Thrice Instant

Thrice Instant

Ron Koppelberger

The desired the pacifying taste of freedom, defined by the need she pampered.

“Implore, enjoin by

Passions apple and the

Still water of my mix,

Give me thrice in an instant

The savor of what

We have and the first kiss of lovers

In high skies.”

She chanted to herself. The brew she stirred said delicious, simply delicious. She sipped the mixture and thrice instant cringed at the taste. “What are you?” she screamed, “What in heaven are you?” she screamed again. The mix bubbled and cooked and devoured the pot, the stove, the kitchen and finally the small cottage.
At last she sighed and the brew rumbled in her gut. “If for a taste thrice instant I’d be devoured as well!” she realized.