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.

Poetry a la Sun

Ron Koppelberger

Ancient Dry

The silence of intimate crowns and frenzied allure,

The world of vigilant certainty and trespass

Unto the express depth of heart and soul,

Of root and branch in eternal escape and

Parades of suspicious heed,

The pursuit of raggedy substance and ancient

Dry hells in conclusions of suffrage.

Ron Koppelberger

In Twilight Fire

Ground by the moted dust of whirling delirium and

Gasping sighs of elation, a wild eyed assent exciting the vigor of

Wondrous glee and smudged panes

Of glass, leading the vision of ancient passions and freedoms

In gloss, by the light of an accomplice sun,

Torn unto bleeding skies and expectant in twilight fire,

By creations in distant reverie and quietly acclaimed

Followings of sparrow will and sated song, by the comfort of legends

And fantasy beloved in taboo and real realms of earth, resolved by the

Passage of moments spent in serene repose and thrust forward

                                                        By the promises of wandering hearts.

Ron Koppelberger

Cool Fancy

The confession in care and pastures of ravishing

Will, a natural charm in unity and

Flustered revolutions of unsurpassed breach,

The ever always in respite and balanced

Entrance, in the midst of trespass and passionate

Efflorescence, holy, delighted in courtesy of

Ascension and grace, in terms of drive and sovereignty,

A sweet, blessed craft in warm bones and

Cool fancy.

Begat by Solitary Irons (New Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger

Begat by Solitary IronsHawk Due confessed to the brutal chill of his confines and the green bricks of his cell walls. The whys of his confinement were cut by eons in pass. Another year, another day, hour and second in destiny, told by the will to live.
He looked at the ashes of his life for an instant pleading penance and broken vows of silent heart. For a man the whole of a world lay bare, and for the provident wolf all the night, in flow and freedom, yet for the quest of both man and wolf the answer was a web of interior veils. Did he exclaim martyrdom for his prison; the complaint was a journey to wild savannahs and ancient forest spans of existent, for wont and passion.
He gathered the moss for the rage and desire. He had found immortality through the lanes of candent moon glow crème. He was in the shroud of crescent moons and burning rain, the rain of wolfs and wild measures of infinite keep, by the arrival of a beloved breed and liberties of seasoned unity, with the height of seduction, the spells of promised liquor. The fresh array of longing for the chains of human condemnation hung heavy and loose like the bond of passion and lust.
Hawk layed the match against the frayed candle wick and prayed to the souls of Sheppard’s and sainted wolf breed. He found daring surges of understanding in his recollections, prevailing revelations followed his pale eyes and he growled in satisfaction, he ascended the prison in view of a great gray ghost; in an instant he saw the horizons edge bleeding seas of wheat and saffron gold. Rushing to unbridled spirit Hawk Due saw the spring, the Thaw, the fresh ornament of fair mystery in his reason for endurance. He knew he would be free to consecrate the rule of wolf and rapacious need.
They would cut the swathe, they would come for him in the days of sable snow, finding wine fermented for the wont of mans hunger and the ash scattered across the winter of a black rose.

A Mans Fated Garden

Ron Koppelberger

A Mans’ Fated Garden

The bond of perfect happenstance expressed the result of wisdom in degrees of chance. He amended his spirit, the core of his soul with the temperance of everlasting whiskey tumblers and vodka vision. A sober regard for the drink in respite of an eternal drunk. Cool in longing, cold in tastes of sour sweets and worshiping alters of drama, intoxicating, he thought. He was hunted by parched passion and dabbles of bourbon. Distinguished in jiggers of juice and shots that benumb the desolate isolation of being alone.
He drank and drank and drank, sugary spoils rushing in waves of inebriated assurance. Tumblers of rumble and staggering whim. A humble concoction in beds of dew and fall leaves. He slid to the forest floor, whiskey glass in hand. He found himself growing tired and old, soon he was coated in moss and mold, mushrooms and bold stones of marble and ash. The spirit of stone had concealed the man in secret and excess had gone to seed with the flesh of a foregone conclusion. “ be ye aware of the stinging shade of temperance that lies in the soils of a sober harvest.” The man sighed an immediate amen to the sibilant voice that spoke to him. Soon after he returned to the dream of verdant eternities in sylvan wilds and drunken excess, sleeping in quiet fortitude, in serene breaths of nature and the return to mother earth.

StaleMate

Ron Koppelberger

Stalemate

Transcending the peaceable direction of the parties dissolution, the collision of rebel souls went forward in obstinate glaring standoff. Kodak was stoned in an oblivious mystic glade of swirling images and echoing challenge. He would win the drink-off and Lansing will jus loose he thought in a drunken stupor. Kodak grabbed his whiskey shot and drained it in a synchronous movement with Lansing who gulped the fiery shot with a growl.
Spittle drizzled onto Kodiaks blue striped shirt, staining the vast expanse of material it took to cover his 400 pound frame.
Lansing was a wisp compared to Kodak weighing in at 150 pounds and at six foot two he appeared somewhat emaciated, this led Kodak to exclaim, “I’ll drink ya under the table string bean!” Lansing swayed as he poured whiskey into the two shot glasses. Kodak grinned and grabbed at the shot. The tiny glass was embossed in scarlet and read,

“THROW IT DOWN!”

Kodak squinted at the words and fixed Lansing with a myopic stare.
Lansing examined the contents of his glass and in consideration licked his lips. The two wooden backed wicker chairs creaked as they both shifted for the next round.
In unchaste synchronicity they both leaned back the dollop of whiskey. In unison both chairs tilted back on two legs as they drank. In quantifiable dissension the two toppled over simultaneously. Kodiaks head hit the floor and cracked like a ripe melon. He died thereafter. Lansing rolled into the floor with supple ease.
The driving force of fate hastened the lanky drinkers demise. He managed to crawl out the front door through a clutch of Azalea bushes and Bougainvillea. Still on his knees Lansing crawled into the street where his Toyota 4x4 waited.
The flashlight beams of the oncoming vehicle shone in his eyes for a brief moment as the black SUV established it’s dominion over Lansing. Lansing was nearly torn in half by the impact.
The verdant demon smiled at the outcome of the drink-off cackling in a dry brimstone respect he looked toward the heavens,” one for you and one for me.” he laughed.

Her Crazy Thought

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