The Writing Disorder


New Fiction


by Ron Koppelberger

      The whimsy of a good brawl, the Zodiac Bar and Grill sported a glossy burnished dance floor and rainbow strobe lights, flashy, loud and in a desolate abandon. Mirabel Zither provided the impetuous for the brawl. Tall, auburn haired and in skin tight spandex she provoked sensual thoughts of Eden and sustenance the requited romancer found to be utterly enthralling. Rapture incarnate, a kiss in the shallow pond of lukewarm spit, she was the essence of ethereal allure.
      The brawl began with an ambiguous thump. Gene Perkins fell to the floor in a paralytic heap; his neck was broken and he was bleeding from the ears. The brawl continued unabated. The slavering Sledge Rankin sailed through the air and across the bar, smashing head first into the giant glass plate mosaic of beer logos. A liver of glass fell with a sickening crunch, merging with Sledges flesh; he was immediately impaled to the wooden floorboards. The bar emptied in hallmark jumbles of leather and flesh. Mirabel looked on in silent appreciation as the patrons filed out the door. Sipping a whiskey sour and cinnamon stick stir, she followed the discourse of the final battle. Two men, enthralled by Mirabel to the point of murder, to the point of deranged desire and the sweet sugar of the auburn haired goddess, slashed and stabbed, kicked and punched until a bloody exhaustion told the conclusion.
      They collapsed simultaneously and in perfect symmetry. A dance in pathos she thought, a grand ball, a mandate in hungry glimpses of heaven. The temptress in scarlet and spandex grinned in dusty moted malevolence as the ethereal vapors of the dead fulfilled her thirst. Willful in wiles of secret desolation she left the bar leaving a tiny bouquet of rosebuds in her wake.


       The poise of chance and suspicions of blood, he was pale and in cunning contention for the cardboard house. The cosmopolitan delta of priceless abodes lined the alley with desperate conviction. Niches of cardboard and makeshift tents constructed from discarded conveniences defined the resolute pledge to survive.
       He had sojourned from cultivated boulevards to the remnant purchase of a cardboard shelter. Cleveland Vern grinned at the vagabond haven. The box read,
       “Sugar Mill Appliances, South Hammock Blvd..”
       Cleveland had an indulgent fantasy extracted by the cause of time and fate. He had once owned Sugar Mill Appliances and the confusion of bounty that came with it. This was his inheritance, his legacy, a cardboard box. The stubborn rebel in him dreamed of burning the appliance warehouse to the ground and killing the bankers reproach with a fat insurance check. Foregoing reason, Cleveland gave the man in the box his tie clip, fourteen carrot gold. The box was his. The man gave a pointed sputtering thanks as he coughed a thick flemy cough and moved out of the box, The fortune of a relevant provocation, the tides of truth and time.
       Cleveland sat on the smooth surface of the appliance box floor; he stared at the gray granite and cement walls of the building across the alley. He had rank now, status in the cardboard town. He would rise to the challenge. He shifted in his makeshift home.
       His face contorted in anger as the first trickle of rain leaked through the roof of the box. The others had plastic sheets covering their houses. He shifted in his three piece suit wondering what he would have to trade for a piece of plastic.


      Coral Fundy wore leg irons and a faded orange jumpsuit lettered bold in black, FUNDY 320983. Following the mornings sin against his grumbling stomach, a breakfast of runny eggs and charred bacon, came day number 2,457. Coral laced up his work boots, heavy tanned leather hide and stained earthen hues of dirt and brown dust, tinctured by green grass stains. In a prelude to the grass trimming and weed removal, the guard banged on the row of cells one by one, “Work detail!” he yelled.
      Coral’s cell door slid open with an aching screech that was all bones and age. He shuffled out onto the gray shellac of the polished hall. “Follow the yellow line!” Quincy bellowed. Quincy fell in behind Mars as he followed the yellow strip painted along the center of the concrete floor. Quincy guided the inmates through the birthing process finally emerging through locked iron gates and a foyer with thick bullet-proof glass.
      The two white vans were marked with the logo of the Hammock Correctional institute and an official state seal. Coral and the other inmates moved into the vehicles, single file and silently attentive to Quincy and the other guards.
      The daybreak sunshine chided motes of dusty reverence through the window glass in the van. The taboo of freedom rolled past the oily smudged panes of glass as they moved closer to the south Hammock Oak and Rose Sanctuary.
      Coral perched in expectation of the route he was in visible expectation of the flower, the amaranth, the magic blossom that released him from bondage. The vans crowded the row of parking spaces as they pulled in at a sideways angle. The spoils of nature and lively freedoms unchained the inmates sensibilities as Quincy unlocked the silver metal doors of both vans. He marched the prisoners out in a neat row of assessment. Head count and assignments of labor were shouted out.
      Coral stepped out onto the pebbled concrete parking area. The assurance of roses in bloom and the perfumed remains of flowers in acclaim filled the warm summer air. Quincy led Coral to a secret grove, an enclave that sported ragweed and bordered the outer edge of the sanctuary. As Quincy left Coral to his work at clearing the ragweed from the sheltered roses, He looked back and saw a furious Coral pulling weeds from the between the rows of flowers.
      The mystery of the amaranth was shaded under a narrow ornament of oaks. Coral exhaled a musing sigh as he weeded the successive rows of rose bloom. Attending the lines of fate he admired the beauty of the amaranth, the magic trifle of god. Pausing for a moment, he went to the shade of the oaks and the resting place of the amaranth. He touched the delicate blossom with gentle care in holy reverence for its wonder.
      Quincy ran the work detail for another four hours before he spotted the empty leg irons. Quincy yelled and whistled as the silent roses kept their divine secret.

Ron is aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. He has written 94 books of poetry over the past several years and 16 novels: “I have been submitting my work for the past year and am thrilled by acceptance. I am always looking for an audience. I have published 285 poems and 114 short stories in a variety of periodicals. I have been published in The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Freshly Baked Fiction and Necrology Shorts. Also I recently won the People’s Choice Award for poetry In The Storyteller for a poem titled Secret Sash. I have been accepted in England, Australia and Thailand. I love to write and offer an experience to the reader. I am a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association.”

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