The Natural World

Ron Koppelberger

The Natural World

The outrage of feeble dreams and ancient forerunners in portent, awe inspiring Slug Worthy thought. A magnificent, spontaneous style he thought; morose yet brilliantly perfect he considered. A concocted allegiance of puzzling stones and bone dust elementals in desire, he thought in deepening interest.
The photograph of Stonehenge lay before him in lurid gray granite and twilight horned moon backdrop. A portrait in the natural environs of an unabiding desire, a stolid proof one might touch, roughhewn in obelisk concentric, Stonehenge the purveyor of the impossible and all within the conveyance of a most natural conclusion. It was a mystery in the natural world, dark bidden horizons in time, in breaths of old taboo and modern dreams.
He considered one of the boulders laying atop the pillars. Slug saw himself in grandiose poise, perched atop, screaming to the heaven’s in wild rebuke to the natural world, to taxes, to bidden beasts of burden. He thought of screaming in revolt to the tall sky line edged in skyscraper stain and littered by the human debris of modern existence. He thought of screaming and a gulping gasp, a gorge of anger filled his throat.
“Stonehenge,” he said aloud “…come to me in stars and alliances of ancient wonder, vanguard of the shadows and asylum for the pilgrim….ohhhhhhhh Stonehenge!.” Slug caressed the glossy photograph and sighed. The natural world upset the ballest of dreams and dusty mists in legacy of what lay ahead, the myth of forever. “ Ohhhhhhh Stonehenge, “ he exclaimed in passion and tears, “…..what secret unbidden, what desire untold by the wishes of primitive wont and wild desire. Ohhhhhh great circle of gray and twilight, what compassion do you dare me, what compassion for the graces of my quest, my journey to the nights fray?” he questioned with flailing arms and tears, tears of need and lost lives in rendition of old times and the youth of a new world.
Slugs tears ran in rivers and eventually the picture became blurry and damp, paper and dimples of moisture. Slug somewhat overwhelmed by the illusion and his delirium passed out and slept for nearly two days. When he awoke he sighed deeply and thoughtfully; looking at the bottle of Irish whiskey he vowed the oath of reborn will. The picture of Stonehenge lay bare and stained, long forgotten in disregard to Slugs consciousness.
The desires of city streets and shopping malls called to him and somewhere, cuddled away, nuzzling his old desires, the warm cascade of whiskey tumblers and rhy thirsts awaited like a sleeping tiger.