedlock, in sin, darkness and fire, bought by the unbidden features of broken taboos and uncommon affections. They had created from rags and silk, a bond by blood and the cleaver eye of a witch, Aria the violent and Polly broken in spirit, he only aware of the moment, the due he needed to climb the delicate petals of stature and life.
A turn for the better he thought as he stood waiting for the door to open; the arms of an angel he thought of the witch, my sweet Aria blessed by the gods and her husband to be.
A few moments later the door swung open unfurling darkness and the trappings of his illusion. In naive currents of desire he thought, her rouge is bright and her lips sweetly shimmering in scarlet whispers of song.
Aria stood before him, covered in blood, apron smeared scarlet by her bloody handprints. His look of cloudy delirium became a look of surprise and dismay, yet he had known, with a surety he had been aware. She crossed the gulf of Polly’s shock and pulled him close.
“Sweet man, tis just a moment before twilight and the silhouette of night-tide saints, calm yer fear and cool yer dismay!” she hugged him close and the vapors were sweet as well as coppery with the violence of the witches passion. She kissed him gently in convincing measures of bond.
The sound of night thrush filled the wild around the cottage as the moon cast its light across the small clapboard house, the breath of drama told in a grim distraction.
Hear ye!” she said in his ear quietly.
“See ye!” she nibbled his ear breathing warm summer winds and daisies into his accepting consciousness.
Aria led him into her asylum. The door closed shutting out the evening sky and the path he had traversed to be with her. He saw soft shades of amber light and the odor of baking bread filled the air. He was enchanted not seeing the body of the man, rended and broken, dismembered and slashed in crimson, splashes of death. He didn’t see the cold edge of the blade laying near the corpse nor the smile in darkness, in secret cankers and charcoal soot.
Aria patted her stomach and grinned wider. “Our baby dear Polly, we’ll raise her to be a queen, a princess in power, to avenge your rags and my prison, to become the pasture for our devoted moment of vengeance dear Polly.”
The table the body was laying on dripped pattering tears of blood against the burnished oaken floor, pooling in a savagely satiating aura of red. Aria stepped back sliding in the sticky mess, nearly falling and for an instant he saw her, ancient, bleak and candent by the fires of hell, in her moment of weakness. His eyes became clear for a moment, just the briefest of admittance and a sleepless gathering of strength crept into his countenance. By dust and roses he thought, what wore the witch, his sweet Aria what wore her.
Pulling him close again she sang in his ear.
“Like sacred storms and the rain of tangled dreams, give me my cleaving affection in dire confection.” Polly listened and wavered from his insights, perhaps she was an angel in dark airs of passion. She touched his eyes and sent him a vision. Sunshine and spring flowers in bloom, children playing and sparrows flittering black then white, black then white, white and black. He opened his eyes then, seeing her for what she was, dark, evil and angry; nevertheless she loved him and he was frayed, burned by the struggle and she was carrying his child in her womb.
Sprays of sparrow song and dandelion bloom anticipated the birth of Arias baby. Polly saw darkness and the same expectation in Aria’s eyes.
She sweat blood and smoke, fire and wrath. He looked to the midday sky and thought, it had been nine months brewing, stirring in the mists of fate. Happenstance was discreetly convincing the wind and the tempest currents. Polly wrestled and wondered for his child, for the troth of a darkness borne in ecstasy and wont. He wondered and his contemplation secreted the wisdom of one who was enchanted by the notion of flowers, azure heaven and god, guiltless deliverance. He struggled for nine long months finally deciding. She’ll be my daughter named beauty and love, balanced by my devotion. Polly thought again and to the edge of the darkest horizon. He would end the witches life after his childs birth. For the winter to come and times of hunger, he would steal the child and the breath of the witch, the steeple, the killer of innocence, for the promise of his soul and his daughter. He would take her the moment his sweet salvation was borne into the world.
Aria lay in wait for the hint of her achievement, her daughter, in spasms and convulsions of birth, in revolt, in revolutions tide she screamed and fought the pains of child birth. In an instant the child was borne, into the light and shadow of Polly and Aria, crying new wanting the things of the world and her mother lay in reverie, in asylums of warmth, candent and in the way of sacred angels, her father strong with resolve.
She dreamed and cried and thrashed at the world, tiny tears sliding across her ruddy checks in infant passion.
Polly drifted between the realms of shifting day and a suffering night, he best a twilight thought. She’ll be away from the witch if only I can manage he said through a sudden and overwhelming lethargy. Polly’s eyes widened and Aria laughed in salt and flame, loud, hysterical and wild. She laughed and convulsed in rhythm with the childs tears, her daughters power.
The baby touched her check and Aria screamed as a bright sun appeared there smoldering her flesh and burning her to ash. Polly touched the child, his daughter borne of a dark witch and a vagabond and his hand came away shriveled, old by degrees of time as the future spun ahead.
Brick and mortar replaced the forest glenn and the sound of airplanes, cars and scurrying footfalls, the footfalls of countless people filled the air. Polly saw his daughter for a final moment before he crumbled to dust. She was laying on a city sidewalk, the concrete jungle of Promises future. Passerby glanced apprehensively down at her, looking for her mother and wondering why a baby was laying in the middle of the busy crowd. Her writhing newness was the birth of an era a time in passing seconds and days of fast evolution.
She waited for her parents in the shadow of a brilliant light. A swan and a black and white sparrow, of the suffering witch and the desire of a tattered castoff.
On her way to work the woman, kind in expression reached down and took the baby to her bosom, away from the hard surface of the concrete sidewalk. She noticed the pile of rags laying next to the child thinking of a homeless mother or father.
The woman smiled and sang.
“Hush little baby, go to sleep.” The baby grinned and cooed bound by the promise of an era given to the romance of a secret future.

***

Twenty Years Later

She was twenty years old now, no longer that innocent babe. Cloaks of light engaged her wherever she went, nonetheless. She stood on the top floor of her new penthouse apartment and sighed as her husband whispered into her ear.
“It’s great isn’t it hon?” he said as he kissed her ear.
“It’s just beautiful Shaver, just beautiful.” The sound of music and singing, tribal dark and wild drifted up from the glossy burnished cedar floor. “Must be a party downstairs.” she commented to Shaver.
“Must be honey, maybe we’ll go down and introduce ourselves.” he offered casually. She looked at him for a moment wondering.
The city skyline was gorgeous she thought in clouds of distraction. She stared over the rail to the balcony below. There were people milling about the patio and they were laughing as they ate crackers and pate’ The sky grew dark for an instant as she heard the name. Aria, the woman on the patio was starring up at her and smiling.
“Come on Aria, the band’s great!” she looked away and went back into the apartment.
For a moment the woman, Aria had looked old ancient and familiar. Shacking her head she walked back into the penthouse. She could hear her husband talking to someone on the phone in whispers.
“Hey honey, we got an invite for the party.” he said excitedly. She remained silent thinking about the child she was carrying.
“Great honey!” she called back as she prepared herself for the party. “That’s great.”

In Sackcloth (New Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger

In Sackcloth

The headlong pursuit of celebrated, even admired, fruits in ferment, lingered in the vapory mists. The bedlam measured equal portions of sorrow and misery in her cauldron of cause. “Sweets for the Sweetie.” she chuckled to herself. The laborers had diligently fenced in the property of her neighboring lot. She had never talked to or even seen her neighbor, nevertheless she whispered, “sweets for the sweatie.”
After two days labor the fence was nearly complete and the dark skinned laborers remained unscathed as they talked, joked and dug post holes. She thrust the jape jawbone dust and rooster scrap into the charcoal colored pot. “Sweets for the sweetie.” she hummed.
On the third day one of the laborers knocked on her door. In a pallor of panic she answered the door, a great thunder and roaring like the screams of an injured tiger betrayed the timid knocking sound. Running to the smudged begrimed window glass, she starred at her neighbors property in horror. A giant plume of darkness stretched from the ground to the sky blotting out the sun and swallowing up the workers. The giant cloud moved in her direction and she mumbled a curse, acknowledging her error. Maybe it had been the rooster bones she thought as the tempest devoured her.

Neglected Prodigy

Ron Koppelberger

Neglected Prodigy

The maneuver was an unadorned rite of harmless absolution. He was beneath the reverberating inspiration of intense disagreement. The truth was that the measure of wisdom in blunders of rambling sanatorium guard were calculated to route one’s spirit and estimated sense of balance. The brotherhood of construed illusion and bare fact were notions for the doctors and technicians. He simply presented the earnest indicator of error. He depended upon the social interaction that would come at 2:30 P.M., the definable concord with kindred spirits, the commingling of essence in fervid whispers, a mortal commune.
At 2:30 his essay was in collapse. He was still in his padded cell awaiting the stream of group therapy. In worship he paraded for the custodian, the nurse that would lead him to the garden and the others. Where was the guard, it was 2:30.……still waiting he thought. The rare wine awaited him, the restoration of soul and spirit, the resolution to alien touch and primal resilience.
Finally, at 3:00 P.M. the nurse arrived. Opening the door he led the gorilla to the garden, in proffered apology he handed a banana to him as a peace offering.
He loved the bright yellow fruit and the company of the garden.