The Spoils of Glass and Sand (Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger

The spoils of Glass and Sand

The calm mistress of heed unhindered by the hold of charmed allusion and uneasy loves, filled his thoughts with the intrinsic need for gullied course, rabbit wills and hopping always, in secret chawing nibbles of grass. He watched the rabbit creep across the glenn and into the hidden copse near the west side of the gully. What of the contract, the promise for beacons and spotlights, sunshine and twilight, sylvan wilds and sand, endless eternal sand. What of the promise, “ To dust,” he whispered; just a phantasm of arranged fare, he thought. The promise………, he saw the spoils of sand to glass reflections in gathering temptation. Tempted to abide and willed to trust in the promise, he thought in furrowed scathless perfection. The promise and what was begat by the turn of tide, what nascent dreams and rushing rivers will, the promise to countries in ash and townships full of starvation; and what ails the healthy? The promise unto oblivion, except with the sunshine compliance of man and revolution. The promise to passage and resurrection’s devise. He sighed and smoked in lazy tendriled passion, a cool ambiance of tobacco and wanderlust. He looked at the rabbit……..” A full belly tonight” he said aloud, “ and tomorrow we reap the rewards of the hunt, the hunt for salvation in the face of bloated bellies and gaunt demeanors……., merely a rabbit, he thought.

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.

Irons (Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger

Irons

Coral Fundy wore leg irons and a faded orange jumpsuit lettered bold in black, FUNDY 320983. Following the mornings sin against his grumbling stomach, a breakfast of runny eggs and charred bacon, came day number 2,457. Coral laced up his work boots, heavy tanned leather hide and stained earthen hues of dirt and brown dust, tinctured by green grass stains. In a prelude to the grass trimming and weed removal, the guard banged on the row of cells one by one, “Work detail!” he yelled.
Corals cell door slid open with an aching screech that was all bones and age. He shuffled out onto the gray shellac of the polished hall. “Follow the yellow line!” Quincy bellowed. Quincy fell in behind Mars as he followed the yellow strip painted along the center of the of the concrete floor. Quincy guided the inmates through the birthing process finally emerging through locked iron gates and a foyer with thick bullet proof glass.
The two white vans were marked with the logo of the Hammock Correctional institute and an official state seal. Coral and the other inmates moved into the vehicles, single file and silently attentive to Quincy and the other guards.
The daybreak sunshine chided motes of dusty reverence through the window glass in the van. The taboo of freedom rolled past the oily smudged panes of glass as they moved closer to the south Hammock Oak and Rose Sanctuary.
Coral perched in expectation of the route he was in visible expectation of the flower, the amaranth, the magic blossom that released him from bondage. The vans crowded the row of parking spaces as they pulled in at a sideways angle. The spoils of nature and lively freedoms unchained the inmates sensibilities as Quincy unlocked the silver metal doors of both vans. He marched the prisoners out in a neat row of assessment. Head count and assignments of labor were shouted out.
Coral stepped out onto the pebbled concrete parking area. The assurance of roses in bloom and the perfumed remains of flowers in acclaim filled the warm summer air. Quincy led Coral to a secret grove, an enclave that sported ragweed and bordered the outer edge of the sanctuary. As Quincy left Coral to his work at clearing the ragweed from the sheltered roses, He looked back and saw a furious Coral pulling weeds from the between the rows of flowers.
The mystery of the amaranth was shaded under a narrow ornament of oaks. Coral exhaled a musing sigh as he weeded the successive rows of rose bloom. Attending the lines of fate he admired the beauty of the amaranth, the magic trifle of god. Pausing for a moment, he went to the shade of the oaks and the resting place of the amaranth. He touched the delicate blossom with gentle care in holy reverence for its wonder.
Quincy ran the work detail for another four hours before he spotted the empty leg irons. Quincy yelled and whistled as the silent roses kept their divine secret.

Whispering Silence

Ron Koppelberger

Whispering Silence

The scattered knowable yield of

Half-breed motley twilight in slavery

And tethered horizons, a berth in

Abandoned indigo treasure, in unborn

Scarlet sunglow and pleasures of

Whispering silence. A shepherded angel

In shadowy silhouette.

Welcome Cries

Ron Koppelberger

Welcome Cries

An effect dispensed by the source of reflections in tinctured

Arrays of desire, by rapturous seas, the need

To summon the season of despairing

Deserts and places known by shadow,

An assailing brush with the insistence of beginnings

Without end, a courage in sundry might and able

Envy, a generous consequence judged tremulous

And threadbare by welcome cries

Into the dark.

Ragged Blossoms

Ron Koppelberger

Ragged Blossoms

Innocence alone,

Unto the divine,

By the light of unseen forces in coppery

Tears and wonting aspirations

                                                                  Of ragged blossoms.

Veils of Illusion

Ron Koppel Berger

Veils of Illusion

Pieces of emerald glass, bequeathed unto the cool shores of

Azure seas and amber sands, by drifting eyes and clear sunshine

Souls, the taboo of lonely aspirations

And eager exile, swallowed up by the passion of

Sorts and dissolving dramas’, in foggy

Veils of illusion, made sweet by vivid dreams of Eden.