Ron Koppelberger
A Wolfs Foresight
Rationed in burdens of reflection and omission, the secret of cleaving taboo stood in half-light whispers of vision. A dawn of rare breed, it was a velocity of ragged union. The sun he thought, the sun. Thrilled, absolute in spears of glory and hope, the sun. It was an engulfing allegiance and the divinity of fate.
He flexed his chapped hands seeing, seeing the long nails and the growth of fur covering his hands, his paws, his body. Contracted by the skeletons of misery and the faith of crowns that bespoke of allure, allure to the realm of saffron gold and ancient old gardens of naked passion, angel extremes. He saw a circle of bloodied stones in a dream and a gathering of secret fracture. A fracture in the gloss of humanity, a common aberration, men in delirium, unsatisfied with the gift of wheat, of saffron and splendor, men of doubtless conviction, nevertheless sin and hell following the revelation of their purpose.
He saw them in his dreams and nightmares in evening twilight hunts and by the glow of the full moon. They waited for the third coming of heaven more appropriate to their calling, their task and the advent of their damnation.
The stones and the secret contained by the depths of soil and its guard, the stones guarded by waves of wheat, a saffron spell, a nurturing patience.
Falling to his hands , changing, he loped toward the endless eternal wheat.
Ron Koppelberger
The Fellowship of Dusk
(Borne by Dawn)
He stalled the opiate modern jargon with a whisper, “Silence sweet child!”. She smiled and calmed in degrees of ease at the sound of his voice save the sound of the revolving planet. “Look here child of hard love and bartered dreams, look here toward the seed, the wont of dandelions, pregnant and needing a suitor for horizons endless bloom, look here!” He held a dandelion before her; it was seeding and fluffy in wisps.
She calmed again and he pulled her close, a father’s love, a protector knowing the advance of boyfriends and guys. He saw the bloom, her destiny in fields of endless saffron yellows.
“My sweet daughter, your husband shall be a cradle for your fears and a sunset for your days, a touch of dawn for your concerns and the promise of futures bidden, and he whispered her name, “Sweet Hope, Sweet Hope."
Ron Koppelberger
An Ambrosial Bond
The events were told by the actions of the followers, by the mass, the group of so-called ordinary folk. The leaflets were etched in gold frameworks of ink and proclamation, “DESOLATIONS ARRAY, BY THE SUN AND THE DARK, DAYS OF REVOLUTION…”. Theodore read the pamphlet as the throng of devoted followers swayed and rolled toward the stage.
“Join the cause, come to glory and respite!” he read. Ink stained his fingers indigo as he crumpled the paper announcement. The man on stage paced back and forth, yelled and raised his hands in fervor.
“We’ll take it all! All of it my friends, from Los Angeles to New York city, all of it!” he screamed. Theodore fingered the 44. Mag in his waistband. Sure, cool heavy and ready to wash the fray.
Just for a breath, a moment of pause between the stage and the crowd, he sighed , “Simple and sure. “ he whispered. Reconciling himself to the act, the assassins credo , he prepared to change history. The crowd surged and hummed and the echo of a raging devotion and naive acceptance embraced the performer, the rouse, the false front.
Theodore gently removed the weapon from his waistband and inaudibly the safety clicked off. Somewhere to his left a woman moved closer. The gun was cool and ready, by the desire for action, hands clasped, just a pull he thought. As he prepared to change history he inhaled holding his breath and ready to squeeze the trigger.
A sweet aroma assailed his senses, overwhelming him, in hold, in refrain, sweet, ambrosial, healing in sustenance and wont. She moved closer. Amazing, warm and perfumed, by grace and tide, “Simply amazing!” he whispered as his hand fell to his side. She was next to him now. “Sweet scents!” he said in a trancelike state. The misty scent of her perfume clouded his mind and he dreamed, dreamed of passionate embraces and wild eyed romance, he dreamed and inhaled as she took the gun and quietly, without hesitation or sentimentality raised it to his temple.
Sweet mists and wandering love, perfumed in tendriled webs of silk, perfumed spider-sure and sated by the blood of surrender, sweet surrender. No one seemed to notice as she pulled the trigger. The crowd surged swallowing the resistance of fated fortune and drama, the whole drama borne of monsters and saints.
