Summer Soul

Ron Koppelberger

Summer Soul

Bruised and defiant the why and the drama of the idea was bolstered by the summer smile of what he called delicate, beautiful and wild. Treat Roe sat on the patio rail; his misgivings and doubtful knowledge tempered by the cold taste of beer sipped from a Margarita glass.
He looked at her mascara smudged eyes and saw paradise, through half swollen black eyes and purple patches of injury. He saw and whispered his affection through cracked lips, tasting copper in small measures of beer and blood. She had equine poise shaped by the lines of a night-time allure, eyes of passion and ringlets of silken desire. He ran his thumb across the slippery edge of the glass. The daughter of dark esteem she lay her palm against his and smiled.
The fight had been furious and long. Treat had nearly gone down and for a brief instant the halo had dimmed above his loves shining countenance. Dewy Meck lay in a bleeding heap near the bougainvillea vines, unconscious and defeated.
Treat pressed his palm against his girls palm, candent in azure and scarlet they became a single beam of brilliance, rouge and blood, lipstick and torn t-shirts smeared green by the stain of grass and wont. Treat sighed summer breezes and barbecued chicken while her heart blanketed the dream that made him whole with the essence of a female betrothal. A call to the vivid twilight they moved closer together in joined conspiracies of shadow. They brought the wind to a crescendo in tall pine by ravens in flight and marriage unto the breath of an ethereal second, by backyards in caste, in eternal celebration of the twilight moment. They became a single flame fed by the velocity of a substance dreamed possible by the heavens and tears of trust.
The light on the patio hummed and melded with the currents that course through backyards and county fairs, through summer picnics and crazy screams of romance, by rare wine brilliant halos of light wrought unto the ghosts of what simple abandon, for the night and the call of the sleeping crow, holds in secret reverie. A meaning given birth by the wombs of a chosen direction. The patio, the epoch, they moved upward and into the evening sky, borne in unbridled scenes of past discovery, for the eyes of a generation in lost frays, in dark shadows shorn only by twilight visions and the fears of lovelorn battles, a trim demon in contrary coquette, they ascended away into the skies with willing mind and the desire of angels in phantasmal swirl. They moved into a clandestined existence and the conquering mind of elder possession. Chicken stained hands , sauce and beer, sweat and breath like the whisper of dandelions blooming summer souls and babies recollections of cradles in ghostly prelude unto the revelation in southern skies and seconds yearning the gateway to different worlds.
Dewy Meck lay broken as the couple moved toward heaven and the promise of a future in roses, he groaned and climbed up from the farthest depth of a black illusion. In Anger, in tides of blood and ageless sand, he gained his feet vowing the world and the realm of human existence.
He sighed and fire flew from between his bleeding lips, sparks and ash in tongues of shadow, cold fire in the aftermath of a backyard battle between the winds of fate and chicken grease, chips and human endeavors to claim an instant in heaven, Eden, Nirvana, the ranchouse with children and dirty diapers and bottles of mad dog wine; the fight for what’s bought by the angels in humble secret, in asylums unseen.
Dewy looked heavenward and vowed an oath in blood and gray eyed ice. “Till death, by the need of your breath, I’ll have the favor of tide and life, of azure skies and sunshine, of warm smokey campfires and Bad mitten games won in favor of cigarette smoke and cold beer, I’ll have and in good measure!”
Dewy climbed the patio steps and went to the barbecue built into the side rail. Lifting the lid he inhaled deeply of the wood smoke, the charcoal and crispy hotdog Oder. Reaching in Dewy grabbed a tinfoil ear of corn and a charred simmering chicken leg. Carefully Dewy whispered dark drama, the beast, the dire melancholy of a jealous cousin, a brother of what has all by exiled prisoners in chain he ate and the world revolved, sun, moon, sun, moon.
The heavens watched Dewy and earth, the here praised his silhouette, his darkness, the blood of an angry command.
Treat Roe grinned in his own world with his love, his reason for life. The halo in his midst shining light down on Dewy; Dewy stopped eating barbecued chicken for a moment, the taste of cold beer on his lips, and for just a second he knew heaven. The space of that knowledge given birth, the wont of what he thought possible for his existence, for the continuance of his particular breed. Dewy by earth and Treat by heaven, by death and life, by god and by the dark demons that want the soul of simple living, that want barbecues, carnivals in summer rust, county fairs and beer on a steamy day. By the grace of an eternal battle, gasping grasping and locked in strange union between man, woman and the beast, the possessor of dark dreams and the tempter by decree, “I’ll show them the shadows and they shall want of it, they shall fall like sparks of dimming light to the earth!” He shouted to the sky above between bites of chicken and gulps of beer.
In silent rows miles and miles away, the wheat of tomorrows promise grew as did the darkness wonting fire to consume the harvest; Treat prepared the steaks, juicy t-bones, the hamburgers as he gazed out over the garden waiting for the fight yet done.
Dewy sighed and spoke, “ I know how they are, it will be mine in the end.” they both counted the seconds in a summer of souls desire, summer souls and the wont of light and dark, they counted the seconds that formed the bond between them.

The Order of the October Chaff

Ron Koppelberger

The Order of the October Chaff

The magic of quiet attire in twilight seasons and Fall address wore the melancholy of Halloween mists, the shadowy sensation of wistful winds and the throes of an aged bargain; Summer for Winter and Fall breaths of intermission, the moments considered the change from Summer to Autumn orange, tattered leaves blown in a heaping blanket of crumbling decay and cool airs of approaching snows.
The town of Hallowawe lay hidden in secret anonymity near the edge of Acres Woods; The surrounding vistas were well worn in harvest bloom, fields of sorghum and wheat cloaked the landscape between Hallowawe and Acres Woods like a great ghost of undulating saffron sky in the distant Summer sun. The houses were old with character and old fashioned regard. Main street lay in the center of Hallowawe, running East to West through the heart of the town. A Texaco gas station, the Prow Pharmacy and Hanson’s Grocery among others lined the street with easy promises and simple satisfactions.
Race Case, his mother had believed his name was perfect for him. When he was a baby she found herself racing after his curiosity; he was always into something she had told him when he was older, “Race Case, chased ya all over the place. “ she had laughed. He considered his mother for a moment as he stepped into the Hallowawe Feed. He missed his mom. She had died about three years earlier. She hadn’t suffered, she’d died in her sleep quietly and without exclamation. She was the reason he had moved to Hallowawe. His parents had been farmers until his dad passed. The farm had gone to seed literally after his death. Maybe he was meant for this life, the farmers lot he thought as he ordered seed from Barley Huss the owner of Hallowawe Feed.
“ Near Winter now Race,” he said with caution, “You aren’t thinking bout plantin are ya?” he asked.
“Nope, this is for next year Barley; I thought I’d get a jump on it before the others, sides it’s savin me money. Always buy my seed early Mr. Huss.” Barley handed Race a receipt and said,
“Yer one of the good ones.” Race grinned and said,
“See ya in the spring.” as he walked out into the street where his truck was Parked.
The evening twilight was a portent of the Halloween season, children in costumes and candy buckets full of Beer Barrels, Hershey Bars and a scattering of pennies. The sky lay in orange silhouette on the horizon, frayed bleeding spears of crimson as Race drove East toward the farm.
The old truck, A Ford F-150, smelled of oil and exhaust. He turned the radio on as the silhouette of the setting sun shone in his eyes painting him in a soft amber hue. He had turned the radio to an oldies station; a song by The Doors was playing and Jim Morrison was commanding,

“Break on through to the other side……

Break on through to the other side…..”

Race traveled the two lane road into the countryside. A flock of crows sat next to the road pecking at a dead raccoon and squawking, “Caw, caw!” Race rolled the truck window up muffling the sound of the birds as he passed.
Unwinding in a long reassurance of farm country vista, his property lay directly ahead, the curving dirt driveway flowing into the main road. The truck bumped and rattled in aged complaint as he turned off the main road onto the bumpy two-track. Trees, oaks and pines, lined the stretch of driveway for a quarter of a mile ending with a small three bedroom ranch and a two story red barn.
Race parked the truck and glanced at the burnt orange twilight horizon, tomorrow was Halloween. He rarely got any treaters nevertheless tonight was devil’s night and his mailbox was fare game; he didn’t think anyone would venture as far as the house. Last year they had smashed his mailbox beyond repair, he had replaced it with a brick and stone pillar with the box securely cemented inside. The evening sky was a bloody smear and drifting from distant points of life came the Oder of wood smoke, tinctured crisp Fall air in seasons sure.
Race got out of the truck and listened; he had seen the silhouette, the shape of something fast and tall reflected in the glimmer of frayed indigo and saffron light, near the corner of the house, the far side near the Azalea bushes. There were flittering shadows and an echoing whisper, a soft hush of sound like a swarm of flies, big bluebottle, buzzing in mass.
The front of the ranch was prefaced by a big bay window, the quiet yellow glow of interior lights shone through the part in the heavy drapes. Warm and safe he thought nervously. The yeowl of a cat in heat tore the silence in pointed wild wont. The buzzing continued a bit louder now and the shadows near the tree line called secret mysteries of fear. Maybe he should go back into town and get the Hallowawe police, maybe he should get the hell back in the truck and drive as fast as he could toward Hallowawe he thought as the shadows multiplied and spread out into the wood line near the edge of the house.
Race swallowed his fear and the trepidation that held him in place as he moved to the front door of the house. The stone steps were covered in a slick mess of crimson, blood, thick, viscous and fresh. Race inhaled in shaky contemplations of death; devils night, was it animal blood, he didn’t think so.
The shadows near the corner of the house shifted and swayed and Race made a conscious effort to ignore the buzzing sound and the whimpers he heard, the howling groans of some great goblin phantasm, the demon spirit of Halloween, in all souls confection, Candy and blood. Blood and dandelion weed, syrupy cotton tufts and black droplets of jagged leafy growth led to the side yard, he had used weed killer on the ragged grass but he was plagued with dandelion weed. The scattered weed sang copper near the edge of the walk, perfumed in dark stain and accented by the buzz of a million flies.
Race glance at the gray and ebony shadows at the corner of the ranch, whimpering he definitely heard a whimpering sound. What was the secret hidden behind the corner? Were they fearful conveyances of pain, injury, was someone hurt, perhaps a child, a babe in distress. He walked slowly to the corner of the house. The blood was smeared in scarlet palm prints on the wooden lattice trim. “ Here goes.” he said in a whisper to himself. Looking around the edge of the house he took several steps back.
The flies, there was a shape swarmed in flies. A human sized mound completely enveloped by flies, a whirling shifting mass of winged green and blue bottle flies. The sound was deafening. The whimpering was coming from beneath the thick blanket of flies. He had to do something, but the flies, he thought cringing . He had to help.
Race touched the whimpering figure and a great cloud of inky black flew up like an explosion, buzzing madly. It was a woman, he could see she had long ravens black hair and full pouting lips. Her eyes glowed a bright neon green and they implored him, pleaded with him to help. She was dressed in a burlap dress, an old grain bag; it was covered in blood from the neckline to the bottom hem.
She moved her legs and Race noticed they were covered in welts, scratches and angry purple bruises. She grabbed his arm as he stood there in silent waves of shock. The flies were crawling into his eyes and mouth tickling his lips wildly. She pulled herself up with his hesitant help. “What the hell Happened?” he said through the buzzing swarm.
“Help me.” she moaned in response, “The order, the order are coming. We’ll have to get away, they’ll kill us!” she said in a halting stutter of what was obvious terror.
“ Come on, we’ll go inside, “ he offered as he held her up. “I don’t know who’s after you, but I have guns in the house. We’ll be safe there.” She took a few shake steps and whispered,
‘Guns……..guns won’t stop the order, they’ll kill us both! ” she groaned as
they moved to the front door.
Visions in ancient drama, the caste of flies followed to impossible conclusions of darkness. Race edged the front door open after finding the lock, with his help she stumbled through the door. Once they were both inside, Race pulled the screen door shut with a rattling metallic bang, the glass in the top portion of the screen door crawled with the blue flies. A few lingering flies found the freedom of the house but the majority had been held at bay outside.
She was beautiful, her features, subtle, soft , primal in flushed checks and glistening eyes of fire. He shut the interior door blocking out the cloud on the screen glass. She crumpled to the floor in a heap. A few errant flies buzzed around her face as she sighed in relief.
Race listened as she confessed the better part of her nightmare, her soul bared for him to see in confused gushes of fear and tremulous vision. He looked more closely at her thinking the blood on the burlap bag came from some horrible injury, she’d need a hospital he thought but after a quick survey he realized the blood wasn’t hers.
“The Order of the October Chaff, they’ll find us here! We’re not safe! They’ll kill us with magic’s and the road to hell!” she said in halting unstrung fear. He listened to her labored breath , the sound of her terrified exhalations. The air was thick with the coppery odor of blood and something else, the scent of fresh cut flowers, lilacs and blood red roses. She looked at him and whispered, “Please help!”
The sound of an echoing howl, a thirsty exclamation, by the edge of the wood line, surrounded the house, flittered through the walls in a dull muffled screech. She began to cry, tears welling up in the corners of her almond shaped eyes, trailing to the hollow of her checks and spattering against her bruised legs. He couldn’t help staring at her, she was the pinnacle of beauty, dark and enchanting the wants of a passionate embrace. He touched her check, brushing away the tear there; it was a damp silken droplet and before he could think he put the tip of his finger to his lips. The tear was warm, salty and tinged with the desire of a careless abandon.
The howling and the screeches continued outside, closer and more insistent.
“We’ll have to leave now! They’re near now…..” she implored Race. He stood there staring down at her in quiet reverie , sated by her tears; magic illusions of Eden he thought. “Sweet, sweet siren, yer the perfect picture of love , the sure sense honey.” She stood up on shaky legs. Grabbing his hand she said,
“We have to go!” the howling continued and the sound of high pitched screaming filled the air, the currents of October chill, the Halloween season and realms of the unbidden, by degrees and dire darkness.
Race pulled the heavy drapes away from the front window and peeked out. The woman screamed behind him and he staggered back a few steps. There was a face in the window coated in thick sheets of insect life, cockroaches, crawling and filling and spilling from his mouth. In the midst were a pair of scarlet rimmed eyes, bulging and wild.
There were four or five of them standing in a semicircle in the center of the front yard. The figure in the center was covered by thick mats of gray fur and two wolves stood guard beside him. The figure to his left was covered in waning tides of butterflies, monarchs and yellow buttercups, flittering, floating in clouds around her; he assumed the figure was female. The shape to the wolf’s right was horned like a twelve point buck and covered by thick ropey braids of hair, knotted in dreadlocks like a rastapharian. The last was winged like a raven, dark shadowy and screeching, the silhouette of a thunderhead in dark skies, momentarily illuminated to reveal thousands of ebony colored birds, ravens, like a tornado, circling in loud bands of sound, pulsing and haunting.
“The Order of the October Chaff. They’ll take me!” she screamed. The front window shattered and glass flew inward as a million flies filled the room and swallowed up the woman. She was a shapeless mound of black; shifting in commune with each other the flies buzzed and swarmed. Phantomlike she moved to the front door, step by step, the flies compelling her. Race grabbed at her in an attempt to restrain her. His hand came away in cloying gobs of flies. They were chocking him, filling his lungs, his mouth; he screamed and bit down, spitting as he crunched mouthfuls of the insects between his teeth.
The woman shifted through the glass door, opening it and stepping outside. Race collapsed in a heap of flies, smothering him with their want, their need, he fell unconscious.
Later that evening he awoke to the sound of children laughing and squeaking glass. He stood and looked out the screen door. He saw three or four small shapes running up the drive. Devil’s night, he remembered. They had waxed what was left of his front windows. He stepped outside as he began to recall the nightmare. The front of the house, it was painted in scarlet, in blood across the front of the house.

THE ORDER OF THE OCTOBER CHAFF

Race paused, thinking. The scent of lilac perfume was in the air. A moth flew close to the front porch light, fluttering, a half dozen or so, maybe more. One of them landed on him, then two, then more. He heard a howl in the distance. The moths came by the thousands and Race knew the order of the October chaff wasn’t complete yet.

Sick to Sunrise

Ron Koppelberger

Sick to Sunrise

The discovery of sunrise in the shadows of the dark conclave was a miracle and an inspiring reason to continue living. The priest, Father Wily, was ill; he found it difficult to function in day to day degrees of service, nevertheless he found faith and strength in the promise of each dawn and every twilight-tide passage.
Rays of sunshine shone through the dust moted atmosphere of the ancient cathedral. Tempered and penitent he prayed near the alter of the saint, just a tiny fragment of bone lay within the alter but it was enough to manifest a miracle. Father Wily prayed and the burnished surface glowed in a mosaic of tempest dawn and stained glass light. The crucifix held the power of a healing divinity, Father Wily touched it and began to shiver in convulsive force. Falling to the granite floor his back arched and he screamed. Images of fire and the skies full of acrid smoke from an enormous conflagration filled his consciousness. He gasped then went limp. The vision faded into an endless sea of saffron gold, the fire gone in an instant. He found peace in that image; the warmth of an angel in embrace overwhelmed him and he saw wheat fields in bloom. Near the horizon lay an azure sky, eternal and in rainbow plumes of mist.
Awakening he tested his frailty, and discovered that he was no longer ill. The evidence of his experience was clutched ion the palm of his hand. He sat up and stared at the sprig of wheat in his palm. Inhaling, he breathed in the promise of a new beginning and a destiny inscribed in flame and fight.

Witness

Ron Koppelberger

Witness

Begat by the pursuit of distant vistas, the distressed ruffle of the witness flittered in disturbing breaths of abandon. Balanced in revelation the aged monk watched as the figure of a man in worship endeavored to resurrect the lifeless native. An animal of some indistinct origin grumbled and fussed in the ragweed bloom next to the monk. Paying attention, caution, reasonable suspicions of amazement resolved to enthrall the aged priest with the prospect of destiny, a coveted payment for the promise of new life.
Divisions of light and sound surrounded the native in a brilliant corona as his lifeless body levitated away from the dense underbrush and thorny briar scrub. He watched from secret hidden sylvan vantage, his jungle perch, his eyes glued to the taboo of ethereal mists and jungle dreams. Was this the eleventh hour he wondered as a rolling cascade of scarlet drizzled from the underside of the floating man.
Eclipsed in perfect symphony, by the sunbeams and lattice of lush vegetation, by the realms of revival unto the sustenance of existence, in denial of death and the darkness contained therein, the native yawned and levitated to a standing position next to the praying man. The monk struggled with an understanding, the substance of life, chaste witness in moments of clumsy, fumbling birth. He had witnessed a miracle and the rest of the world had gone on to another Sunday and another twilight before the darkness.

The Show

Ron Koppelberger

The Show

Mawson August tapped the rust colored ashtray with a sleight subtle rhythm. Inhaling he savored the gentle caress of vanilla flavored clove. Chaldea Clove, “Discreet yet neat!” it said on the box. The bottle of Heineken sat lonely and nearly full next to a half eaten plate of green beans.
The teddy bear on the television screen looked soft and fuzzy, friendly; Mawson got cozy in his easy chair and clicked the remote control to his new flat screen liquid digital. He belched a growling tiger and patted his stomach.
Inhaling deeply he relaxed and exhaled a mushrooming plume of smoke. He turned out the table lamp next to him. Silhouettes in dancing storms and evanescent shadow played across his face in peripheral morphus exchange with the light from the glowing television. Mawson sighed and checked the cable guide, Click, Click, Click. Channel 138, a movie “The Lady and the Purchased Passion,” 187, “free will” it read, 209, “Kick yer Butt in Hell” it read. He opened his eyes wider in the darkness and the glow of flittering chatterbox vision. “ Kick yer butt in hell,” he read again. For a moment he was indecisive in his choice, “Why not.” he whispered. The tranquil pause between seconds and minutes ticked by as he waited for the satellite relay to capture the picture.
The screen flashed a simple one word announcement, “Evangeline,” then there was gray static, again the screen flashed “Evangeline!” He waited, bonded wandering eyes expectant, “Evangeline!” The rapt face of a brilliant twilight sunset, compliant to the approaching indigo shade, shaped in the fashion of a man, eyes scarlet and the rest in shadow except for a row of pearly white teeth, “Evangeline!” superimposed across the man’s silhouette. A low hum refrained in a soft pillowy echo, “Evangeline,” it whispered. Mawson looked at his watch it had stopped at 12:37 A.M., “Evangeline the man whispered a bit louder. “The spoils of war,” he spoke aloud in sibilant rhythm with the crickets that had begun chirping. His mouth opened a tiny bit and he reached up to the pearly whites and pulled out a piece of folded notebook paper. His dark hand held the paper, outstretched almost as if offering the secret note to Mawson. He unfolded the piece of paper.
“Evangeline!” it said in maroon script. The man took a wooden match from the shadows before him, striking the match against his check a tiny inferno of brilliance charmed the well of gray-black shadow. Holding the match to the paper he set the scrap on fire. It burned and his face gnarled to a look of absolute hatred. “EVAGILINE!” he screamed shaking the space between Mawson and the screen. Understood, implicit in chaste degrees of illumination a giant red and amber sun filled the screen, the unassuming figure of an angel in flight fluttered across the screen and a shower of rose petals filled the air in gentle undulating harmony. A silent rhapsody in cadence with the sound of a beating heart filled the room. Mawson saw an unborn fetus and the conclusion of the moment. The screen filled with light<“Salvation.” it read. There was an intangible unspoken purity in the angel as the gentle hiss of static woke him from his quiet reverie and his secret discussion.
The dream, he possessed the betrothal of a gracious existence, the dream, he shivered for a moment and the twilight wild whispered “Evangeline.” in his ear. The better of a revolution rolled before him, wheat and saffron, near the edges and in the distance, fire great heaps of flame.

Greetings

Have a wonderful Saturday!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The Plague (Love and the Rebirth of Hope)

Ron Koppelberger

The Plague

(Love in the Rebirth of Hope)

Spate Groove said, “Fabulous, absolutely fabulous!” The countryside was littered with the castoffs of a thousand, maybe hundreds of thousands, deserters. They had all left in a rush, a damn mad rush Spate thought.
Spate walked into the background, the remnants of what they had left behind. Dusty cars and old plastic shopping bags drifted and lay unattended by their former owners. They had all left when the plague had blossomed. At first a few died then they started dropping like….like what he thought, like water balloons. Plop and splash in leaking crimson buckets, they fell apart at the seams bleeding from the eyes and ears and finally from their pours. Squish, splat and into the dirt, plop against the concrete walks and streets, eventually they all fell. The news had said, “Temporary……a temporary problem with the Scarlet Pox.” Most believed they could outrun the plague, some died in their cars, some died miles away from home, mostly they all just died and bad, as bad as it gets.
He walked the streets of Baltimore with casual abandon, spitting on the sidewalk occasionally and singing out loud, “This is the end, my only friend the end, this the end.” he sang as the old Doors tune filled him with a temporary remorse for what had been lost. The row houses and cobbled streets stretched into the distance and barely, just barely the scent of decay.
He paused for a moment and looked across the street to Baltimore’s Civic Arena. On a whim he crossed the street and the huge parking area leading to the triple set of doors. He peered into the glass doors and saw disarray. There were scattered popcorn boxes and empty booths circling the arenas stage. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. The odor of rotting flesh was faint and old. “In the fold of priests and fools alike.” he said aloud to the empty halls. There were pennants and piles of T-shirts heaped against the brick walls and in the midst a single sleeping bag with the arenas last tenant.
He was gray and black, mummified and quite dead, there was a pistol laying next to him and a suspicious brown stain speckled the walls near his head. Spate paused for a moment and prayed.
There were two steel doors leading to the auditorium, Spate stared at the doors for a moment and pushed them open. The air inside was stale with old decay and death. There were rows of cots with the remnants of the sick, all dead. Spate closed the doors and returned to the parking lot. There were a row of stores further down the street and the noonday sun shone brightly from that direction. Follow the sun Spate the west is the best Spate
Spate went into the drug store on a whim. Maybe ther’ll be something cool he thought with an amazing thirst. The shelves were nearly empty and there were splashes of red on the counter where someone had sneezed. He went to the dairy section, it was small but a cause for a grin, the back up generators were still functioning. He grabbed a bottle of OJ from the shelf and guzzled it down in two gulps.
Spate wiped his mouth and went to the rear of the store where the Vitamins and athletes foot powder were.
Pausing, he surveyed a horror in tune with the desolation of the country. He was splayed hands outward feet tied together with lengths of variegated yarn, blue and brown, someone had bound his hands to the top edge of the shelf and he hung there crucified by unknown shadows. Spate sidestepped his feet, askew and angled to the edge of the isle.
The day wore on and the sun shone through the plate glass at the front of the store; mottled sunshine and the remnants of a coke, Spate sat there at the front of the store leaning against the counter sun illuminating his tired face with the silhouette of a few flies and an empty cloudless horizon.
Spate marked the passing seconds and minutes by the shadow of the sun against the tiled floor. By his best estimate it was four or five in the afternoon.
Standing he stretched and yawned, the jewelry counter held a revolving display of watches and crucifixes. He went over to the Plexiglas display and knocked it to the floor. It bounced without breaking; staring down at the case he noticed a tiny rainbow of light shining through the thick plastic. Grabbing the case again he slammed it down into the floor with a great heave and a yell, “YYYYAAAAAAAAAA!” The plastic cracked and he stomped on it a few times breaking it open and scattering the watches across the floor. Reaching into the shattered plastic he grabbed a silver Timex; it had a simple elastic band and was waterproof. The watch read four-thirty-eight. Slipping it on his wrist he went to the front of the store and looked out the double glass doors. The sky was an azure in the late afternoon; the day wore like it was his and his alone. He wondered for a moment and the thought was a terrible conclusion to an almost empty afternoon, was he alone, the only one left alive, he knew it was possible. He pushed the doors open and moved out onto the sidewalk.
A stray newspaper flittered in pieces across the street. There were a few cars lining the edge of the two lane blacktop. The closest one was a gray Camry; its hood was up and there were the bodies of a man and a woman slumped over in the front seat. There was a portable cloths rod in the backseat, cloths, suits and dresses even a few t-shirts hung on plastic hangers from the rod.
Spate went to the Camry and opened the rear passenger door. A whoosh of hot air rushed out as the reek of decay overwhelmed him. The couple were glued to the seats by leaking pools of congealed blood and strangely enough the flies that swarmed from the car were more interested in the spilled milkshakes that had dried across the dash than the couple.
Spate closed the door as quick as he had opened it. He had been thinking about a change of cloths. There must be a clothing store around here he thought as he looked up the empty street.
Spate made his way further into town. He had come from the southern side of End house Street from the Baltimore countryside. He had passed a few houses and a gas station and there hadn’t been any signs of life, not even a stray cat or dog. The idea that there might be other survivors was the notion he held on to as the hours wore on, there must be others he had thought, instead he had been greeted by the ghost of a once thriving city……empty streets and the crimson splashed bodies of those who had died in the plague.
Spate moved further down the street until he found a clothing store. Bay worth Tuxedos, he climbed inside through a smashed plate glass window. Inside there were mannequins dressed for weddings, parties and ceremonies that would never be. The store was dark in shadowy echos of what had been, what was. Spate grabbed a ruffled shirt and a gray jacket. Stripping off his t-shirt he put the cloths on. The ruffles followed the button-line of the shirt and the jacket was a French cut tailored for someone much larger than him. He stood there for a moment, silent conscious realization, he knew he was alone. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed; he’d have to find a place to sleep before long, he was famished and dog-tired.
Sitting down against the concrete wall beneath the window he sighed and scooped away the glass piled there. He clenched the handful of glass for a moment and thought about the man at the Civic auditorium. A tiny stream of blood ran down his wrist and he flinched letting go of the glass shards. He wouldn’t end up that way, he had to survive and find other survivors, companions on a desolate world, he had to succeed in his quest.
Spate closed his eyes for a moment and slept and dreamed. He was in the auditorium singing, his band was grooving and the crowd was screaming for more when the light went out. The guitars and drums fell silent as did his voice. The auditorium lights came on and they were a bright fluorescent red, illuminating the confused crowd in scarlet. The public address system squawked for a moment and then Jim Morrison’s voice filled the air, “This is the end my friend, my beautiful friend the end.” the song continued and the crowd began to sway as Jim neared the end of the tune. From the back of the auditorium there was a gunshot and the crowd heaved in the direction of the exits, then spate woke up.
Spate looked North toward the center of the Baltimore and for an instant, just the briefest of moments he caught the light and silhouette of a figure moving along the West side of the street. He walked then ran toward the woman making her way up the sidewalk.
The sun shone an orange twilight cloak across the Baltimore cityscape. A gauzy dream in vacant storefronts and abandoned cars. The sounds of both laughter and joyful tears filled the empty spaces around them. They met, running to each other arms outstretched in greeting.
Embracing they knew the promise of a new beginning, they would make it…together. They were survivors and they had finally found each other.
“Thank God!” Spate said as he hugged her. She wiped the tears away from her eyes hesitantly with the back of her palm.
“I thought everyone was dead!” she said in half gasping sobs.
“So did I!” he replied smiling widely. She wore a tan skirt and a pleated top with a name tag attached to it. She was a waitress, or had been and her name was Elaina.
“I’ve been staying over there!” she pointed to a squat brick building with the words “JAYKEMP LIVERY” it looked to be a hotel and a restaurant. They walked hand in hand to the hotel.
Ultimately they would have children and the city of Baltimore would hold them close to what had been with the promise of what would be again, someday through love, laughter and moments given them both as the mother and father of a new generation, a new world in revolution.
Through all the years they lived and raised eight children and thirty-seven grandchildren they never met another soul on earth, indeed they had been the only survivors of the plague.

Tempered Tales

Ron Koppelberger

Tempered Tales

In spoils of fury and wild embracing will,

The thrilling urge alive unto the way

Of what’s given in gilded score and for days,

Seconds and years, in all’s love and evermore, an

Acknowledged harmony and truth in tears of radiant

Wish and form, in cadent whirling wells revolting

The revolution in tempered tales of reflection.

The Harvest Seed

Ron Koppelberger

The Harvest Seed

The lush day by day drama,

In wanton urges of wicked will

And tendered , a love child in eternal

Raven’s share and passionate tempered

Fare, feathered, torn by tears, the consummation of eyes

Alight and alms in prayer, in kind smiles and need,

                                                               The harvest season’s seed.

Shares of Solace

Ron Koppelberger

Shares of Solace

The vanilla character in fractured adventures

Of icy crystal, a performance in discerning

Perceptions of ethereal sustenance and

Hungry fanged drizzles of blood. A Monday scrape

In dire japes of featured froth and salted shark

Meats in salivating shares of

                                                                               Solace.