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.