Short Fiction

Ron Koppelberger

The Dark Wolf

The distance between yesterday and today was a decade of sacred hours and anesthetic. The anesthetic was a satisfaction that the urges were encased by cement and iron and the hours spent in quiet contemplation of the illness, the malady, the bother of need and sanguine aching force.
Astor Scow sat solid in his tethered moment of captivity. He was enveloped by the bond of prison existence. He drank in the thoughtfulness of half-starved desires. Nevertheless, he yielded to the asylum of metal bars, the dissension from the row, the hungry certain caress of time passed. He sighed, the blood fresh in his mind, the carnage, the cringing seizure of a later vagabond occurrence; in violence and equally measured themes of sin he had killed. Asphalt and barbed wire ran the length of the yard. The croaking roar of a siren descrying its irritation in songs of freedom to Astor.
He had chewed the fat with divisions of death, sated slaked in blood and rage. He had killed, for need and desires of testimony to the wont that coursed through his arteries. He had killed for mad passions of power and efficient evolutions of unbroken transfer, the transfer of fountains and the spirit of necessity. He had killed in guise of eternal secret and picket fence fantasy, in flourishes of love and ever alert reverence, in reverence of the drive toward expediency, torn, engaged, unwearied by the push of wont. The distracted wholes of feeding wolves and nihilistic men he thought in a certain contemplation. He had killed the length and breadth of homeward bound berths in wolf rule and in faithful prayer.
The siren continued and the cell door slid open with a clanging of gears and steal sliders. Tentatively, Astor explored the exterior of the cell. The resonant whoop of prison clamber filled the halls and maze of cells. Astor, undisturbed and full of purpose, moved through the open gate near the end of the cell block. Fundamental transformations began to overwhelm his senses as he traveled through another gate, closer to the outside world of freedom and chance, the chance of a lifetime.
Darkness filled the exit near the visitors booth . No guards and a myriad of screaming inmates. Astor moved through the exit at a lope then a trotting caution then a galloping run, his paws fresh furred and clenching reflexively. Sanguine wolf sashays of freedom tinctured his escape. He saw the silhouette of another wolf for a moment, unbidden, near fields of saffron and wheat, near god’s touch. The vision faded and scorched pathways of scared earth lay before him, his destiny.
In the grace of a winter reckoning Astor looked to the arid desert sands and agreements of dusty cactus bloom as he found his purpose.

Ron Koppelberger

The Locket’s Secret

The number on the back of the locket was etched and overlaid in silver polish. Endorsed by 999 it read in a confession of craft and proclaimed American pride. Ardent, peculiar, solemn in tempered title the locket was designed in delicate temperament and charm. A coil of fine web circled it’s cleaver reality. Embossed across the front were a duel clutch of flowers, a sprig of dandelions and a single fastened rose.
Simon sighed and pressed the tiny lever of gold on the side of the locket. Lustourous and glowing the locket opened to revelations of ancient persona and beloved blood, a photograph of another time, black and white of two smiling, husband and wife in old seasons of passage. It contained the concerns of past, present and future.
Simon gained his purchase and became that declaration of union, the bonded dream between what had been and what was. In declarations of love he became the seasoned stock of another era. His features melded into the grainy photograph to the spring of life and fashioned affection, his era, his time………he faded and to the revolution of etched portraits in rebirth. Simon, transient inflowing springtime bloom of dandelions and a single rose on his breast returned as the locket remained steadfast in the day, waiting for the dawn of discovery the light of a noonday genius.
Springtime in wont and in need, searching for a conclusion, Simon found his asylum in the past and however intangible the web touched the future with the promise of the secret locket.

Ron Koppelberger

Motionless Assassin

His talent was a calm summery of silence, ragamuffin innocence in the sense that he forestalled the act in degrees of sworn childlike journey; a methodical study in meek assassination, a poise given the expression of thought, thoughts of shaded existence, by grins and nods and silent rebuke, by the rivers edge and upended social rebuke. He was bound by a glance, a stature of prevailing possession. He crafted his plumage with a look, almost innocent and exacting the tears of a bidden drama, then on the eve of good tidings a smirk and a dismissal unto the lifeblood of twilights theater, unto the rays of condemnation, a denial in pausing breaths of ancient supposition.
The making of a moment wrought by the glimmer of chains and the glow of tethered purity, by sleepy eyed shadows and nightmares hidden in a coy ghost of bidden damnation, stooping in shaped perches gone unto the gnarled arms of a graven yield, by connotated cloaks of darkness in quiet vigil. The ravens refrain. In an addicts court a winged angel bidden cleaver by the enemy of the untroubled willow and the sparrow in search of peace. A garden in spite consoled by the wonder of the passerby and the freedom of those who live in the silhouette of love and daydream spirit. By warning and heed the silence of the beast in desolate lashings of human labor.

Ron Koppelberger

An Opus for Ants

“Turn away…….Turn away!” the commander said to the soldier. The soldier ant said,
“But I have this burden to deliver to the queens guard, a burden of nourishment and blood for the secret birth of our children and the nest.” The commander waved his antenna and spun in circles around the soldier and his burden.
“Danger lays in wait by the rivers edge, for the enemy has the deluge and the destruction of our construct!” the soldier ignored the commander and moved on to the place where his burden would be multiplied by the limits of a possible berth. When the soldier ant had found his cache of bidden sustenance he paused and rested for the return home; in a seconds breath the shadow of the enemy approaching filled the sky and the vision of the ants fear. The shadow passed and the ant counted himself lucky in fate.
Later he returned to the nest only to find it awash in an ocean of water and drown comrades. What of the queen he thought. Realizing he was alone his hunger overcame him and he ate the burden intended for the guard and the queen.
“Confessions of mystery, a war fought at odds with the impossible,” he spoke, “But at least I have a belly full of food and my back to build a road unto the next horizon.”

Ron Koppelberger

The Wedding

Vengeful possessive cages and a compromise in secret, there was the plan, the amazing plan. He was certain the amassed fortune, the diamond trust, was an advance on his enduring existence. The planets were in alignment. He was a Libra, Libra liberal economy and his economy was about to become a liberal economy of one.
He was wedded to the fledgling notion of divine guidance. An agreement prior to their marriage had guaranteed him wealth in the event of a divorce. Her chattering cascade of swollen tears and the ensuing soliloquy of trapdoor reasons for a continued relationship were peppered with hard slaps to his face and chest. He looked at her in a mock expression of bewilderment, “ I can’t go on this way, I just can’t!” Visions of gold bullion and freshly inked fifty dollar bills filled his consciousness.
Finally, in a carefully measured tone, she said,” Let’s have dinner first, Maybe you’ll change your mind.” He consented and by twilight-tide light, full with the rush of wine and Fillet Mingnon he vowed to go through with it.
She hesitated, grasping his hand she gave him a wild grin,” Till death do us part!” she whispered romantically. A moment later they heard a roaring engine and squealing tires. The porch faced the busy two lane Azure Drive. The black SUV barreled across the manicured lawn adjacent to the patio with an ethereal ease, tearing the hyacinth blooms she had planted the day of their wedding. The SUV negotiated the patio railing with a screech of metal landing with a crunching thud on both of them, killing them and ending the discussion that had filled their thoughts.
The driver was uninjured and intoxicated to the brim, all he remembered was the woman, that damn ghost, he thought. She had appeared just before he had crashed and she had been laughing and screaming madly, “Till death do we part!”

Ron Koppelberger

The Swaying Cattail

In the spirit of shadow, of gentle twilight passions and desires in velveteen darkness, he studied the cattail down, in perfect pose, still by the source of wonder. He knelt on bended knees amongst the castaway leaves of fall, near the ponds edge. A great grin of possession, the cattail was his, like the firefly light that flittered and swam before him, a legend in myth, a miracle in the alter of astonishing dreams, the cattail swayed before him, tufted and pregnant near the tip. He layed his hands together in prayer, in benedictions grace,

“ Careful violet,

My sweet violet,

Can you speak

Of heaven and the

Dreams of paupers,

Can you allay

The fears of an old

Man my love,

My desire in spring

And my passion in

Fall seasons of

Chance, what in

Cattail down and musty

Earth, what secret do you own,

What belongs to the heart

Of desire and eternal rest,

What seeks your advice from

Scarlet beaded tears unto the

Watery asylum of forever and a

Breath, the watery asylum in clear

Glossy eyes and milky hued skin,

What lay before the temple of

The cattail my sweet violet, my

Love and bond of tomorrow unto

The breech of yesterdays deed,

Yesterdays sin, a sin in

Sleeping demons of drink and angry

Drama, what sin hath a bottle bred?”

He whispered reverently to the wind, to the blood sodden soils and the cattail swaying in white cotton and the single drop of blood. “ What sin?”
He whispered again as he closed his wife’s eyes with pennies from his heart.

Ron Koppelberger

Bristles and Terror

She touched the bristles of the straw broom, her fingertips came away smeared crimson and gray with the dust of a struggle. Small beaded teardrops fell to the wooden floor from the blood stained broom, spattering in tiny blossoms, finely petaled blooms in blushing sinful retreat. She was tapered in rags, burlap hems and heavy cotton sash. Gentle ringlets in golden corn silk haloed her bloody checks, a beauty defined in delicate degrees of warmth.
She returned the broom to an upright sweep and worked the swaying rhythm of mutual discouragement. Pools of cooling blood streaked the floor as she swept away the foolishness of death. The bodies of Frank and Leona Jenkins lay in disarray near the cottage hearth. She had conferred with the shadows in quiet repentance when the couple had invited her into the cottage. She had been searching for food, hands expecting the warmth of another living creature; the door , latched tight in its unbiased remark, its lofty logic, had surrendered its contents as a middle aged man, large silken, worn well in wealth and status. He had opened the door and offered her his hand. She hadn’t perceived him as villainous, nevertheless the truth had borne witness to his evil intent.
She had crossed the threshold quietly thanking the man. He had avoided her gaze as he bolted the door behind her. “You’re ours now babe and we’re gonna have the best time sweetie.” he whispered, “ Purity and grins, grins and ash, grins and ash.” the woman chanted menacingly. His betrayal complete, he grabbed her arm and chuckled, a bit of spittle touched her check. “Grins and ash, save us a kiss for the miss.” the man’s wife laughed.
Her arm hurt where he was holding her and an anger engulfed her in desolate union. She favored her pointed fangs as she grabbed the mans head, pushing it forward and to the left. Her teeth dug deep and he screamed,” Aaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeee.” His blood pumped and he fell unconscious, then dead. The woman came at her with a metal poker from the hearth, “ What have you done, what have you done?” she screamed in a rictus of bare teeth and clenched jawbone. The woman flew backward and into the hearth, smashing her head and rolling into the ash pile.
Scrutinizing the smears of blood she mouthed a quiet, innocent prayer for the wont of a vagabond vampire, a desperate enchantress and an unwary vampire in search of haven, in search of respite near bristles and terror, near night and the passion of an endless dream.

Ron Koppelberger

Duck in degrees

The review was an important step in the process, eat, eat, and eat again. Chintz Toss was the foremost master of grilled, baked, roasted, toasted and
Broiled duck. Chintz dreamed duck , dressed in squat duck style and his favorite tune was Disco Duck. The review, he had to focus on the review. One day defined in fine eclectic script, Chintz received a breath of new life, a note of invitation,

“Vex, worry, distress ye heart

For naught, for luck come

And dine with us in gleeful

Affairs of rare duck!!!!!”

The note was signed Cleaver D. Delight purveyor and director of “Hungry Wolf” 210 Red Leaf Lane. Chintz could almost taste the delicious fare. “yum, yum, yum.” he muttered in nervous expectation. The endless progression of duck had finally begun to intrude upon Chintzes’ pleasure, the seduction of a fine meal, in distant horizons and close comfort. He thought of the precious invite. The will to carry on for the sake of flavor and hungry diversity. He knew the meal would revive his interests. To assure the divinity of professed pallets and express taste, he thought. He’d make the Hungry Wolf the bother of garden marms and brawny croakers. Forget the vegetables and frog legs, tis a season for duck and duck and duck. Chintz Marquis Toss dressed in gilded cotton adornments and delicate slippered hands; the white face powder gave him a gaunt definition. He was in earnest urges to exclaim the work ethic of feasting fortune; he slipped on his long black leather boots, leather and expressive. The Hungry Wolf, worthy of my conspiracy in affection for the feathered quarry, he thought as he swept the silken cape around his shoulders. The day moved forward and near noonday tide he made his way to the Hungry Wolf.
The front door was a silhouette done in delicate sprigs of amber glass and
Goldenrod design while the handle was a crystal globe, rainbow hued and in spears of sunshine glow. Chintz touched the knob expectantly as he rotated the crystal. The door gave way to it’s secret and the gravel strewn floor rolled and waved before him. Chintz wanted and continued to dream of duck. He stepped forward into the den of hungry wolves and divine wilds. The tables were wistful emerald spheres with enormous boulders as chairs, large, gray and crimson splashed with feathered gore and bird droppings.
Chintz gasped “breath Toss, Breath!!!” the tender remains of duck soufflés’ and broiled hare stew sat in a giant cauldron nearest the table to his left. The smell was enticing and his stomach intervened as he began shoveling the stew into his practiced mouth. Thus the hunters who had enticed the fare of a fine meal sat in patient compliance with Chintz and his obsession. Chintz faltered for just a moment as the hunting party whooped and howled and growled. The gallery was full, beastly aggressive. Chintz finished and belched in compliment. The paw of one of the hunters touched the gentle throbbing rhythm of his carotid artery and in a moment of realization he understood the penalty as he was devoured in grand fashion.
(The turn is torn by the feast of excess.)