Ron Koppelberger
Forest Dreams
He finds himself tempted by the fire, almost overwhelmingly. The dark phantasms that whisper his name over and over again, “Almar Downy, Almar Downy!” He lays unsleeping except for the waking dream, the dream of flames and perdition. He stands before a forest of tall iron pines, there is no way through the wood…except for the hacksaw. He approaches the first tree and begins sawing the lower branches off of it. Soon he has a pile of timber, it must burn he thinks. Lighting a match he sets the pile of branches on fire then begins sawing at another of the trees and another, and another until he has giant heaps of timber to burn. Perhaps he will see his way to the other side of the woods.
The day moves forward into the twilight hours of dusk and still Downy finds himself burning and sawing at the trees. The first sliver of moonlight shines through the trees and the bright orange glow of the fires cast a hazy aura into the dense tree line. “Almar Downy, “ they whisper again, “Almar Downy…”
He saws at the branches until the piles overwhelm the terrain, piles of burning brush in great conflagrations. In the end the woods catch the flame and the tall iron pines light the night sky with a burnt umber glow, smokey and hot. Near morning tide the forest has revealed itself as ash and soot, a once proud enclave for those who seek shelter from the edge of the world. The edge of the world, and this is what Almar found on the other side.
Tall buildings crumbling with decay and great mountains of refuse, a small dirty pond filled with plastic containers and tin cans. A reflection of what lay just beyond the forest.
Almar walked over to the small dirty pool of water and looked at his reflection there and he saw tired eyes, dark half moons and dirty smudges of soot across his face. Had he dreamed all of this or was this his fate.
He stood before the tall pine with hacksaw in hand and looked forward, in that moment he realized that it was not the view to the other side that he wanted and instead he built a house from the surrounding trees, a place to hide from the other side and a shelter against the future, for one day he would have to go to that pond and look into it, but for now the forest would remain his shelter and his sanctity, his peace of mind like the soul of a wise owl who knows the way.
Ron Koppelberger
Chasing the Storm
In chase of the storm, in chase of the storm he was in that most absorbing moment, staring at the picture on the wall. It was a picture of a squall and a boat rocking in tall sea waves, the frame hung loose from the portrait and the painting was wrinkled in one corner revealing a dark cardboard backing. He took the nail gun from the tool chest he had brought into the living room and stared at it then the picture. He would fix the portrait, then it would be the perfect image, to chase the storm in perfect harmony with the dawn’s light he thought.
Things that foretell the morning-tide dawn and happenchance he thought as he approached the painting with the nail gun. “Pop, Pop, Pop…” went the gun as the tide swelled and the boat continued to rock on the giant sea waves. Riding the storm to islands unbidden he thought as he raised the gun again, “Pop, Pop, Pop,…” the gun went again.
A long crimson smear and the sneer of a madman, “Pop, Pop, Pop,…” went the nail gun into the soft flesh of his business partner. The portrait over his face and the painting just a wrinkled mess, must be perfect he thought as he primed the gun for another round of firing. The picture conformed to his partners face and the nails leaked long rusty red trails across the wall he was propped up against. “Pop, Pop, Pop,…” went the gun and the storm and the coming morning sunrise sang in degrees of insanity as he mumbled a curse and looked at his work.
Still the cardboard showed through along with the crimson gore of a newly fastened picture in hell. His partner had lied and cheated winning millions from the company and he had been left with nothing except this absurd little painting. He had removed the painting form the office wall where his partner worked, he had thought of the storm and the currents of hate he felt for the man when he formulated his plan of action. Riding the storm, how did that song go…”Riders on the storm, Riders on the storm, take a long holiday and let your children play, Riders on the storm!” Jim Morrison had it right. Ride the storm he thought as he Admired his work in the new dawn light of the living room.
The sun glowed a bright pink and orange through the spotless window glass and the lace curtains, almost evanescent in its strength. The light warmed him and gave him a healthy aura of exuberance as he worked through the morning on the portrait. In the end he would be caught and the irony was that the painting had been valuable worth over two million dollars at wholesale. The police had been shocked by the bloody mess, the scene of carnage and anger. When they tried to question him all he said was “In chase of the storm, DON”T YOU SEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, IN CHASE OF THE STOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRRRM!”
Ron Koppelberger
Leopard Collapses
The Scarlet curtain was impenetrable and the mist availed nothing but the scent of sulfur. The surface of planet AngelLate otherwise known as 2876.1 was soft and yielding with the thick moss of a bidden plane. Hill Band moved through the crimson mist step by step looking for the downed probe. It had to be near, the homing device he held was going haywire almost as if he were on top of it.
He took a few more steps when he saw the leopard creature, it was baring it's teeth and breathing with great heaving gasps. Hill paused as a tremor of fear welled up from the tips of his boots. The Leopard thing moved a bit closer; it had large eyes almost giant eyes and a pair of fangs reminiscent of a saber tooth tiger. Hill reached for his pistol slowly so as not to alarm the creature when it suddenly stopped and collapsed. He stood there for a moment when he heard the low buzzing hum of a trumpet in the distance. Shadows played in the red mist and he turned to retrace his steps. The humming blare of, trumpets now, filled the silent horizon and Hill began to run as he heard the sound of what must have been hoof beats. Reaching the shelter of his landing craft he opened the access door and leapt inside. The door hissed shut behind him. He fell to his knees and thanked god, he had seen the hoard, the band of alien hunters and he knew that he had been lucky indeed. The labors of man and nature he thought as he prepared to leave, told by a moment.
