Half-wit Savage

Ron Koppelberger

Half-Wit Savage

The breach was set for the sake of the fray, the lovers of life and the tender purveyors of unwavering magic. The savage, poor, the wild dogs of destiny and willful uproar, they stood in mute silence before the passage to what was an azure heaven, an alabaster and pearl dominion, separate by challenged attentions and safeties cause; it was the wisdom of ages and a moment behind the favor of currents and flow, time in flux.
Savages, a second in the past and the love of princesses, kings and angels forward, forward momentum the half-wit thought. He wondered for a moment and the seconds counted the space between his breaths. Tis our world unto the aftermath of what’s willed in the past, the days of our birth and the possible future of evolution.
“Come!” he spoke aloud, “Come my brothers for we own the toil of the blessed, be satisfied in the separation between us and them for our protectors and the forbearance of our cousins, for we shall not parish, unto the lead, unto the lead!” With that they breached the gulf by measure of a second, leaving the next half-wit wondering at the gate.

Sleeping Buffoon

Ron Koppelberger

Sleeping Buffoon

The pause in their routine was prefaced by the rueful blend cruelty and composed group ethic. The cage was suspended by a short length of chain. Two by two, the floor was barbed and covered in blood, the blood of the buffoon and all of the predecessors of the buffoon. The cage door was latched with a heavy bolt and clasp.
The crowd of taunt expressionless onlookers milled and culled the experience, “A sleeping buffoon!” one of them called out.
“Tis a fare will-o-the-way.” the man shouted as he pressed his fingers against the gold crucifix about his neck, “Sleeping buffoon!” he said again as the crowd began to disperse.
The trial has lasted a few brief moments and in that time the chief magistrate had screamed and reasoned in pitch and balanced savagery. “His sin unto our town, be denied!” the buffoon had mistaken the princess Alarues for a common seamstress. He had asked her to sew a rend in his sash, and in further insult had offered her a pittance in exchange. She had screamed and menaced the buffoon from afar; he was indeed a traveler and a fierce Sheppard of communion from a land afar, gilded in glass and smoke, in emerald visions of greener pastures and fertile wheat. The princess had condemned him calling him a buffoon.
The royal guard had shackled him and in conviction they had delivered him to the head magistrate.
The buffoon slept in silent display and in the way of fate a passing companion unlatched his cage and tended to the buffoons wounds. Later they would return with an army, the buffoon no longer sleeping in sufferance, the prince and future king of Flurry Array, the circle, the knot of kingdoms, would seize the reigns and rule the whole.
In shifting ways of allegiance he would sleep each evening, dreaming only of fire and burning wheat, in the sleep of enchantment and dire futures in sovereign interval unto the turn of the tide.
He dreamed and grew dark in silhouette and stature finally feared by most, no longer a sleeping buffoon.

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Declare me Recurrent

Ron Koppelberger

Declare me Recurrent

Ecru Dread was unimpeded by the trappings of life, the entrance of screaming, kicking tears and enchanted exclamations of Farwell to limbo, “By birth and by the tenants of death” he yelled. By age he thought ancient turns of fated revolution; to be reborn and to die over and over again he thought. Ecru saw broken bones and wheelchairs, rainbow sunrises and amber waves of saffron, “Tis a declaration of what is and what will be the want of angels and god.” he whispered.
The store was crowded, nevertheless he went unseen, unheard. “ A bit of candy for the child and an unbidden apple for the aged passage of time.” he muttered as he picked up a package of chocolate covered apples. Blessings of light lauded Ecru and shadows of pregnable slavery to chance danced around Ecru as he traversed the isles.
“ Great glories of love and last gasps given unto the blood of wombs in transit, a babies boodle all kit and caboodle.” he sang as he grabbed several cans of French cut green beans.
He paused for a moment, “ooooohhhhhhhhhhssssssss,” and “ahhhhhhhaaaaaaaasssss.” from somewhere in the store; the gentle sing-song gasps and twitters swept across the store aisles as a raven flew into the vegetable isle, and unto the turn, the way of the world, another leap and bounding adventure. “Caw, caw…….,” the raven spoke from atop the turnip greens, “Caw, caw.” Ecru turned and all went dark in shadow and silhouette as he died in the isle of the superstore.
For a moment the temper of cool air made him want to pee. “ He’s beautiful man, beautiful.” The baby bubbled and cooed and inside, the ancient knowledge of raven’s and rebirth stole the moment for fate. The parking lot of the superstore was jammed with busy shoppers, mothers, sons and grandmas in dance, the ambulance flittered and the secret birth within declared the ravens roost as he circled from above a recurrent drama of blood and new life.

Butterscotch Bond

Ron Koppelberger

Butterscotch Bond

Chase English stepped closer to the candy display. He delighted in the undeniable expectation of savory sacrament and sugary desire. His hands, small, grasping in secret treaty with the sinful pleasure, he wiggled in the pile of amber hued butterscotch candies. A secret touch of stealth and the act, he looked in both directions, the isle was empty to the left and the right. Chase unraveled the muss, the bother, the call to sweet ecstasy as he unwrapped the butterscotch and popped it into his eager mouth. Tender dreams and great sugary delicious, he smiled and rolled the candy across his tongue.
He was blinded by the excellent perfection of syrupy seas and nascent suns given secret prayers of yellow glow, and in commune with childhood bliss, he didn’t hear the bell at the front of the five and dime. A jangling hollow announcement, Leo Oak entered the store and headed straight for the candy isle. Chase held the partially melted butterscotch in his mouth, startled by the old mans appearance, pretending mute innocence as the aged countenance of fully grown decades and aged lines slowly shuffled up the isle.
He passed the rows of baseball cards and sniffed the air, “Ahhhhhhaaaaa” he mumbled quietly. He regarded the distance between the small boy and himself for a second and tugged the front of his shirt, pausing in speculative interest. Chase stepped away from the candy shelves and stood toward the center of the aisle, paper gliders and licorice whips in glossy red plastic behind him. He looked as old as his grandfather, maybe older. The candy stuck to his tongue, melting sugar and butterscotch sin.
Leo stepped in front of the boy, he wore a look of innocence, young with curly blond hair and curious blue eyed interest. He’d have to be quick, impressionable at that age, he thought. With his back to the boy he snaked his hand into the butterscotch bin. Just one, he thought. Unwrapped and heave hoe into the gullet; the taste of golden drama, clean butterscotch sugars; he stood with his shoulders stooped wagging his tongue in circles about the treat.
Chase watched as the old man moved back up the aisle past the baseball cards and gummy worms to the front of the store. A few seconds later the jangle of the front door bells filled the store. Chase smiled and remembered the quarter in his pocket. Pausing to grab one of the small brown paper bags beside the shelf of candy, he picked out a handful of butterscotch and grinned an eternal exclamation for things bidden sweet.

A Drama

Ron Koppelberger

A Drama

Forevermore a change, a silhouette in summits of soul. He shaped in contours of garden labor, intricate fangs and forepaw change. He entreated the image of manifest passage unto the existence of détente’, a peace amongst wolves and the morning-tide glow of fresh skies and sparrows in anxious array.
He considered the flower blossom and the bumble-bee buzzing in fervent revolutions of flight. A pleasant riot of dandelion dander flittered against his paws as he played with the dandelion seed, a dream, a boundary between here and the there. He saw they baby girl, the angels sang and the soaring gossip relinquished the name of a curious dandelion, the discerning destiny of an awakened spirit. The wolf calmed the conference of seed and rushed toward the horizon in mysteries of bidden heaven and the secret of saffron shelter. The child would be the salvation of wolf and man and any other class of earth bound soul. He lay still for a moment and contemplated the arrival of the blessed child. He knew there were forces at work and some of them were fighting for the chance to rule in darkness and sorrow. The sun glimmered against his eyes and he looked west, to the distant clouds and his destiny. He would find the child and his path, for the sake of future dreams.

The Arrival of wolf and man

Ron Koppelberger

The Arrival of Man and Wolf

The secret messenger shrunk from the wildfire and the skies became a torrent, rain and warm heavenly flows of patient breadth. The resolute indulgence of wheat bloom and saffron passion distinguished the unconscious gift of vision and dreams as a thousand thousand ventured into the grain.
The outline in stone hid in shadow and temptation, a circle in granite and obsidian, a gathering of baron toil, it waited and the wager in torments of fire would yet evolve, nevertheless it raged and fought the tethers in dangerous rebellion. The wheat gathered its blossoms and in rooted diversities of method quelled the quandary with incense and the light of the divine, Eden in times of ascension and quest, the wont of what would be.
The angel, quiet and sure, went before inland seas and wild jungle brush to the man and the wolf, he satisfied a dream and the temper of reflection. The endless fields of wheat honored the gain of ceaseless passage to test and reason in the fondness of forever.

* In labors of omen the dawn sheltered the pair as tides in stone, also, amassed the run, the destiny of smoke and fire.