Unto The Night

Unto The Night
Amazon.com/ron koppelberger

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

The Outline of Midnight

Ron Koppelberger
The Outline of Midnight
Rather than the fretting sense of dust and strange charge, charge in procedure, charge in midnight sandwiches and pregnant moments in sweet clover, in bursting pinnacles in flow, Clay found the hodgepodge of seconds before midnight to be a whispering contention of inspiration and flittering possession. He chanced paths of delirium for the outline of midnight, he dreamed the oblique yield of Eden, at close gatherings of eternity and grace, he dreamed of day by day essentials in shadow of anything triumphing the space between today and tomorrow.
Clay worshiped the plenty of what would be, the enduring turn of fulfilling skyward advance. The outline of midnight appeared and in mists of gossamer Sabbath, paused, inhaled and suspiring a blessed sundog revolution. The revolution in angel laters and eyes of fire, the revolution of Saffron gild and wheat wills, in grace of forever. The sustenance in revolutions outline. Clay pondered and sighed near the edge of the fray.

A Distinction In Ribbons

Ron Koppelberger
A Distinction in Ribbons
The veracity of forbidden shame and science, the exception in incomprehensible sin and ownership was in the nature of his seizure. The soil turned dark with the confetti, the ribbon of nourishment, he neglected the bouquet of flowers in the taste of wine. Straight dope, he thought. Slow due to a ribbon of distinct expression.
He rooted and drank, imitating the renown of dogs and doom. He rooted and the totem pole peered in eminent design, in esteem of the ancients and the sleepy name of harvest perfect. He clawed at the ribbon and lunatic circles of rage descended unto the child of lot. A rendezvous with soul, an equity in Champaign and spit, the majesty of the ribbon was in the coil of its charge. The ribbon of wine endeavored to crowd the essence of his morrow with the ancient drama and the stain of a dispassionate secret, the secret proof of his indulgence, blood And wine, whiskey tumblers in etched glass. He stared at the ribbon of blood and laughed in resigned accord, a sip, just a sip for the rain and the summer moon.

Ravaged in Distant Wood

Ron Koppelberger
Ravaged in Distant Wood
Guided in balanced symmetrical advance, measured by the parentage of full moons and indigo frayed skies the wolf raved and tore across the distant horizon. It touched and gave birth to the forethought of gossamer veils in secret hunts and shadowy opus. The wolf ravaged and willed the sustenance of love, life and blood, he willed the wild beasts of prey, willed the animal in mesh with the invisible pull, the pull back to human vesture. What if, he thought, what if I remain in the copse of the wild wolf; in havens assured by the breed of borne will, he wondered what if he remain in the shape of a wolf. In passion he faltered as he always would as he fell to the tattered vagabond existence that willed human form. Thus ravages succumb to the will of god by the fading sun at night.

Friday, March 16, 2012

Out of Sorts

Ron Koppelberger
Out of Sorts
Endowed in grand sweeps of obstinate yearning he was borne to the enduring sufferance of anxiety and what lay pressed down beneath that. It was a commanding curse brought forth by the hands of fate. He lay bare in unsaid exasperation, chains and shackles, twine and knots.
How perfect for victories of restless abandon and desolate pause he thought. He sat on the alabaster and blossom patterned sofa ashes near the tip of his cigarette and gray smudges complaining in stained upholstery. He guided the butt to his lips and inhaled in short puffs of teasing pleasure.
What of the wheat he had dreamed of, what of the wheat. Pristine, amber hued and flowing, and what of the misery he was feeling. He looked at the pile of straw nestled between his feet and in sudden realization he screamed, “YEEEEEEEEEHHHHHAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWW.”
Perfection in saffron he thought. “Yeah.” he whispered as he dropped the match to the straw. The straw smoldered for a moment and then burst into flame. As he stood there the soles of his shoes melting from the heat he had a thought. “Ash and stones, tender prairie ash. The wheat rolled before his dreaming eyes and he saw fire.

The Wall at Croaker Pass

Ron Koppelberger
The Wall at Croaker PassThe booming thunder rolled across the savannah with an expectation of truthful destiny. Curry Tangle risked a glance behind at the endless sea of grass and dark horizon in afternoon squall. His shadow was tall and the grass accented the flow of beaten down grass behind him, in his footsteps, his current.
Curry looked forward to the wall of approaching mist and sighed. He was near Croaker Pass and Toadstool Squash, for the most part he had depleted the supplies that had gotten him half the distance. At exactly designed crossroads of grass, rain mist and shadow he stopped. The wall of mist near Croaker Pass was thick and like tempered shaped stone. Curry watched the shifting surface between clear paths and dreamy veil. There were shadows in the mist, crawling viscous and sleek. He put his hand into the roiling fog then withdrew it, blood, not his own, a thick syrupy soup coated his hand.
Curry turned and followed the wall of smoke west, never crossing the line mindful of the breach.
Blood borne to quests unbidden he thought as he moved west, unbidden to the mercies of fate. Curry would accept the verdict as he began his journey toward sylvan wilds and distant glory.

The Job

Ron Koppelberger
The Job
He was apprehensive, the collective doing was a blushing reward and berry business. Andy Without entered the present and began the riot, the wild whooping rule, the unteathered design of jobs and jaunt, of work and will; he was accurate and alive, ready and in blessed rightness with the suggestion of mountainess gain.
Andy reached the summit of the mountain and plucked the blossom from its array of stones, the job, the job. He found salvation in the job, a confined wellspring of obligation to the quest and tide; the blossom stole his fear for echo’s of wild speed, for eternity with those who came before.
He saw the heart of the Sheppard and the wolf and they were one. The blossom honored the vision as sustenance and a neccessary evolution. A Job in the birth of nightfall and full moons. He would receive the wine of amber sprigs and calling horizons of shadow, wheat in rolling seed passed along the promise of a wolfs dream and in this he felt respite. The garden, he knew and whispered a prayer, “To paths that lead unto eternal love.” In the way of so many others Andy began his journey in rays of sunshine spirit keeping safe the secret of the sun at dusk.

Desires and Addiction

Ron Koppelberger
Desires and Addiction
He summoned the morass of gentle syrup and chocolate satisfactions in milky savored gulps. The cool wash rolled across his tongue and amber hued eyes glowered in black panther appraisal from the corners of his flayed mind. Tales of pretty maidens and cockle shells in perfect rows of opium leaf and sticky flower goo touched the recesses of his aching heart.
Andrew Trust craved the warm glow of bright halos and fuzzy applause. His addiction was in hues of corn silk. He considered the blank gray television screen and in spite of the jittery jumps and gulping tempered gallop in his chest turned on the television.
The gentle hiss of static caressed his ears in warm rolling abandon, a moment of peace. His eyes flittered and rolled, swam and bounced in petite seizures of anticipation. The screen flickered and Andrew moaned in accepted mainline muse. The gentle whisper of seesaw song and synthesized cooing filled the room with sound, like whip-o-wills and great gulping toads. Andrew sought purchase as he found the ray-tube in front of him. The currents of time and dimensions in flux flowed before his eyes in amazing waves of light. Andrew smiled as the voice whispered, “ Stones and bones by the will of love, stones and bones by the will of fate, stones and bones by the will of what’s in tune, Andrew, soon, soon, soon.” the voice echoed in torrents of opium allure.
He watched as the static took shape, rolling waves of wheat and…what? A circle of granite boulders and bones, surrounded by rolling waves of wheat. “Soon, soon, soon.” The voice croaked at him. The world revolved and Andrew saw wars and angels, blood and lusts, “Soon, soon, soon.” The voice screamed, “SOOOOOOONNNNN!”
An uncertainty tore at his psyche as he tried to pull away from the nightmare. Grown in harvest promise, grown in promise he forced the vision to the back of his mind. The voice wavered then abated. The screen went dark and a comforting image filled his mind for a brief moment. The saffron, he thought, the saffron.
He slept and when he awoke the next day he was in the way of seed rolling saffron and wheat.

Thursday, March 8, 2012

Straw Scarecrow (Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger
Straw Scarecrow
The prognosis was in tempo with a dire dirge and an unyielding prelude to the weeds in the corn field and the dishes piled high in the sink. He commended his nephews for the hedonistic pleasure of Truffles in milk chocolate and the bouquet of hibiscus weeds in want of a vase and the cool drink of water that a pouring rain shower might have brought.
Looking out the dirty window pane he hazarded a glance at the straw scarecrow. Corn shoots quivered and shook with the enveloping assurance of crucified scarecrows and warm summer wind. Weeds, Ragweed and thorn scrub had sprouted between the rows of wavering corn. Cotton dander plaid, he remembered wearing the scarecrows shirt. He had been younger and in good health.
Autumn leaves drifted in piles against the window sill, crumbling signifiers of the winter to come. He depressed the latch on the oaken window frame and rolled the window up slowly, in a beseeching squeal. The dish of rose water oil stirred and sloshed over onto the sill. He inhaled deeply taking in the cool primeval fall fare.
Looking at the scarecrow again he realized it was missing something. He rummaged in the confines of his closet for a moment, finally pulling out a topcoat. It needed a topcoat. Smiling he went outside to the rows of corn and the promise of tomorrows harvest.

The Blue Parrot (Fiction)

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.

The Passion Of Ash (Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger
The Passion of Ash
The sunshine was obscured to a difficult blur. Ash flittered and fell in black cloying waves of smothering sentiment. The passion of ash, to exclaim the cycle of fire and revolution, charcoal and tindered heat, heat so intense that his body was slick and muddy with soot.
Maser muttered something like a curse as he spit a dirty mouthful of liquid onto the ground. The Gatorade was a blessing as it washed away the thick mucus ash from his mouth. He had to keep moving. The T-shirt he was wearing came off a moment later. He covered his nose and mouth while shielding his stinging eyes.
The usually dormant volcano had erupted in a giant plume of black sackcloth without any indication, any hint of it’s intent. The handful of people who lived on the mountain had ran for their lives as the plume devoured everything in it’s path. Remembering Mt. St. Helens and the explosion that had torn away a mountain they ran with the expectation of a possible reoccurrence.
He stumbled and plodded along the wooded path, the soot was a thick black blanket, hot, blinding. The cabin, his safe harbor was invisible to the front of him. Maser brushed through a briar thicket entangling himself in the cruel huddle of thorns. The snarl of pointed briar snagged his pant leg and he fell face first into the thicket. He yelped in the murky haze as the nettle dug into his flesh. The ash was a pliant carpet beneath him, warm and stinging. He lay there in the darkness as moted flakes of ash burned his bare chest and arms. He wondered if he would survive the cloud of ash. He overcame the sudden feeling of helplessness and regained his footing as he coughed up a gob of flem and soot.
The path was barely visible as a mirage of shallow tire ruts lead him closer to the shelter of the cabin. He squinted ahead, coughing, he was feverish with the heat and the thick shawl of soot. Finally, he saw the distant outline of the cabin, vaguely visible and holding the promise of salvation.
In measured amounts of joy and relief he ran to the front door gasping in gulps of anticipation. Catapulting through the doorway, he slammed the door shut and collapsed onto the cool wooden floor. He took a breath of clean air as he thanked god, he was alive.

Thursday, March 1, 2012

Passion in my Evermore

Ron Koppelberger
Passion in my Evermore
He sipped finding solace in the amber colored tea, honey and Jasmine in the weeping rain, just a touch of twilight in the distance and the moment of silence stood between them with an awful finality. She was a vampire and he was pure bred wolf.
“What of the springtide fray Ash, what of the hunters? You know the creed always hunt for fresh blood in the spring. If they catch us together it’ll be death for both of us.” Rapture said motioning to the east.
“They won’t come here Rapture, they don’t know about us.” Ash replied trying to convince her to stay. Rapture thought for a moment as she ran her hands through her long sandy locks. She was pregnant with ashes child, she would have to find shelter, the vampire ancients hated the wolf and her trespass wouldn’t be forgiven. She had to leave, find asylum somewhere in the west. She had heard about a convent that sheltered those who had made trespasses against the vampires. The sands of desolation and despair overwhelmed her for a moment and she went to ash finding comfort in his arms. “I have to leave ash.” she hadn’t told him of the pregnancy.
Deciding to travel together to the convent, at least that’s what Ash believed they’d be doing, was his inspiration, Rapture had other plans.
They sang long into the evening dusk and when they had said the last they slept. Rapture awoke to the sound of distant owls and flittering droplets of rain as it pattered against the cottage window glass. Quietly she packed and slipped out the door making her way to the western path. She’d have a few hours to travel before the dawn horizon stole the landscape.
Ash awoke just before dawn, Rapture’s side of the bed was cold and the door stood slightly ajar, she was gone, his love and laughter, his days of long refuge in her arms gone. The woods to the East of the cottage were full of loud shouts and approaching vampires on the hunt, she had been right, they had come this far and if they discovered him he’d be killed.
The yells grew louder and the chant of vampires in brood screamed the wont of blood and anger; they’d be bound by their opaque cloaks and facial covering, vulnerable to the approaching daylight, still he’d be no match for them. It sounded like they were twenty or thirty strong. Following the ally beside the cottage he moved to the north circling around to find the western path where Rapture would be.
Ash moved west toward the convent and his love. The hunters would be on horseback and so Ash had initiated the change, growing long gray fur and sharp teeth, it would be faster he thought and easier for him to hide if they did catch up with him.
The day wore on for ash and near noon he caught a wild goose and devoured it. His muzzle still coated in the gooses blood he ran west hoping to draw closer to Rapture. The sounds to the East were distant and unrelenting, they were moving this way far from their haunts and hideaways. Ash knew they had been found out otherwise they’d have turned back, they never relented when it came to forbidden union. The legend held them fast and sure, he knew they’d kill them both if they were captured.
The vampires believed the end would come from the marriage of wolf and vampire, pregnant desires with teeth beneath they’d say, chains to the destruction of both castes. Ash paused near a clear stream and sniffed the air quietly, lilacs and cool air tinged by the wild forest daisy. He drank from the stream and looked at his reflection wondering how Rapture could love a wolf, the fear of farmers and men, strong tempers and rare breed like her.
His dreams would foretell the promise of their union, he knew they had to be together, they had to share the bond of wife and husband, they had to he thought in new courage and faith.
Near the edge of night-tide as the sun settled into the horizon he arrived at the convent. Angels with teeth, both wolf and vampire. The fires glowing around the outside square were bright and inviting yet there were guard, cautious knowing the hunt would come their way. Tethers held several large stallions in place and two men in dark attire approached him. He stood in the shadows unclothed from the change. “I’m here for Rapture, she may have arrived for your shelter this morning. I am a wolf in need of clothing as I have made the change back from my long journey.” One of the men disappeared for a moment and another threw him a pile of clothing.
“Put the cloths on and show yourself!” he commanded. Ash did as he was told. “We know what you have brought with you, the hunters are close.” Stepping out of the shadow with his hand outward he apologized.
“I am sorry for the trouble, if you’ll get Rapture for me we will be on our way.”
Looking to the far side of the clearing he saw Rapture climb onto one of the stallions while leading the other his way. “We are ready for the war to come with the hunters wolf, leave us and we will stay to fight the hunters, take your wife and leave!” Rapture brought the horse around to ash and he climbed up on to it with practiced ease.
“We have to go Ash.” Rapture said with a nod to the west. They tell me there are fields of wheat and saffron to the west, and asylum for us and our child to be. Ash looked at her lovingly for a moment understanding that she was with his child.
“You are my passion in evermore sweet Rapture.” The war would stay behind them and ash prayed for the convent and his destiny.

Seasons in Red Chill

Ron Koppelberger
Seasons in Red Chill
The snow was the mistress of fields in rolling cloaks of sleep. Unlucky he thought as he rooted for the secret stone. The walls of the cellar were cool, thick concrete and stone and he pressed against the coarse rock surface searching for the loose rock. The cellar was dark and quiet, heaps of snow lay against the oily surface of the small rectangular windows that sat flush with the ceiling and the surrounding walls.
Principle Fix coughed a heavy wheezy gasp as he shivered in the empty cellar. “It’s gotta be here.” he whispered in a gravely voice tinged by the bug he was suffering from. Principle coughed again and wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow. With fumbling childlike hands he found the loose stone and removed it with a gentle pull. His relief was unfettered by the knowledge that he was alone, He prayed, “Let there be other survivors god.” Principle reached into the cool recess and removed the tiny plastic case.
Holding the case in his hands he remembered the sun, the blue revolutions of sky and the shimmer of endless horizons in white, it had snowed the evening before, a foot at least and the wheat fields stood empty except for the dark shoots of weed and stray wheat between the furrowed acres of land.
Hail Wister lived on the neighboring farm and construction on the old stone swimming hole behind the rows of cow stalls had ceased, it was a giant hole filled with gravel loose stone sand, dry thankless soils. Hail had predicted a great swimming hole for the grandchildren and the missus.
“It’ll be the perfect pool for all of us…….swimming and tea.” he had exclaimed. That was last summer and here it was mid winter. The pond had never materialized, construction had gone on until the hole had bubbled mud like hot molasses and smoke.
Principle looked from the kitchen window past the fence row to the great snow filled crater. Hail and his family had left suddenly one day, without notice. Hail, Alma and the two gray hounds they owned had vanished in the space of a day. The day before they left the backhoes and bulldozers had ceased to dig the swimming hole. Hails truck had stood idling in his driveway for a few moments, gray exhaust puffing out a final Farwell to the life they had known. His truck was loaded down and full of household items, the things that had gone on for years in the ancient two story farmhouse. Here today and gone tomorrow, no rhyme or reason or goodbyes to remember.
The sun had been bright and the terrain cool, frosty, sharp with the snows of a sleeping horizon. Principle remembered turning the radio on.
“It’ a great time to find the signs
In Generville. Come visit our green tree shoppers
Mall, everything for a deal, everything
For a steal.”
The commercial continued on with a disco tune from the late seventies and a screeching hoot like an owl then the news came on.
“Every hour on the hour.”
Principle turned the volume up as he turned away from the snowy vista and the red and white kitchen curtains. Gossip, laughter and then a panicked announcer…..,
“……….a giant, it tore through Peresville
Common like a bomb, it rained and the meteor belched a red colored mist,
Red rain, the entire area was deluged by
the crimson shower.
I repeat a meteor landed in Peresville Common
Today leaving no survivors. The president
Has declared a state of emergency for the area and the state.
Once again a meteor hit Peresville Common
Where it apparently rained blood……”
Principle thought about the gravel pit, the swimming hole Hail had attempted to build, obscured acquired by the land, it lay in silent reproach to the efforts of a farmer, a failed attempt at Champaign and hotdogs, river springs and the dreamy castes that filled the grand law of want and will. He had left in defeat after years in the land. The salt of the earth, Hail had left without explanation.
Principle looked back out the window it was sprinkling tiny droplets of moisture, red, thick and viscous like blood; the snow was speckled red and white with tiny depressions like teardrops. The window reflected rivulets of moisture in long streaks, slashes of crimson against the glass.
That damn hole in the ground he couldn’t get around it. Hail had fashioned the guest and here it was in a moment of silent acceptance. Give me red rain to fill the cracks and crevices, come swim in my depths, but now it was deserted except for the snows, the red rains and principle.
Principle thought about all of those things, those moments…..seconds in motion as he removed the red and blue case from the hole in the wall. It was a first aid kit he had acquired from the good-will. Inside lay two gauze and a bottle of camphor oil. Principle took the camphor and rubbed it across his brow in the shape of a cross.
“To the hole.” he coughed, it was the cold or the flu or some kind of nasty bug he wasn’t sure….he knew he was sick. The hole…..go to the hole He thought.
Principle climbed the stairs, wooden slats splintered and old, they creaked as he tested his weight. The living room stood empty at the top of the stairs, Debbie gone now and the children grown. The sky shone bright through the pinkish red sheen on the windows. The hole, go to the hole he thought again; he opened the backdoor to the frost and the blood, to aged fields of wheat in summers gone by as he made his way to the deserted hole in the ground.
His feet came away in frigid layers of frozen scarlet, puffs of loose cotton beneath. Staring ahead he looked at the depression in the ground and sighed in quiet contemplation.
Great strands of ivy covered the surface of the snow in layers across the bottom of the pit and gouts of steam wafted from the center. The truck gone now, Hail had missed it his hole was gushing hot water and steam, Roses and daisies lined the edges growing up defiantly through the snow. His hole, and hails failure, hails reason for leaving. Principle exhale and moved down the edge of the slope where he stepped into the steaming water.
It felt good and he discovered that he really didn’t care about the rain much as he submerged himself in the springs warmth and asylum.
For a moment he dreamed of pools and pearls, he owned it for that moment, forgiving the sky and the blood that poured down around the secret oasis.

Neon Electric

Ron Koppelberger
Neon Electric
Posey Wing lay beneath the window sill staring through the blinds; there were a few missing louvers and he could just make out the neon signs exclamation.
Vacancy the sign flashed. The red neon gave Posey a candent red eyed appearance, pupils dilate and undialate, scarlet like the eyes of a dog in a photograph.
He dozed in a nightmare restlessness, sleep without rest. The sound of his sighs, his exhalations in smoke scented perfumes and moldy carpeting, in cockroach heaven, tinctured the electric buzz of the neon sign with a breath of life; he was lonesome in beggar realms of dirt, stone and humid tears of sweat.
The air conditioning was just beneath the far side of the sill, the foot of the bed, close to the door. The far corner of the blinds bled dirty droplets of dust down onto the cold metal of the conditioner in spattered dew drops.
Clairvoyant, he was clairvoyant. He knew someone had died in the room, he could see the man laying in the floor near the bathroom. He wasn’t there he knew that, nevertheless he still saw and in seeing he suffered the misery of the clairvoyant.
Blood, puddles of blood , the green nap of the carpeting was stained a dark brown, almost black. They hadn’t bothered to replace the carpeting. The man lay in a nimbus of mist, scarlet, frozen in time; hanging above his head was a fine spray of blood, still, glistening, suspended in an instant.
Posey turned from the ugly taboo and grabbed the pack of smokes he had placed on the edge of the window sill. Voodoo amusements he thought as he lit the cigarette, voodoo amusements my man. He inhaled deeply savoring the taste . He needed a coffee, black and strong. Posey stood and grabbed for the ancient coffee cup. There were bits of green and blue mold floating on the surface of the half empty cup. “Yuuuuuucccckkkk!” he groaned.
Crossing the room, past the mans body, the blood and the sightless eyes, he found the dark silhouette of the radio; he turned the knob and the radio blared to life. There were three or four stations playing simultaneously, a Mexican man talking in wavery exclamations , drifting in and out , wavering in ripples of sound. Beneath the Spanish broadcast a Pink Floyd song , he couldn’t remember the name of it; there was the faint sound of a minister in a preachy voice, “Re……ent, ……….pent sinners!” he exclaimed over the Floyd song and the Spanish dialogue. He listened for a moment and decided the radio was haunted.
As he was about to turn it off, he paused; from the bottom of a long dark hole, a tube, gravely, liquid, dark and in ethereal command , a voice sounding like bubbles and static, deep. The voice reminded Posey of an old episode of The Outer Limits, an alien voice, definitely not human. He clicked the radio off and an image clouded his mind for a moment, babies crying in a long tiled room, a woman in the throes of passion, and the alien.
The alien, the monster was a black silhouette in shadow, gurgling, flemy and in vigilant dimensions of madness. The shadow tilted at a crazy oblique angle near the corner of the room. Posey jumped as the radio blared back to life. “……iners repent, ye sinners!” he heard in infinite echoing static. Posey trembled uncontrollably for an instant as the monster melded into the corner of the wall. Posey paused for a breath and a hazy moment of contemplation.
There was a tiny sink and mirror on the opposite side of the room. “Coffee.” he whispered to himself as he imagined the bitter taste of caffeine. As he crossed the room he grabbed the cup from the bedside stand: the logo on the side of the mug read,
“Wild Coyote Inn.”
With a picture of an amber colored coyote on the front. He dumped the ancient brew into the drain. Bits of fury green mold clung to the basin. Posey ran the hot water and using his hand he pushed the chunks of mold into the swirling rush of water. Taking a bar of soap wrapped in paper, he washed the mug and mixed a cup of coffee with the white labeled generic brand he had bought earlier that day.
As he drank the coffee became viscous, it tasted like blood, the lifeblood of a dream, a nightmare in pass. Posey wiped his mouth on the starched white cotton of one of the motel hand cloths, it smelled of bleach. The towel came away stained scarlet in smears of blood.
He exhaled loudly as he clicked the radio back off, dumping the mugs contents into the sink. “Just coffee.” he said aloud as he looked at the brown liquid staining the sink.
Posey grabbed a t-shirt from his battered suitcase and slipped it over his head. He found his tennis shoes and slipped them onto his sock less feet. His mother had told him, “Always wear socks with your shoes Posey, otherwise your feet will stink!” He felt a brief moment of guilt as he saw his mothers look of admonishment peering through a veil of years.
Posey walked out onto the front stoop closing the door to the room behind him. The sidewalk was washed in the flickering neon light of the hotel sign. A pile of dead flies lay scattered across the sidewalk beneath the sign.
Posey crossed the street and began walking south on Mawson Lane. As he approached the corner of Mawson and Rhy he spotted the prostitute on the corner. She walked toward him as he approached. A cool sashay, lipstick and curly blonde hair. She wore a lace halter done in white, sweet songs done in dry deserts he thought. She massaged her hip with long rose colored fingernails. The scarlet colored miniskirt inched up just far enough for him to catch a glimpse of her panties.
“ Watchya doin honey?” she said. Posey paused in mid stride, she was covered in blood and long gashes, knife wounds covered her arms and throat. Several of her fingers were missing as if she had tried to fight off an attacker. She seemed oblivious.
He had discovered his Psychic self when he was eight years old, or rather it had discovered him.
He had been by himself at Aziza Memoriam park; there were swings and slides and spinning wheels for the children. The barbecue pit was near the center of a group of picnic tables and the public restrooms. He had been on the spinner by himself; he pushed ran and jumped on the spinning wheel. Around and around, the wind, tall pines and picnic area became a blur. Jumping back off, his head swam for a moment and he staggered to the picnic tables. The smell of burning charcoal and hamburger grease filled his nostrils. He felt sick as the park wavered and tilted in front of him.
He saw three or four men around the barbecue pit, only thing wuz that they were ghosts he thought, he could see right through them. He was frozen in place as the scene unfolded before his eyes.
The men were laughing and yelling, “Burn baby burn!!” one of the men shouted in a whooping rage.
“Got dat beech but good man!” a scraggly man in a green t-shirt exclaimed.
“That’ll teach that miserable witch!” the third man said to the green shirt.
He watched as a plume of smoke drifted in thick oily streams from the cement pit. The cloying odor of charred meat hung in the air and Posey gagged back the contents of his stomach. He went over and looked in to the cement and mortar barbecue pit, Ash, gray ash and ghosts in blood and bones, “Blood and Bones.” he whispered aloud as the prostitute waved him closer. High-down in his memories, he took a few steps closer to the bleeding woman. Her mouth moved but the words didn’t match, a mans deep tenor. “Beware the wrath of the jade willows breath and the blood of the myrter!” She said as she looked at the bleeding nubs of her missing fingers.
Posey took in a deep breath, clean and tinged by the scent of lilacs, perfumed incense. The prostitute turned away from Posey for a moment and said, “ I love the scents of summer honey. Can you smell that, it reminds me of my grandmothers perfume. She always wore it before she went to the store or bingo. Grandpa said she was a rare beauty and she baffled the sky. Do I baffle the sky Posey? Do I make your heart race like a wild Raven Posey?” she asked in an easy rhythm of seductive coquette. “Do I baffle the sky Posey?” Posey stared at her as she tried to apply her lipstick. “Cherry blossom hun.” It was blood red and in commune with her bleeding face. She kept dropping the damn lipstick, her damaged hands weren’t working. “Gosh darn it Posey, I can’t get this right.” Posey thought for a moment and offered,
“You definitely baffle the sky miss.” She grinned in open eyed glee as she put her lipstick away.
“Thanks honey…..hey…..” she gave him a sly smile, “I might be sweet on you Posey, how about a freebee babe?” Posey shook his head in horror at the thought and said, “ No thanks…..ahhhhhhaaaaa?” he questioned.
“ You can call me Daisy.” she offered in return.
“No thanks Daisy.” he said apologetically.
“Suit yourself hon.” she said as she crossed the street in directions of unknown haunt.
Posey looked at the spot on the corner where Daisy had been. The was a spreading puddle of scarlet and several bloody footprints pointing further down the street. Only thing was the footprints weren’t hers, they were large, a mans footprints, tennis shoe tracks, clearly heading toward the Neon Electric.
The city offered a few rarities, good bear, a good burger, museums for the eclectic minded, he hated modern art, and the Neon Electric.
Posey lit a cigarette and too a breath of smokey relief as he followed the bloody shoe tracks. He ended up standing near the bright neon glare of the Neon Electric. The footprints led inside. He looked at the ticket booth for a moment then the sign. Two stories high the sign flashed green and indigo light, spilling out onto the concrete in black light illumination, the bloody tracks glowed in the signs wash.
It sang in a staticy hum.
The ticket booth to the black light museum was empty and the front entrance beckoned him with its unbidden secret. Posey went inside.
His eyes took a moment to adjust to the black lighting. The first thing he saw was the jade willow, six foot tall it took up an entire corner of the front room. The jade sparkled in the shadow light like a great ghost. He could hear the wind blowing through its jeweled branches. Near the base of the willow lay the body of the ticket taker, crumpled in the final throes of death.
The hall leading to the back of the museum was lined with shelves and colored neon lights. A giant mural of a seductive ornate design covered the opposite side of the hall. The mural showed a woman kissing a man in a fireman’s uniform, she wore nothing and her eyes seemed to loll with the black lighting in the hall. The shelves were lined with glowing curios, glitter covered, painted bright and obvious.
Posey moved into the hall. There were smears of blood covering the floor and tennis shoe tracks. Posey had a brief flash, a vision overwhelm his senses with the sight and smells of a nightmare drama.
The end of the hall seemed to waver in the dark lighting, swaying at a crazy angle, and the smell of blood fresh, coppery. Posey tried to fix a glance at the shadow he saw crouching there, or was it laying there, he couldn’t tell, his psychic senses were in full swing. Dressed in black he saw a skull faced reaper with a blood spattered scythe. Black and white bone, sinew rending unto the blade. The figure screamed, “ Drink the wine! Drink the wine Posey!” Posey shook for a moment as if jolted then he paused the red neon glowing in his wide eyes. He looked at the pathetic creature crouched beneath a display of stained glass crucifixes. “ Drink the wine!” the man whispered in a throaty exclamation.
Posey stared at the shadowy shape of the killer, he was still, quiet in solstice with the screaming ghost, “ Drink the wine!” The mans head had nearly been blown in half and a sodden mess of brains lay next to his motionless figure. Blood, great puddles of congealed crimson liquid pooled beneath his body. He had just missed the action. The killers escape, his way out by self destruction.
The man whispered, “ Drink the wine Posey!” he held out a bottle of grape MD 20/20 toward Posey, “ Have a sip my man, have a sip!”
Posey turned and walked out of the Neon Electric to the waiting street with its freaks, ghosts, burnouts, hookers and dirty dreams of poverty. He made his way back to the motel and bolted the door behind him.
“HOT….L” the sign flashed as Posey layed down in a haunted portion of respite.