Short Fiction

Ron Koppelberger

The Neighborhood

The disposition of slavery frustrated him and he screamed for release, “YYYYYiiiiieeeeeeeeee!” Rain was falling in exasperating waves of teardrop blessing. The neighborhood was unaware, entranced by the ethereal drama, the presence that defined their true transport, their mode of life, their actual status in the universe, in a prevailing evil smoke of duel reality.
The televisions were dressed in a myriad of programs, they saw game shows, but underneath, they saw soap operas, but underneath, they saw movies, but underneath, they saw Sunday football, but underneath lay the truth, the secret reality of a thousand nightmares in scarlet neon.
Juke Sober was watching a movie about Viet Nam, yet beneath his wife was being eviscerated; the action pushed ahead occluding the truth……..and the strange thing was that she was in the next room making a decision between hamburgers and hotdogs. Juke saw up top.
Pepper Holly was watching a western, yet what lay beneath her subconscious and the enchanting dance of a car slamming into a brick wall, a young couple catapulting through the windshield like crimson angels. Flashes of light lit the cotton dander of a cloudy twilight sky. The sound of a woman sobbing drifted across the neighborhood in quiet desperation.
Juke prayed asking god if he was in heaven or hell. The sobbing continued and the mass continued to watch, to act in reverence of what appeared to be their lives, their existence, oblivious to the shadows that surrounded them.
Somewhere distantly a wolf howled in the midst of saffron fields and wheat, in a flash of insight the wolf thought, “ A gilded plane for innocent dreams and waking endeavors unto the promise of what wont pretends.” For a moment they all saw the great garden of wheat bloom.
The wolf rested, waiting for them.

Ron Koppelberger

Zombie Spells

Family circles of taboo, of visualized substance, and mystery surrounded the audience of devoted secret exhibition. They pretended legendary courage in daybreaks ambiance as they watched the zombie, blind, jabbering, samba dance in rhythm with the cobweb smoke that wafted in occult purchase through fields of solitary sorcery. The willing land of foreboding, spells in moaning whispers sung in the perfect complaint of caste and creed, the billowing creed of voodoo, borrowed by evolutions of sleep and wild magic.
The family stared at the spectacle and the happenstance of supernatural enhancement. The sedative was a parish priests ventured prayer, holy, celebrated, sanctified by the blood of communion and gods mercy. His purpose was to fulfill the destiny of the guard, the love of life and the nature of absolution in the face of zombie trances, self possession recaptured, reclaimed in opposition to the darkest of evils. For the good, they said to themselves. The man pronounced the name of Christ in Latin as the priest had taught him, they stood still affected by the groaning zombie, the outrage of incense in muddles of lost grace. Blossoms of daisy petal weed grew near the boarders of the clearing and the children, desirous of play time, picked bunches and clutches of the flower.
The father, the husband, moved toward the zombie with the pill. The mother delivered a prayer of measured grace as her husband forced the pill into the zombies mouth. They sang and chanted in still airs with quiet expectation for the miracle of release.
In myths of ancient shadow, the zombie, once enthralled by the viscous decree of black magic’s and bleeding foray, became a man again by degrees of seizure he declined his tethers in chronicles of the newly self possessed. The family sang with the man and fertile encouragements of thought concluded the skill of gentle chance with the bond of tomorrow and rebirth

Ron Koppelberger

Righteous Poetry

The certainty of resonant poetry, in symphonies of action and enchanted circumstance, was unlikely, nevertheless the chorus sang in that respect. The priest was in resolutions grasp, he taken confession from Luanda Leeds, she had confided in secret whispers of seduction. All in all he had known it was her; her manner, her lamenting sashay had been pointedly obvious. Father Rhy had offered her a penance for the variety of sins she had confessed to, mostly mild transgressions.
The man with the shotgun took father Wry by surprise as he closed the confessional door. Luanda screamed a high pitched hollow benediction at father Wry from the front alter. As soon as the man, a shaky tattered white bearded reflection of madness pointed the double barreled shotgun he was holding at him.
The sanctuary shook with a loud booming explosion. Initially Father Rhy expected the painful blast, the shotgun was aimed at his midsection. Wincing, ears ringing he grabbed at his stomach. The man collapsed in a bright blue flash of light. Luanda screamed again as the smoldering remains of the white bearded man burned.
Father Rhy genuflected on bended knees. The man had been hit by a lightening bolt. Father Rhy went to the front door of the enclave and looked outside, “Thank God.” he whispered, the sky was an azure cloudless heaven.

Ron Koppelberger

The Farce

A cross hung in reflective whispers of devotion near the front of the tiny church. A moment of hesitant chanting prayer filled the wood paneled walls. In concealed knowledge the minister arranged the communion wafers and took a sip of the sacred wine. His stomach burned and churned in protest but years of training told him that a sip, a sip for now, of wine would calm his frayed nerves.
The tranquil caste of mid-day sunshine seeped in puddles of multicolored light through the stained glass windows. The church was usually locked but he had forgotten today and an audience of one sat watching him tidy the small enclave. The minister of peace, god and holy absolution turned to face the lone parishioner. “It’s time Edward.” the demon whispered. Edward Pepper looked at the beast, the archfiend and god of the underworld. Winged scarlet with long curling horns he sat in brimstone smolders and embers from the darkest depths of hell; his eyes were the worst and Edward avoided the ebony orbs of shadow as he genuflected near the alter.
“It’s time to end this farce.” the demon said in a grating voice of screams and tortured suspiration. Edward considered the demon for a moment, mortality wasn’t the worst thing he owned. He had lived in the shadow of the demon for three hundred years and here he was expecting payment for those extra years. Edwards laughter echoed in the asylum for a moment before he spoke to the demon, “ I have a covenant with god now demon, “ he began, and this is god’s house.” The demon sighed and waved a claw dismissing Edwards statement.
“You have a covenant with me first Edward.” Edward shook nervously and in creeping symmetry with fear. “Do you believe your farce Edward?” Edward prayed silently and in earnest imploring god to help. “Come on Eddie.” The demon held his hand out. Edward clenched the gold and silver crucifix tightly as he stumbled toward the demon.
The demon took Edwards hand and screamed. A plume of smoke drifted up from the demons talon. Edward laughed and said, “Go to hell……!” The demon rubbed his blistered palm and grinned back at him with an ancient grimace of hate. “Well Eddie, I guess our pact is finished.” with a flourish he disappeared in to a cloud of mist and smoke. Edward sat in one the church pews near exhaustion. His hair was bleached white and his face lined with a myriad of wrinkles, three hundred years worth. He took a labored breath wishing for god’s angels. Soon thereafter, they took him leaving an ancient tattered shell behind.

Ron Koppelberger

Justified by Fire

The virgin leaf was unspoiled by the amber colored substance, opium in a purely secret demonstration of surety. Always there and wanting a host to the lonely deliriums of addiction, the opium was always there and willing.
Harmon Blue was bred by the passage of denial and the tiny green leafed store of opium wasn’t tempting him to dramas of confusion. Instead he found himself on the border of a giant expanse. There were Poppies as far as the eye could see. Harmon was calm as he unscrewed the cap on the ten gallon can of gasoline. As he poured the fuel on the blossoms he thought about his daughter. Twenty-one years, that’s how long she had lived. The gas lolled and dripped from the plants. She had, in some insane yoke of fate, become an opium addict in blooming concession to all things expressing her former life; she was encumbered by the symmetry of the substance, tortoise slow and easy in the great race.
The gasoline sloshed in moist cloying union with the deceptively hateful flowers. He knew he was justified in his remedy. They had found his daughter face down on her apartment floor.
The echo of the shimmering fluid as the last few drops trickled across the temptress weed was hollow and desolate. Harmon Blue set the unequaled expanse of poppies on fire. He opened up his arms and cried; the poppies burned in a glittering conflagration of beauty and utter darkness.

Ron Koppelberger

Divine Scream

The trooper followed the fugitive into the warehouse; a quality of resonant power jolted the calm eddies of dust in the dark void of the empty warehouse. The trooper paused breathing in the sullied odor of rotting vegetables and lilac.
The fugitive stood in silent phantom shadow between the sliver of candent daylight surrounding the trooper in silhouette and the dusty trail leading to the sanctity of his extraction point. The trooper whispered, “Don’t move.” An exhausted tongue of solstice surrounded the trooper as the spring hinged door swung shut behind him.
The fugitive tilted his head backward, opened his mouth and screamed shattering the silent commune. Legends of ancestral continuum filled the moment with the passage of a few seconds, a few moments of tinctured, piercing sound as the fugitive continued to scream.
The trooper squinted in frozen fear as a brilliant fire surrounded the fugitive. Like the roar of a dragon he thought. The aluminum walls of the warehouse shook and the fugitive levitated to a horizontal position between the ceiling and the dirt floor. His scream echoed shrill and infinite. The trooper watched as the firelight vacillated and rolled in flame. A moment later it was finished, the fugitive spun in rhythm to the pulsing fire screaming, then silence. He vanished near the corrugated metal roof and the gentle rush of a gasping breeze shook the building. The trooper sighed and shook his head in disbelief. His thoughts in secret labor as he forced himself to forget the vision of fire.

Ron Koppelberger

THe Weary Dreamer

The gateway to shifting shadows and misty veils of contemplation in dream catcher pavilions of dominion, the claim of tramp bond and ethereal absolutes were the sleepy commons of azure firmament and weary unconscious dreams. A journey with vistas of dandelion drama and pregnant puffs of dander seed. The whisper of gentle harmonies in lullaby eyes of mystical fantasy and illusions of cities in bustle and anxious submission to the oblique angles of day by day adventure, work love and passionate existence were the secrets that enveloped his sleeping soul.
The sleeping dreamer conveying in savannahs of wheat and saffron, corn and marigold tempers. Farmstead fascinations of harvest and boarders of plenty filled the spaces where his awakening dream converged. The sleepy sojourner in flags of divine myth and venerated lands of plenty, defined by lines in flux and gentle applauding witness. Dreaming the dialogue, the soliloquy and agreements of existence. The weary dream in spheres of sunshine and guarantees of life, lands and tinctured seas of meditation. The benedictions of saints and angels in unfettered quests of refreshing slumber and visions of taboos that believe the creation of a universe, dreaming dreams of eternity and forever reflected by the face of god.

Ron Koppelberger

The Inmate

The remedy was a simple matter for Sgt. Windhook, the simplicity of it was just that easy. Safeguards in shadow, an inmate in courts of confinement and faraway, at arms length and by a thousand miles of steel. The miracle of seasoned isolation wore the sanctity of the sergeants’ safe haven, secure, looked up and undeviating. The Psy Research Facility was sponsored by Vermont Horizons Inc., also known as Telemetry Visions Corp. and in retrospect, the Bastille. Sgt. Windhook watched the vine, the wine of countless parishioners and researchers and more importantly the purveyors of a $465.00 paycheck.
He danced in the fluorescent lights of the ten by ten cell. The vine was a young man in his twenties shorn with a buzz cut and piercing dark eyes. He saw Windhook peering in at him and he hooted, “YYYYYEEEEEEHHHHHAAAAAAWWWWWWW!.” Windhook grimaced and watched as the vine concealed his face with cupped hands, a moment later he was looking at the reflection of his own face. The vine growled and in spontaneous ascertation manifest the face of a wolf. Sgt. Windhook staggered back from the tiny window glass and gasped, “Oh my god!” continuing down the row of cells he made a point of ignoring the howls coming from the vines cubicle. Sgt. Windhook wondered and contemplated the strength of the steel doors as he finished his round.

Ron Koppelberger

Poverty and Vision

The desire to conform to sober restraints and the boundaries of existence was like an uncontrollable wildfire in his feverish lust for immortality. He repeated the motion in silent demonstration. The sensibilities of Ragland Watts was the inclination to better things and passions unbound, a proof that the inscribed invention was an assurance of his manifest destiny.
Raggland toggled the fulcrum in the guarantee of odd wisdom, The worn inscription read,

“DESIRE AND GUSTS OF
PERFECTION, AN IMMORTAL
TRUST IN DISTINGUISHED JUDGEMENT.”

The lazy wheel of the inscribed time piece availed the shadows of secret horizons and the spirit of the sun. A penance to mortality, flowering roses forever in bloom, babies in miraculous ceremonies of suggested design and the revolution of earthly promises, undying circles of existence. The watch ticked and he grew just a bit older in contemplation and reverence for the time piece. In guarded pleasure he had the poverty of vision and the wealth of immortal tides.

Ron Koppelberger

Wayfarer Guide Book

All he remembered was a horrific screech then blackness. There were outstretched hands and sprigs of Palm Scrub surrounding a trail of fools gold. The path was littered with it. Standing water and swampy morass gave birth to cattails and saw grass bouquets in fluttering firefly aspirations. The tall pines cradled errant currents of wind in pine bough whispers and wishful consonance.
He moved along the path, spears of sunshine pierced the jungle hammock in moted spirals of glowing warmth and pools of misty fog roiling in tendrils of cotton near the shadowy border of wooded passage. He spotted the book in glowing temptations of spider silk near the path of fools gold and laying in a bed of moss, the book was covered in a fine spun gossamer spider web. He touched it’s surface, it was leathery smooth and in breaths of exasperating ambiance. He grabbed the ancient text and read the title, the legend embossed by an eternal pilgrim.

“Wayfarer Guidebook”

It said in flowing mysterious script. He opened the book to the first page and read.

“Welcome wayfarer,

If your curious to know and

Confused in successive row, let it be said

Pilgrim babe, that you are most certainly dead!”

He saw his gray and blue corvette for a moment of evanescent reflection. There it was smashed and broken along with him; hauntingly awed by the posthumous rigors of inspired afterlife, he smiled and began reading the wayfarer guidebook.

Ron Koppelberger

Sinkhole

Unmoved by the edges of the sunken yard, Moody Carol sat in his recliner, feet up and leaning toward the sky. He had hauled his beige Easy-Boy to the center of the depression in the yard; the hole had spread in a perfect circle swallowing the cottage and a portion of Peace Avenue. The lip of the depression revealed a small crowd of neighbors and the shiny red glow of a rescue vehicle. They were shouting down to Moody and pointing to a rope and steel ladder the fire crew had lowered into the incline.
Moody was oblivious, eyes nearly closed, slivers of twilight sky leaking through to fill the void in his mind. He would ride the broken earth, the soils of encroaching perdition. He would sling low, six gun on his hip, breaths of Pabst Blue Ribbon tingeing his lips, a ride on the way to places bidden by dark shadows and bread crumb trails. “Yeeeeeeeeehhhhhaaaaaa.” he yelled up as the hole deepened.
The chair swayed in uneasy rhythm with the crumbling earth and he moved down, down to the depths of dramatic wandering pass, the sky becoming smaller until it was nearly a pinpoint of azure beckoning. Down, down and further down, finally he reached the bottom, the base of the depression, the center of the earth and close to the devils hearth. Whereupon a demon, winged in crimson, flew across the gulf and came to rest next to Moody’s chair.
“ What hath the lot of selfish wont brought you Moody?” Moody thought for a moment before answering.
“ A moment to trip up the lot of fate demon, I’m here early for the sake of a distraction and chance, chance before the last peal of infinity, chance for redemption, chance for a pitchfork in your backside devil.”
The gentle rush of a beguiling blue light filled the pit and Moody was transported to heaven where he was received in passionate embrace. An angel was heard to comment,” He has the temper of a tiger and the heart of a lion.”

Ron Koppelberger

Symbiotic

The benevolent knowledge of an independent seed the labor of an absurd schism and free will………even in symbiosis.
The fullness of the day was necessary to the ecology of Avion; Axion concealed his disdain with the piercing ache of sunshine showers and daffodil dreams. Avion whistled and hummed an old gospel hymn and Axion cringed. The vaguely occult twinkling of darkness touched axions lips as he muttered a curse. Avion slapped Axions hand in a high five gesture. “Cheer up Axion, it’s a beautiful day.”
Axion grimaced as his teeth ground in irritation. When Avion bent down to pluck a rose from the gentle rambling rose bush the sound of a blue jay screamed overhead. Axion bent in synchronous compliment to Avion. Axion caught the misty bouquet of Attar as Avion waved the perfect blossom under his nose. Avion smiled, “Come on brother, be good.” Axion chuckled and smiled back sheepishly. As they carried the newspaper into the house, hand in hand, the postal matron drove by and stared with a bemused fascination. The Siamese twins, the pair, one body and two very wonderfully functioning heads, turned and waved at the mail car as she drove by.

Ron Koppelberger

The Blue Parrot

She was dressed in her sheer camisole and her bedroom slippers. A parrot in ceramic glory hung on the faded pink wall of the bedroom. Simple and replete with the notion of winged freedom, winged in glory and azure tincture, amber eyed thrill.
She stared at the round ceramic dish adorned with the blue parrot,” Polly wanna cracker?” she said out loud. The bars on the window were closely stitched but they would allow for the bird in an easy breath. The windows were open and a warm gust of air blew between the steel bars. A blue parrot, a companion in hell. The locks remained steadfast and heavy on the bedroom door allowing for nothing and in chained, bolted distinctions of prison.
The blue parrot, she saw it clearly, chawing, cawing her name in provident foreshadowing faith, in fortune and wildfire freedom. She took the file she had secreted away from behind the blue parrot and began sawing a tiny groove in the steel bar. She smiled thinking of winged freedoms, open skies and the desires of a sweet deliverance from the confinement of her
Husbands design. She would be free, she would be free.

Ron Koppelberger

The Genius Tiger

In evolutionary terms the tiger was an anomaly, a genius. He shared a motley adornment of orange fire and coal black striped fur with the other tigers, Fanged, carnivorous yet sly in an apostate leadership of higher function. The tigers abode, his sanctuary was a cozy rock cave hidden by saplings and bramble scrub.
Food, he thought one day, I need food. He had seen and bypassed a myriad of pits designed to capture the large beasts of the jungle. On the sly he had seen his brothers and sisters captured and killed by the coalition of man. Thinking of food and the dark skinned men he layed a trap.
Using his front paws he dug a three foot shallow and filled it with loose twigs and logs. It was designed to ensnare a mans ankle long enough for him to pounce in confident attack.
The man came a week later, seven nights the tiger thought purring gently in expectation. In graceful thanksgiving his stomach grumbled with half-caste expressive anticipation. The precious quarry stumbled and fell face first into the makeshift trap. The tiger growled and leapt killing the man with a single bite. He was quick and effective treading the tether of life and death expertly.
The tiger slept with sated satisfaction, safely confined in the sanctity of his hidden shelter. He thought, I’ll never be hungry again as he devised another trap in blissful ecstasies of revolving evolution.