Dreams in Frayed Cotten and Straw

Dreams in Frayed Cotton and Straw

Ron Koppelberger

　

The harmony of gossip in black, in blood and bidden assassins breath bore his title and even so dreams and nightmares haunted him in slow easy demonstrations of fear. He was Sable Warden keeper of the sentence, the purveyor of the gallows, the hangman’s knot and the edge of a triple bladed sword. He was the mask, the crimson spray and the dull thud of heedless punishment, he was the magistrates executioner and the lever was truly heavy.
Sable sighed and rolled amongst the cotton sheets and straw padding. He was caught by the half-light of a terrific phantasm, a sleep chartered by the wont of a decision, a choice given him in the moment of death.
He dreamed of starlight and dark suns at night, he dreamed of red smoke and flame, the better part of a battle wrought for the sake of the kill. With quiet stealth he saw the figure of a man in dark havens of silk, he was levitating and laughing. Sable knew and his knowledge bought the drama. The figure floated closer and he raised his triple edge. The hilt of the sword was solid silver with triple wolfs heads at the base. In the smokey light the wolfs eyes glittered, the eyes were blood red rubies, the blade the sharpest in the township.
Sable swung at the floating specter and screamed with a furious anger. The man laughed as the blade ripped through his mid-section tearing him in half and dropping him to the ground in a spray of blood and viscera.
Sable grunted in his sleep and shivered; in the dream he wore his executioners hood and silver tinged vestments of leather. He saw the sky as the twilight shone its light on the figure of the man. There was a twinkle of metal around the dead mans neck. Sable wiped tears of blood from the corners of his eyes and uncovered the flash of metal. It was a necklace hewn in gold and slick with the mans blood. The design was unfamiliar to him, stars, half moons and emerald slivers of stone. Sable grabbed the chain yanking it free, the spoils of battle he thought.
The sky bled bright orange and red and in the distance wolfs howled at the approaching blood moon. As the shadows closed in around him he moaned and rolled in the cotton sheets, sleep laden and borne by what was due he dreamed of crimson seas and the wont of an untrod path, the path of an unconscious passage, in dreams of love, loves lost and the end of his humanity. The blade lay next to him in darkness and he continued on dreaming of yet another battle. Sable swung his sword and the flesh was always pliant, the blade unforgiving as he sliced the head from a slender figure in union with the fight. Wooooosh, a moment, a breath of mere seconds as the head toppled revealing a woman’s face, it lay, face upturned, bleeding on his leather boots.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” he screamed recognizing his wife’s face. The sheets tangled about his feet and he dreamed of a scarlet sash binding his ankles and a small child, a boy towing him through mud and ash and the embers of countless fires. Sable kicked and screamed as he was pulled along, he was helpless in the child’s undoubting sway. The bed creaked and shook as he screamed in fear and convulsive thrall.
In the dream, the source of his unconscious hell he kicked screamed and fought the child pulling him, dragging him toward unbidden ends, toward an executioners fear.
Haze filled the air for a moment then thousands of leaves, dry, crumbling, flittering and fluttering like a million moths, they fell down around them and buried them absolutely. The tugging ceased and suddenly the child was gone.
He stood amongst the pile of decaying leaves brushing the heap away from his face. He moved forward. Ripples moved beneath the thick blanket, fast scurrying toward him in circles, and the sound of children at play, singing. The sky flashed a brilliant fire red and the leaves disappeared only to be replaced by mist and a sparkling dew that covered a long sloping hill of grass.
The castle stood in the distance and in the front a large pole with long tethers attached at the top. A group of children circled the pole each holding a tether. “We all fall down…….” they sang. They were expressionless as they fell to the ground in silent play. Sable moved to the edge of the circle, the children had dark half moons beneath their eyes and were covered in leaking bloody sores. He thought, the harrow has passed.
He groaned and tried to awaken without success. Daring fate he moved closer to the castle and the arched entrance. Bitter acorns lay in wooden bowls on either side of the gate, pausing he removed a handful and placed them into his pants pocket.
A shadow appeared near the stone entrance. Tall in black shawls and silver blades covered in scarlet. The figure yelled like a wild banshee, “YIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE!” the figure grimaced and swung his knife blade at Sables neck. Sable stepped back and swung the triple edge of his sword. The air parted as did the flesh of the banshee. Blood and a thick viscous spray of ash filled the air and stained his sword. The figure fell to the grassy ground and an awareness stole over Sable.
In his dream he remembered, he remembered the gallows, the knots, the fare of a blood thirsty throng. He remembered the face of the aggressor, hung months earlier. He touched his cheek, hesitant, cold covered by the executioners hood. Sable groaned again remembering his wife and son, the reason he had become what he desired in hate.
Near the end of his dream he cried and a single tear tempered his blade, then he awoke.
The sky was dark outside and the sound of cicadas’ filled the space between his ears. He looked at the blade next to his bed and the black hood he had worn since their deaths, his wife and son.
Reaching into his pocket Sable pulled out a handful of pealed acorns. He whispered, “let it be at an end.” as he chewed the bitter acorns. Leaving the castle keep he moved on toward what he wonted, life, rebirth and new days bought by the hope that he could regain what had been lost.

Sweet Sanctity

Ron Koppelberger

Sweet Sanctity

Remedies of discovery and vigilance,

An arrow in ascending melancholy

And balanced spectacle,

A trapping in torn vestures of charm,

Descried by the touch of loves sweet sanctity

And passions arrival, the flourishing bond of devoted

Security and care for the ancient arts

Of affection, a tear in gentle waves

                                                              Of sufferance and radiant will.

The Bleeding Edge

Ron Koppelberger

The Bleeding Edge

Stifling, the sweat poured in slow trickling waves from Pray Blinds furrowed brow. He looked up and down the corridor from the entranceway to the vault. There were sentries on either side of the safe, floor to ceiling, secure with thick steel walls, the safe was a prelude to the baron beige carpeted hall.
Escaping from the written desire of a petty thief, by warrants and county jails, by stolen pencils and free meals at the Salvation Army and by the starved passions of a gambler in a losers palace, he saw the great vault shimmer in the down draft of the ceiling heater vent.
Pray had it all figured out, “A prayer for Pray.” he whispered out aloud. He’d crack the box, “YYYYYYYEEEEEEEHHHHHAAAAAWWWWW!” the top of the hill, the star at the top of the tree and the brass ring, only thing was his ring was gold, 21 carrot and as smooth as glass.
Pray moved down the hall as the heavy tool bag weighed taunt in the muscles of his wrist. “ Gonna break that witch, gonna break that witch!” he sang as he approached the sentries laser beam. The card had a bar code and a brail embossed number on it. He had paid 300 dollars for the dupe at crazy Al’s.
“It’ll work like a clock, tick-tock and yer in!” Al had exclaimed as he handed him the duplicate pass. Pray had put the original back into the bank managers wallet without capture or keep, no one had been the wiser. He had gone back to his tellers booth smiling and humming a tune from Oklahoma.
Pray swiped the card in the tele-max sentry and the crimson colored laser beams disappeared.
A breath, the space of a scream, the moment of decisive capture and wonting delirium came to a precise perfect conclusion as the giant iron cage descended around Pray; the hall went dim and the recessed lighting went dark violet. Pray stood there in shock as a high pitched hum filled the air around him.
Submissively, Pray fell to the floor. The endurance of a wilting rose, the pale horse in full gallop against ebony shadows and moments of winter sleep, Pray simply gave up. He had wagered his dream against the wall, the impossible garner, the harvest in evanescent rhythms of fate. He lay there, just barely touching the cool polished metal bars with the tips of his fingers. He sighed in resignation and closed his eyes. Moments later he died and when he awoke he was in a steamy aura of candent light, the blessed light he thought. The enchantments of another world, a parallel existence, he stood and looked around the mist laden dew of a neon cloak, a brilliant shine in the glow of ethereal passion. Was he dead? He must be he thought. The wings of a greater forward, a beginning for a safe cracker in Eden he thought. “Damn……..yeah!” he said out loud. The sound of his voice echoed in hollow reverberations around him, filling his ears with a cool crisp slice of sound. Rebirth he thought, I’m reborn into the final stretch. Black Beauty is in the lead and Flicka is a close second he thought, the friggin horse in race to the gate. He was home free. Stepping forward, he bumped into the clear bars of the nearly invisible cell. Had he died? He was still in the cage.
There were squawks from the end of the hall, he watched as a fluttering flock of crows moved down the hall toward the cage, “caw, caw,” came the first few in neon silhouette, crimson black, tiny eyes tilted upward as the patter of wings thumped and pounded the air around the cage.
He moved to the center of the cage as a thick roiling mist cloaked the floor with it’s damp tendrils, snaking in from all four sides and dancing in puffs of cool ether and mystery. The light went from violet neon to a dull indigo haze permeating the fog in small sips, tincturing the tips of his fingers with the glowing luster of black light. The crows cawed in unison then went silent. The sound of their wings shifting in the dark shadows betraying their presence to the soul ensnared by the great steel bars of a prison in consuming endeavor; endeavoring the ozone and the breath of an eternal darkness, bought by a petty thief for the price of a spirit, for the wont of a blueprint to ever after, for the pale ghost in dark corners and the second after death.
Pray fell to his knees and closed his eyes in worship. The Smokey arms of a dew laden mist and a newly moss laden floor padded his knees and smoothed over the wrinkles in his fifty-three year old features. His heart pounded rhythmically in his ears and fluttered like a moth in his chest.
His prayer was simple, spoken by the lost, the desperate, the inhabitants of countless disasters and near death survivors. “Dear god if only….I’ll change…..I’ll follow the narrow road…….!” he promised as the outer door near the end of the hall thumped open, bouncing against the rubber stopper mounted on the wall behind it. It was a thickly viscous shadow, large red eyes breathing gouts of blue flame and charcoal soot.
From his end the light flickered dark then dull indigo, on and off, on and off. The air was heavy with a cloying perfume, the essence of a thousand dandelions in fresh green cut, sappy, leaking the pungent milky lifeblood of a child’s dream.
The figure at the end of the hall paused and a swirling eddy of haze descended from the ceiling flittering in the moaning gasps of a hundred tortured souls. The sound hummed and labored the breath of a nightmare, a whisper of sinful fright, a measure of fear, in muffled currents of confessed desperation and desolate terror.
Pray tilted his eyes to the ceiling and shivered; so this is what I’ve come to he thought. The gaping maw of a bloody secret, a scarlet beast in perfect desires of human stew, the salivating greed of a precious peril, the bleeding edge of oblivion.
He remembered in that moment, the remnants of a distant transaction, the day the dreadlock crow had nodded it’s head in his direction.
The day had been uneventful, he counted his cash, fifties, hundreds and neat sheathes of quarters, all in the unchanging exchange between customer and teller. It was the stuff of his undying wont, wont for money, and he had dreamed of, and of, and of the safe and it’s contents. In the midst of his reverie a man had walked through the double glass doors across the lobby. The velvet ropes separated the few customers in the bank from the line of teller booths. The man stood behind Nate Johns and Gretta Burg. He was dressed in a black trench coat, dark ebony eyed with a full head of dreadlocks tied by gray yarn and blood red elastic.
Nate and Gretta made their transactions and the dreadlocks ended up at Pray’s window. He slid a piece of notebook paper toward Pray and glanced upward toward the video cameras, past them and to the sky beyond the distant horizon, eyes rolling with clouds of roiling smoke, billowing from his mouth in waves and tenebrous spider silken snare. He sighed and the whites of his eyes filled with blood from top to bottom, sliding in slick eyed magic. He opened his mouth wider and rows of razor sharp teeth glistened and glimmered like the pointed maw of a Great White. The note said,

“Azalea in the Scream!”

He remembered, the other tellers had seen nothing as the man’s mouth echoed a curing, causing “Caw, caw!” a black mamba with feathered exclamations of fate. No one saw and in the end, in the space of a few seconds he turned and spun on his heels, dreadlocks spinning in a circus fan about his head, he turned and left leaving the piece of paper and a hazy veil of delirium. He had called Mary Simms over to his cage explaining to her that he was feeling ill. He went to the employee lounge with the piece of paper clutched in his sweating fist.

“Azalea in the scream!”

The beast in the hall, the approaching ends of a frayed bloody edge, the bloom of a race from birth to old age and to moments in the afterlife belched and wavered in steamy coils of mist before him. The memory of the dreadlock crow fell in sync with the beast, the dreadful conclusion of his life, his essence, his bond with existence.
He stiffened and slowly edged to the rear of the cage, unprepared, naive’ like an inexperienced toddler avoiding a scolding. Pray trailed his hands across his eyes wanting to rub away the vision of approaching hell, the great rambling demon in hunt. The beast pressed it’s face or what passed as a face, it was all misshapen and fleshy, against the clear bars opposite him. The bars separated with the tongue of a hissing black flame prefaced by screams and roars of rage.
Summoned by chance and the trifles of interlaced fortune, the decision to sin and the promise to fulfill the destiny of a sainted life, the promise to forgo the life of a petty thief for the wonts of the straight and narrow path, inspired Pray to fall to the moss covered floor. He cried as the beast opened it’s maw covering his mouth and pushing hot flame, fetid breath into his lungs.
Passing out in a dream, a nightmare descried by a nightmare, Pray dreamed within the dream. He saw the piece of notebook paper.

“Azalea in the scream!”

Tiny unfolding lines of light spread their warmth and daydream cloud across his features and he saw the Azaleas in bloom, the bursting blossoms done in violet, in alabaster crème and bright scarlet tears. The gentle rolling twilight in orange spears of flame touched his brow and illuminated the Azalea’s with somber light. The rare, bold bid for realms named safe, secure and in reveries of absolution, the stupor of a petty thief, the lyric answer to his prayers and screaming promise, in all he heard the scream the tenor of full born rage and screaming panic. The Azaleas wept blood as the veil disappeared from his eyes.
She was screaming and blowing air into his mouth, filling his lungs he gasped and coughed choking on the wheezy inhalation of breath. Susan Lance, his girlfriend, a fellow teller at the bank, shook him and cradled him in her arms as she called his name , “Pray, Pray!”
He remembered the trench coat crow again, all dreadlocks and fire eyed want. He had hit him, hard, with the dull side of a claw toothed hammer. He had fallen behind the counter unconscious, dead, dead to the world and in hell. Susan had saved him.
His head hurt as he remembered the promise, the moment of decision and forgiveness. He looked up into Susan’s eyes and smiled as best he could. Some things were worth waking up to he thought as he hugged her.

***************

A Week Later

The alarm clock sang 6:00 A.M., he had to shake out the cobwebs and get going, his shift at the bank began in an hour. He glanced at the security card on the bedside table; it lay untouched next to his pain medication and a bottle of ibuprofen. Pray paused for a moment uncertain, wondering, wondering about Susan. What did she need from him, Jewelry, a house………and what, the good life? He pushed those thoughts aside for a moment and looked out the small apartment window. The rows of Azaleas wavered and swam in the cool autumn air. Turning away from the window he dressed, ran a comb through his thinning hair and put his red and white tie on. He picked his dad’s old tie clip and cufflinks. He looked good.
The bag of tools lay in a leather satchel next to the dresser. He listened to the silent tick of the clock for a moment as he grabbed the bank managers identification card and slipped it into his breast pocket.
Outside the wind howled and an earsplitting scream filled the air near the Azalea bushes. Pray looked out the window again fear swelling in his bosom. The sky was blood red and the demon stood howling in the midst of the Azalea bushes, in the midst of a petty thief’s fate.
　
　

　

Visions of Eden

Ron Koppelberger

Visions of Eden

Devoted blessings and wonder, a fashion in fast wills of reason

And wont, in tender berths of unexplored

Treasure, the journey in muse and

Vaunt, the rusty fancy of whimsy

And row, of aggregate demand and satisfactions

In evening-tide indigo, in lay and assuming

Terms of amazing bliss,

A circle of light defined in

Visions of

                                                                                Eden.

Church Basements

Ron Koppelberger

Church Basements

Looking at the long-lasting care of wooden pews

And Sunday best, by the after and the joy in song

Sung sure, by the stained glass brilliance of a rare holiday

Glee and the first taste of glazed honey

Dinners done in church basements

                                                             On the Easter seasons revelation.

Seasons in Red Chill

Ron Koppelberger

Seasons in Red Chill

The snow was the mistress of fields in rolling cloaks of sleep. Unlucky he thought as he rooted for the secret stone. The walls of the cellar were cool, thick concrete and stone and he pressed against the coarse rock surface searching for the loose rock. The cellar was dark and quiet, heaps of snow lay against the oily surface of the small rectangular windows that sat flush with the ceiling and the surrounding walls.
Principle Fix coughed a heavy wheezy gasp as he shivered in the empty cellar. “It’s gotta be here.” he whispered in a gravely voice tinged by the bug he was suffering from. Principle coughed again and wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow. With fumbling childlike hands he found the loose stone and removed it with a gentle pull. His relief was unfettered by the knowledge that he was alone, He prayed, “Let there be other survivors god.” Principle reached into the cool recess and removed the tiny plastic case.
Holding the case in his hands he remembered the sun, the blue revolutions of sky and the shimmer of endless horizons in white, it had snowed the evening before, a foot at least and the wheat fields stood empty except for the dark shoots of weed and stray wheat between the furrowed acres of land.
Hail Wister lived on the neighboring farm and construction on the old stone swimming hole behind the rows of cow stalls had ceased, it was a giant hole filled with gravel loose stone sand, dry thankless soils. Hail had predicted a great swimming hole for the grandchildren and the missus.
“It’ll be the perfect pool for all of us…….swimming and tea.” he had exclaimed. That was last summer and here it was mid winter. The pond had never materialized, construction had gone on until the hole had bubbled mud like hot molasses and smoke.
Principle looked from the kitchen window past the fence row to the great snow filled crater. Hail and his family had left suddenly one day, without notice. Hail, Alma and the two gray hounds they owned had vanished in the space of a day. The day before they left the backhoes and bulldozers had ceased to dig the swimming hole. Hails truck had stood idling in his driveway for a few moments, gray exhaust puffing out a final Farwell to the life they had known. His truck was loaded down and full of household items, the things that had gone on for years in the ancient two story farmhouse. Here today and gone tomorrow, no rhyme or reason or goodbyes to remember.
The sun had been bright and the terrain cool, frosty, sharp with the snows of a sleeping horizon. Principle remembered turning the radio on.

“It’ a great time to find the signs

In Generville. Come visit our green tree shoppers

Mall, everything for a deal, everything

For a steal.”

The commercial continued on with a disco tune from the late seventies and a screeching hoot like an owl then the news came on.

“Every hour on the hour.”

Principle turned the volume up as he turned away from the snowy vista and the red and white kitchen curtains. Gossip, laughter and then a panicked announcer…..,

“……….a giant, it tore through Peresville

Common like a bomb, it rained and the meteor belched a red colored mist,

Red rain, the entire area was deluged by

the crimson shower.

I repeat a meteor landed in Peresville Common

Today leaving no survivors. The president

Has declared a state of emergency for the area and the state.

Once again a meteor hit Peresville Common

Where it apparently rained blood……”

Principle thought about the gravel pit, the swimming hole Hail had attempted to build, obscured acquired by the land, it lay in silent reproach to the efforts of a farmer, a failed attempt at Champaign and hotdogs, river springs and the dreamy castes that filled the grand law of want and will. He had left in defeat after years in the land. The salt of the earth, Hail had left without explanation.
Principle looked back out the window it was sprinkling tiny droplets of moisture, red, thick and viscous like blood; the snow was speckled red and white with tiny depressions like teardrops. The window reflected rivulets of moisture in long streaks, slashes of crimson against the glass.
That damn hole in the ground he couldn’t get around it. Hail had fashioned the guest and here it was in a moment of silent acceptance. Give me red rain to fill the cracks and crevices, come swim in my depths, but now it was deserted except for the snows, the red rains and principle.
Principle thought about all of those things, those moments…..seconds in motion as he removed the red and blue case from the hole in the wall. It was a first aid kit he had acquired from the good-will. Inside lay two gauze and a bottle of camphor oil. Principle took the camphor and rubbed it across his brow in the shape of a cross.
“To the hole.” he coughed, it was the cold or the flu or some kind of nasty bug he wasn’t sure….he knew he was sick. The hole…..go to the hole He thought.
Principle climbed the stairs, wooden slats splintered and old, they creaked as he tested his weight. The living room stood empty at the top of the stairs, Debbie gone now and the children grown. The sky shone bright through the pinkish red sheen on the windows. The hole, go to the hole he thought again; he opened the backdoor to the frost and the blood, to aged fields of wheat in summers gone by as he made his way to the deserted hole in the ground.
His feet came away in frigid layers of frozen scarlet, puffs of loose cotton beneath. Staring ahead he looked at the depression in the ground and sighed in quiet contemplation.
Great strands of ivy covered the surface of the snow in layers across the bottom of the pit and gouts of steam wafted from the center. The truck gone now, Hail had missed it his hole was gushing hot water and steam, Roses and daisies lined the edges growing up defiantly through the snow. His hole, and hails failure, hails reason for leaving. Principle exhale and moved down the edge of the slope where he stepped into the steaming water.
It felt good and he discovered that he really didn’t care about the rain much as he submerged himself in the springs warmth and asylum.
For a moment he dreamed of pools and pearls, he owned it for that moment, forgiving the sky and the blood that poured down around the secret oasis.

Nightmare

Weed in Flame

Peering Through the Flames of Perdition

Whisper to Heaven

Ron Koppelberger

Whisper to Heaven

In rapture and bliss, in times of joy and wondrous temper,

The love of sacred angels and blessed divinity, in tender cries of

Passion and whispers to heaven, the drawn shadow of watching,

Compassionate decree, precious by embracing ecstasies.

Pleas to the need of vagabonds and weary wash, the prayers of delighted

Dreamers and raging primitive beauty, in conscious care and

Refined acclaim, in summits of bidden affection, the

Soul of necessary children in scarlet convictions of love.

Spit

Ron Koppelberger

Spit

The pace of the reverie was bridled by the why and wherefores of the cur. The moan was barely emphasized in winter worlds of presumption. He retreated from the wrapper of vigilant mystery to the quiet rampage of discovery. Tread in spoils of backwoods darkness, a shakedown in suspicions of existence. Guiltlessly he thrashed in silence. A script waged by static and white sound.
He meditated and searched for the inborn scruples of spit, a difficult bone. He wrest with the ancient drama in a curs destiny, the cycle of limitless bond between dog and wolf. He thought, shoved and pushed at the unlatched vault, the blessings of intrinsic dust and ensuing agents of change. The glass was a blank admission of unrevealed consciousness, a charm in assent, a reflection in tamed consent, imitated by a metamorphosis, the mirror assumed the cur and the cur, guileless with dreams and portent assumed the breed of amended companions.
He savored the respite as his mange disappeared and the wounds closed in favor of exclaimed fury passion and order. The cur bothered the bone and howled with resolute charm. The freedom of rare springs in seasons of sultry balance defined the substance of the curs poise and destiny ensued in arranged saffron bloom.

Ron Koppelberger

A Warm Wind

Dissipating rains of melancholy sung by the spirit of

Careful bond, by symphonies of sainted assurance

And mists in sweet whispers of

Eden, a remitted desire in blossoming dandelions

And pregnant faith, the attested changelessness

Of sunshine imbued in the proof of god’s essence and

Embracing beauty, resolved by the touch of warm

                                                Wind and quiet moments in reflection.

Wooly Quandry

Ron Koppelberger

Wooly Quandary

The imagined, precious perseverance of fall design and shadows of summer confession finished the almost winter banquet of elemental destiny. He invited the cumbersome distance between seasons in need and alliance with the mystery of consuming twilight loom, sewn in cloaks of confederate twill. He saw the world in a momentary flash of fortune and foreknowledge, a busy confirmation of cream and sap, syrup and lemon drop sours.
The conclusion was a concrete cornucopia of hustle and bustle, a creed of stone seed and glass silhouette. The4 glass presented a prediction of what would be and what was in revelations choice. He saw the medium paint, a precipice in tumult, wrangled in labors of division, revolutionizing the declaration of seals and destiny. A wooly fray in managed admittance to the world, it was a wooly quandary and a way that humble endurance argued.

Ron Koppelberger

Morning Songbird

Murmuring beyond the favor of harmonies in virtue,

In grumbles and prayers, chaste sensations

Of evocative divinity, a veil in fires of

Abandon, the mystery in reason rather than burdens

Aquiver with pleasure and bond, a quick tempered

Coffee in sweet sugary sips and smooth mooca waves of

                           Relation, morning songbird soliloquies whispering to the faith of a new day.

The Highest Dry

Ron Koppelberger

The Highest Dry

A resonant scream echoed near the base of the hill. “Heed my call oh ye who would have my soul fer yer supper!” Forcefully, the man moved upward picking his way through the stones and boulders scattered along the path.
Several days passed and the man found himself halfway there, the valley lay far below and the sea stretched away endlessly toward the horizon. He rested and listened, a voice sang in grumbles, “If yer passing my realm, yer to be my slave in blood, I’ll drain yer spirit and break yer bones, by the depth of the secret pond you’ll bath in my eyes and shadow!”
The mans expression was stone and determination he would charge the demon and climb the pinnacle at the apex of the hill.
The monster cooed, “ Yer to be here forever human, forever and a day, forever!” The man moved forward and up toward the summit. Once at the peak he surveyed the secret pond that lay in the uppermost crest of the hill.
The monster sat on its haunches, on a precipice near the center of the pond. “Come to me!” it hissed blood bubbling from its fanged maw.
The man rested and broke bread near the waters edge. “ There’s a destiny fer ye to follow.” The beast coaxed. ‘ Come to the ledge, swim over here the water is cool and life giving!” The man ignored the creatures request.
“ I’ll throw the bones of my enemy into the pond.” the man said as he dumped a sack full of bones into the small lake. The creature stood on the upraised island near the center. “Yer to fulfill the prophecy with the drink, drink of the well, drink of the water, drink of the lake man!” The man paused for a moment and turned away leaving. “I’ll not humor your command beast, for you are surrounded by the bones of those who have lost, the water is tainted by that blood!”
The creature watched the man leave, its burden eternal and it’s fate the highest dry. The temptation to drink the water forever in its consciousness. Unable to drink or cross the pond the beast accepted its fate as it waited for the well to run dry.

By the Birth of Roosters

Ron Koppelberger

By the Birth of Roosters

Emerging in hesitant expectation of sunshine and dawn’s

Cool mist, guided by the birth of Roosters’ and babies

In real realms of consciousness and loving embrace,

By destiny and amber tuft, by the allowance of cries in nascent

Brilliance, the shape of betrothal unto the day, unto the will

                                               Of laughter and barnyard bassinets‘.

Dreaming Shades of Song

Ron Koppelberger

Dreaming Shades of Song

The dominion of stone, the ageless sin in vagabond distinctions of manifest tempest and whispers that hold back the scarlet waters of oblivion supposed a kind of love for Lewis James. He found a desolate pantomime as he chanted in shadow, dissolving and reappearing in gestures of wardship and thunder.
“Quiet garlands of atoning freedom, quiet savannahs of beautiful rescue and delighted dawns of bidden knowledge, a quiet beggar thrilled and milled by escape and calm, accept my humble alm!” He hummed and grew confident with the chant.
The existence of Lewis James was defined by need, the need to gain the upper hand in summoned magic and bound tempos. He craved a smokey mistress, a vast array of rolling sun and amber medicines, the mistress of sovereign deluge. “Sweet wandering gypsy slave give yer hand to the wont of my passion and possession in belief and marriage!” He ordered, he commanded to the spirits, to the souls of an ancient affair, the lords of loves and heed, doves and harvest bloom. He chanted and waved his hands at the silhouette of a dream, the expectation of ways and means, infusion and gentle touches of sublime relief.
He churned and burned, he rationed and chanted for the mistress of embroidered elemental bearing and facades of color. In veils of transformation advanced by the depths of a sleepy dream and conscious syrupy overtures of wanton intimacy. “The embers of euphoria, the cinders and ash of agreed bliss address my need and like, balance my brow with the seams of an ancient furrow and wise alliance, right the slumber of my desire with your sweet assurance oh mistress of sacred yield!” He gasped and a tiny trail of saliva rolled from between his parched lips to the oaken table before him.
Lewis waited, soon the unreality overwhelmed him as the veil shook and daydream sunrise swallowed him unto the gift of prophecy, portent; he convulsed and he saw a sapphire in the midst of pearls, a gentle blossom, amabalis in hues of fire and azure ice. “AMABILIS, he gasped near the edge of flame and scorched earth. “Damn the chaff and bless the embers of a sated sedition, give me your hand sweet amabilis!” He convulsed and died in silent awe, tempered and stricken by her beauty and countenance. The blossom unfolded and gateways swung both open and closed, pearls for the intimate passage of time and love.

By Blood and Daisies

Ron Koppelberger

By Blood and Daisies

Mysteries in soils of spider shorn conclave,

By intimate performances in sharp edged row,

The act and the cure for ethereal ascent, a turn

Of trying shadow gone finished in quiet serenities

And silent seas of drama, whispering with the

Phantasms of sleepy delusion and dreaming elusive

Pain, the arranged spray of birth blossom born by blood

And daises.

Aria in Shadow

Ron Koppelberger

Aria In Shadow

The embryo grew in news and the tramp near the edge of Promise Nod looked to the name of Aria, the violent summoner of arid winds and fiery desire, a witch of reputation in promise.
He faced the front shingle on the ancient cottage door, all gray with scarlet lettering, “Aria The Steeple” it read. Humbled by the shame of poverty and the passion he felt for Aria, he stood waiting for her acceptance. A father to be he thought, a child in due by the fates and by the wont of a black witch.
Polly Dray knocked on the rough hewn oaken surface of the witches door. A rapt gift of practiced patience stole his haggard face in waves of anticipation. They had met by the Western Glenn, she in dark eyed attire, a rare mix of magic and satin ease and he in suffering regret, a pale faced clumsiness prefaced by the rags of misfortune.
She had come to him in a dream.
“Bidden by the wont of child, a dark need for the birth of an apprentice.” she had whispered in his sleep. She led him to the edge of a glass pond, silent, secret and in clandestined shadows. They had given the sky a moment to remember; twilight, scarlet desires in fervent passion, they had followed the crimson heart of ecstasy , of bliss borne from the grip of wedlock, in sin, darkness and fire, bought by the unbidden features of broken taboos and uncommon affections. They had created from rags and silk, a bond by blood and the cleaver eye of a witch, Aria the violent and Polly broken in spirit, he only aware of the moment, the due he needed to climb the delicate petals of stature and life.
A turn for the better he thought as he stood waiting for the door to open; the arms of an angel he thought of the witch, my sweet Aria blessed by the gods and her husband to be.
A few moments later the door swung open unfurling darkness and the trappings of his illusion. In naive currents of desire he thought, her rouge is bright and her lips sweetly shimmering in scarlet whispers of song.
Aria stood before him, covered in blood, apron smeared scarlet by her bloody handprints. His look of cloudy delirium became a look of surprise and dismay, yet he had known, with a surety he had been aware. She crossed the gulf of Polly’s shock and pulled him close.
“Sweet man, tis just a moment before twilight and the silhouette of night-tide saints, calm yer fear and cool yer dismay!” she hugged him close and the vapors were sweet as well as coppery with the violence of the witches passion. She kissed him gently in convincing measures of bond.
The sound of night thrush filled the wild around the cottage as the moon cast its light across the small clapboard house, the breath of drama told in a grim distraction.
Hear ye!” she said in his ear quietly.
“See ye!” she nibbled his ear breathing warm summer winds and daisies into his accepting consciousness.
Aria led him into her asylum. The door closed shutting out the evening sky and the path he had traversed to be with her. He saw soft shades of amber light and the odor of baking bread filled the air. He was enchanted not seeing the body of the man, rended and broken, dismembered and slashed in crimson, splashes of death. He didn’t see the cold edge of the blade laying near the corpse nor the smile in darkness, in secret cankers and charcoal soot.
Aria patted her stomach and grinned wider. “Our baby dear Polly, we’ll raise her to be a queen, a princess in power, to avenge your rags and my prison, to become the pasture for our devoted moment of vengeance dear Polly.”
The table the body was laying on dripped pattering tears of blood against the burnished oaken floor, pooling in a savagely satiating aura of red. Aria stepped back sliding in the sticky mess, nearly falling and for an instant he saw her, ancient, bleak and candent by the fires of hell, in her moment of weakness. His eyes became clear for a moment, just the briefest of admittance and a sleepless gathering of strength crept into his countenance. By dust and roses he thought, what wore the witch, his sweet Aria what wore her.
Pulling him close again she sang in his ear.
“Like sacred storms and the rain of tangled dreams, give me my cleaving affection in dire confection.” Polly listened and wavered from his insights, perhaps she was an angel in dark airs of passion. She touched his eyes and sent him a vision. Sunshine and spring flowers in bloom, children playing and sparrows flittering black then white, black then white, white and black. He opened his eyes then, seeing her for what she was, dark, evil and angry; nevertheless she loved him and he was frayed, burned by the struggle and she was carrying his child in her womb.
Sprays of sparrow song and dandelion bloom anticipated the birth of Arias baby. Polly saw darkness and the same expectation in Aria’s eyes.
She sweat blood and smoke, fire and wrath. He looked to the midday sky and thought, it had been nine months brewing, stirring in the mists of fate. Happenstance was discreetly convincing the wind and the tempest currents. Polly wrestled and wondered for his child, for the troth of a darkness borne in ecstasy and wont. He wondered and his contemplation secreted the wisdom of one who was enchanted by the notion of flowers, azure heaven and god, guiltless deliverance. He struggled for nine long months finally deciding. She’ll be my daughter named beauty and love, balanced by my devotion. Polly thought again and to the edge of the darkest horizon. He would end the witches life after his childs birth. For the winter to come and times of hunger, he would steal the child and the breath of the witch, the steeple, the killer of innocence, for the promise of his soul and his daughter. He would take her the moment his sweet salvation was borne into the world.
Aria lay in wait for the hint of her achievement, her daughter, in spasms and convulsions of birth, in revolt, in revolutions tide she screamed and fought the pains of child birth. In an instant the child was borne, into the light and shadow of Polly and Aria, crying new wanting the things of the world and her mother lay in reverie, in asylums of warmth, candent and in the way of sacred angels, her father strong with resolve.
She dreamed and cried and thrashed at the world, tiny tears sliding across her ruddy checks in infant passion.
Polly drifted between the realms of shifting day and a suffering night, he best a twilight thought. She’ll be away from the witch if only I can manage he said through a sudden and overwhelming lethargy. Polly’s eyes widened and Aria laughed in salt and flame, loud, hysterical and wild. She laughed and convulsed in rhythm with the childs tears, her daughters power.
The baby touched her check and Aria screamed as a bright sun appeared there smoldering her flesh and burning her to ash. Polly touched the child, his daughter borne of a dark witch and a vagabond and his hand came away shriveled, old by degrees of time as the future spun ahead.
Brick and mortar replaced the forest glenn and the sound of airplanes, cars and scurrying footfalls, the footfalls of countless people filled the air. Polly saw his daughter for a final moment before he crumbled to dust. She was laying on a city sidewalk, the concrete jungle of Promises future. Passerby glanced apprehensively down at her, looking for her mother and wondering why a baby was laying in the middle of the busy crowd. Her writhing newness was the birth of an era a time in passing seconds and days of fast evolution.
She waited for her parents in the shadow of a brilliant light. A swan and a black and white sparrow, of the suffering witch and the desire of a tattered castoff.
On her way to work the woman, kind in expression reached down and took the baby to her bosom, away from the hard surface of the concrete sidewalk. She noticed the pile of rags laying next to the child thinking of a homeless mother or father.
The woman smiled and sang.
“Hush little baby, go to sleep.” The baby grinned and cooed bound by the promise of an era given to the romance of a secret future.

***

Twenty Years Later

She was twenty years old now, no longer that innocent babe. Cloaks of light engaged her wherever she went, nonetheless. She stood on the top floor of her new penthouse apartment and sighed as her husband whispered into her ear.
“It’s great isn’t it hon?” he said as he kissed her ear.
“It’s just beautiful Shaver, just beautiful.” The sound of music and singing, tribal dark and wild drifted up from the glossy burnished cedar floor. “Must be a party downstairs.” she commented to Shaver.
“Must be honey, maybe we’ll go down and introduce ourselves.” he offered casually. She looked at him for a moment wondering.
The city skyline was gorgeous she thought in clouds of distraction. She stared over the rail to the balcony below. There were people milling about the patio and they were laughing as they ate crackers and pate’ The sky grew dark for an instant as she heard the name. Aria, the woman on the patio was starring up at her and smiling.
“Come on Aria, the band’s great!” she looked away and went back into the apartment.
For a moment the woman, Aria had looked old ancient and familiar. Shacking her head she walked back into the penthouse. She could hear her husband talking to someone on the phone in whispers.
“Hey honey, we got an invite for the party.” he said excitedly. She remained silent thinking about the child she was carrying.
“Great honey!” she called back as she prepared herself for the party. “That’s great.”

The Plague

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.

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.