The Roast (Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger

The Roast

She found the novelty of cooking the salmon colored chunk of meat to be a welcome offence, a check in lieu of the crime. The mythology of gods and dreamy provocations, the scent of roast scum, the hopeful rose in want of a sated stomach, a full belly and a dollars worth of wine, in what’s under the sun and near to the heart of homespun cooking.
She had prayed and prayed on the hodgepododge of homeless spectral vagabonds. A mystery of dirty faces and tattered wont, accepting and blameless. He had returned to her tiny asylum in the suburbs in stride with his aching stomach and the need to eat. He was hungry for the hungry, skid-row and all that desired the sustenance of a good meal.
Hungry for the hungry she thought. An unsaid thirst for the mercies of human harvest, in full bloom, in ravishing sweeps of desire.
The lessons of wretched existence, torn, bruised living had given the homeless man an edge and he perceived the witches design. Resolved to coincidence and the character of an enchanting verdict, a surrendering motivation, a turn of fate for the man and his silent acceptance of the witches will, he saw the solace of a bitter alm; I’ll be a sour turn in her swollen belly a dubious anger in her stew pot, a bit of sin in her fame, he thought. The wild bother of witches and warlocks, the rooted essence of revenge, he would devour her with his unmitigated froth, a bad savor indeed, for his brothers and sisters.
The witch dispatched the tattered vagrant with a great flourishing sweep of the blade as she sliced him into edible bits. The seconds tempered the scent of roast wills and baked to do. Finally, the charge found perfect haven with the roasted fare, the succulent appeal in ringing bells and timed buzzing ovens secured the approach of the moment, the grand design of cannibals and demons in feast.
The witch groaned, “ Yummy for me, yummy for me.” The fare was beyond all expectation and she ate until the trifle of hunger begged that she repent. She swore by the spirits and unbidden feasts. “ Tis a notion in passion to rave the merits of a good man in breaths of consuming desire, to my friend, to the vagabond prince of hungry revelation and the taste of a sin ever so sweet. “
* The path of freedom and vengeful rebuke define the nature of a judgment brought forth by the nature of greater wills. In singular fashion the witch became ill and died in her crime.