Unto The Night

Unto The Night
Amazon.com/ron koppelberger

Thursday, June 30, 2011

Done in Black Leather

Ron Koppelberger
Done in Black Leather
Climates of dusty desert wind, bone dust dry and blown rough by the sand, Salt Nobel climbed down from the black stallion and brushed his faded Stetson with the back of his palm.
The horizon was reaching away to the south, cactus arms and sagebrush travelers danced and swam in the sweltering sun. He was prospecting the day for the promise of tomorrow; a touch of fire to the south and where had he been, he wasn’t certain, unsure in pass and tide he thought he remembered a city, a barn red livery and a ramshackle cat house. His pockets held a handful of dust and a cache of silver dollars.
Salt was hot, burning hot, he was attired in black leather and silver spurs. The sun had crept into his pores, his flesh, through the dark suede, the black leather. Why was he dressed in black and where was the next town? For a moment Salt wondered why he was traveling south and toward what, what destiny?
Salt tipped the small flask to his parched lips, whiskey warm and burning. He craved the relief of a cool sip. Staring ahead the heat wavered in illusions of liquid , an oasis tinctured by miles of sand and Vaseline. Climbing back on the stallion he continued on moving further away from long forgotten memories. Salt looked backward and for an instant he saw a flash on the horizon, a glimmer of light in the shape of a star. Where had he been?
The day wore on and the sky grew fiery red as the twilight settled across the empty miles. Salt brought the horse to a dry gully wash as he tested the air. It was crazy but he sensed the advent of rain.
The rested near the channel cut into the dry desert floor and somewhere near nights edge it began to rain.
The rain pattered in the dirt speckling the dust and his faded black Stetson. Salt tipped his head back and held his tongue out, the rain tasted good, clear cool in essence. The sprinkles became a downpour filling the gully in a matter of moments.
Salt sat there, drenched in the life-giving rain, thinking. He remembered again, a child and a woman dressed in white, a wedding, his wedding and his son. The woman was calling to him in the midst of a garden, daisies and roses. She whispered his name and turned away with the boy in tow.
Salt remembered and dreamed, he dreamed of life and loves lost, he dreamed of yesterday and the fuzzy edge of tomorrow.
Salt remembered the posse and the gun battle, in the end it flittered like an errant butterfly then faded, then he remembered his wounds, he had been shot, mortally wounded. What had he done, he didn’t know, it was fuzzy, lost. In the end he forgot again and in the morning all was new, fresh and telling him to head south to the rising mountains and the wont of a Passing breath.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Greeting the Party

Ron Koppelberger
Greeting The Party
Invested by the yells and guffaws of an endless parade in silk and tuxedo tuft the greeter shook hands and posed for pictures with the new arrivals, the partiers, the attendees of the bash.
Eventually the line of people waiting for entrance dwindled to a handful. “Evening Mam. Evening Sir.” he said to the couple. The man spit on the sidewalk as the young woman giggled and shook her hair with the back of her hand. The man mumbled something and the woman said,
“Funny Ruff, Funny.”
He waved the couple by and the last in line stood in front of him waiting for approval. The greeter sighed and said, “ We’ve been waiting all evening for you.” The last nodded and pushed by hurried and a bit impatient. The greeter paused for a moment as the spectral presence of the man, dressed in white, holding an hourglass in one hand and a bell in the other moved into the crowd.
The greeter knew the party was over. The hourglass signaled the end of time and the bell a call to the hour of sleep. The man had been late, they had all been living on borrowed time as the keeper of a seconds breath and the souls hearth found the party unaware and desiring destiny.

Blood and Spoiled Hamburger

Ron Koppelberger
Blood and Spoiled Hamburger
Cold in bouquet, the final swallow of brandy didn’t cure his craving for blood. The package of hamburger was old, dripping, sodden, spoiled blood. On a bad day he’d chew a piece of raw steak or hamburger for the juice. He felt sluggish, his reflexes bypassed by an angry empty wont. For the love of warm sea salt and mossy spring, eternal he thought as he dreamed of pulsing arteries and coppery malt.
His spine tightened when the doorbell rang. He pictured Avon ladies and vacuum cleaner salesman in full blooming acceptance. Drink of us they sang, drink of our essence, our passionate cherry stain and our raspberry wine, come drink.
He answered the door in a hopeful flourish only to discover the shifting shape of his girlfriend. She was, in fact, a shifting dealer of countenance, a shape shifter by birth and her features changed with each passing moment. He let her in and explained his unbidden thirst. She paused to ponder this for an instant then offered her upturned wrist to his waiting lips.
He drank in greedy gulps until she pulled her wrist back, “Enough!” she said as she pushed him back. She went into the kitchen and yelled to the living room, “Did you eat this hamburger hon, it’s spoiled?” He replied shyly and self consciously, Yes, just a little bit darling.”
Later he became sick with food poisoning and she would have to secret him to a doctor, saving his life.
After he was cured they had Champaign and steak, “delicious.” he said between bites.
“It is scrumptious.” she replied as the Champaign bubbles tickled her nose. “And to think……,” he said “I nearly missed this moment with you because of spoiled hamburger.”
“I have to keep an eye on you every second hon.” she said tapping her plate.