Sleeping Buffoon

Ron Koppelberger

Sleeping Buffoon

The pause in their routine was prefaced by the rueful blend cruelty and composed group ethic. The cage was suspended by a short length of chain. Two by two, the floor was barbed and covered in blood, the blood of the buffoon and all of the predecessors of the buffoon. The cage door was latched with a heavy bolt and clasp.
The crowd of taunt expressionless onlookers milled and culled the experience, “A sleeping buffoon!” one of them called out.
“Tis a fare will-o-the-way.” the man shouted as he pressed his fingers against the gold crucifix about his neck, “Sleeping buffoon!” he said again as the crowd began to disperse.
The trial has lasted a few brief moments and in that time the chief magistrate had screamed and reasoned in pitch and balanced savagery. “His sin unto our town, be denied!” the buffoon had mistaken the princess Alarues for a common seamstress. He had asked her to sew a rend in his sash, and in further insult had offered her a pittance in exchange. She had screamed and menaced the buffoon from afar; he was indeed a traveler and a fierce Sheppard of communion from a land afar, gilded in glass and smoke, in emerald visions of greener pastures and fertile wheat. The princess had condemned him calling him a buffoon.
The royal guard had shackled him and in conviction they had delivered him to the head magistrate.
The buffoon slept in silent display and in the way of fate a passing companion unlatched his cage and tended to the buffoons wounds. Later they would return with an army, the buffoon no longer sleeping in sufferance, the prince and future king of Flurry Array, the circle, the knot of kingdoms, would seize the reigns and rule the whole.
In shifting ways of allegiance he would sleep each evening, dreaming only of fire and burning wheat, in the sleep of enchantment and dire futures in sovereign interval unto the turn of the tide.
He dreamed and grew dark in silhouette and stature finally feared by most, no longer a sleeping buffoon.

Bayonets and Wolves Breath

Ron Koppelberger

Bayonets and Wolves Breath

The crew were run down and uneasy. The clear blue sky was chill and an illusionary attempt at a positive forecast. A pinnacle with the blunt side nearby, Major Bliss picked up the Bayonet and waved it with command. Gray Sully rolled his eyes and moaned, “Can’t we secure the site and head back to the Wire Pine Major?” The Wire Pine was the only token of country repose in the secret struggle called Amatory.
The Major looked at the others with a casual ambiance. The sky called unwaveringly and the turn of a daytime moon sang to them with an unearthly howl. Wolves the major wondered in time with the revolving horizon.
The excavation was rich with the history of liberation. “Freedom!” the Major shouted to the holy taboo of distant dreams and concealed fate.
The seconds had substance and the Major, bordering on margins between delight and madness, commanded the troupe to gather up some kindling for a fire. Gray, breathing in heavy gasping fear, browsed the distant wood and twilight for the habit of wolves and cold wind borne by hunger. The connection between things in precious vanguard and limitless tribes of unshorn fear lay within view. Heedless, murky, a thousand told, trembling by firelight and the attentions of darkness, the men chanced the gentle coquette of the Major’s fancy.
The fire grew as the men heaped timber around the base of the flames. The Major grinned as he ran his tongue along the sharp edge of the bayonet. Thrush flittered in the forest and the sound of wolves approaching filled the air. “A sojourn, a magic fullness of what’s satisfied by the tales of men and wolves,” the Major crooned, “let’s pass our time together in mythic proportion.” the Major whispered to the group.
The Major began, “By books and legend, by beggars and jewels, in a moments breath by the gift of life, in all, in all, a story for the whole.” he sighed as the evening turned dark and the wolves moved closer to the group.

Knocking Down The Dull

Ron Koppelberger

Knocking Down the Dull

Dullness, utter histrionics of commonplace pass, meandering the dull; he drove the tractor and planted the harvest seed, “An my boss turned south, the wind was in his eye, looks like rain he told me.” Clank Mill exclaimed.
Clank sat next to Reck Harpercin in the big harvester. Jaw boned, dull and sleepy Heck thought. “When it finally started raining the crows screeched and flew against the wind Reck.” He said in fervent measure.
“Ahhhaaaaa Yaaaahhhhaaaa.” Reck responded. “Crows huh?”
“Yep,” Clank replied. “It were the darndest thing Reck, dry bones and rain.” Reck breathed in a long sigh, “What’s that Clank?” he said pointing forward. Clank stared ahead at the huge wooden cross near the end of the west field.
“Looks like a scarecrow Reck!” they drew closer by slow seed and thrashing compliance with the season. Clank rubbed his forehead and massaged his wrist, it was itchy from the vibration of the steering wheel. “That ain’t no scarecrow Reck!” Clank exclaimed in shock.
The cross stood ten feet tall and wide by the open arms of the man hanging there. The Sky bleeding twilight tears and candent spears of brilliance, hung in a ghostly taboo of declaration, dire expression as it touched the corn silk locks and crimson stained cheeks of the man hanging there. Shaking, Reck prayed and wondered in confusion, “…how what?”
There was a sign attached to the base of the cross, it read:

“Dull in the boast of men,

Tempered by the dreams of a child,

Here be the work of a monster!”

Reck and Clank took the cross down and the deeper desires of a sparrow in flight found the passion in two old men, giving birth to vagabond mists and the silent tongues of farmers who knew and watched for the flames of a distant wrath.

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