Duck in Degrees
By Ron Koppelberger
The review was an important step in the process, eat, eat, and eat again. Chintz Toss was the foremost master of grilled, baked, roasted, toasted and broiled duck. Chintz dreamed duck , dressed in squat duck style and his favorite tune was Disco Duck. The review, he had to focus on the review. One day defined in fine eclectic script, Chintz received a breath of new life, a note of invitation,
The note was signed Cleaver D. Delight purveyor and director of “Hungry Wolf” 210 Red Leaf Lane. Chintz could almost taste the delicious fare. “yum, yum, yum.” he muttered in nervous expectation. The endless progression of duck had finally begun to intrude upon Chintzes’ pleasure, the seduction of a fine meal, in distant horizons and close comfort. He thought of the precious invite. The will to carry on for the sake of flavor and hungry diversity. He knew the meal would revive his interests. To assure the divinity of professed pallets and express taste, he thought. He’d make the Hungry Wolf the bother of garden marms and brawny croakers. Forget the vegetables and frog legs, tis a season for duck and duck and duck. Chintz Marquis Toss dressed in gilded cotton adornments and delicate slippered hands; the white face powder gave him a gaunt definition. He was in earnest urges to exclaim the work ethic of feasting fortune; he slipped on his long black leather boots, leather and expressive. The Hungry Wolf, worthy of my conspiracy in affection for the feathered quarry, he thought as he swept the silken cape around his shoulders. The day moved forward and near noonday tide he made his way to the Hungry Wolf.
The front door was a silhouette done in delicate sprigs of amber glass and goldenrod design while the handle was a crystal globe, rainbow hued and in spears of sunshine glow. Chintz touched the knob expectantly as he rotated the crystal. The door gave way to it’s secret and the gravel strewn floor rolled and waved before him. Chintz wanted and continued to dream of duck. He stepped forward into the den of hungry wolves and divine wilds. The tables were wistful emerald spheres with enormous boulders as chairs, large, gray and crimson splashed with feathered gore and bird droppings.
Chintz gasped “breathe Toss, Breathe!!!” the tender remains of duck soufflés’ and broiled hare stew sat in a giant cauldron nearest the table to his left. The smell was enticing and his stomach intervened as he began shoveling the stew into his practiced mouth. Thus the hunters who had enticed the fare of a fine meal sat in patient compliance with Chintz and his obsession. Chintz faltered for just a moment as the hunting party whooped and howled and growled. The gallery was full, beastly aggressive. Chintz finished and belched in compliment. The paw of one of the hunters touched the gentle throbbing rhythm of his carotid artery and in a moment of realization he understood the penalty as he was devoured in grand fashion.
(The turn is torn by the feast of excess.)
- - -
I am aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. I have written 93 books of poetry over the past several years and 16 novels. I hope you enjoy my work.
By Ron Koppelberger
The review was an important step in the process, eat, eat, and eat again. Chintz Toss was the foremost master of grilled, baked, roasted, toasted and broiled duck. Chintz dreamed duck , dressed in squat duck style and his favorite tune was Disco Duck. The review, he had to focus on the review. One day defined in fine eclectic script, Chintz received a breath of new life, a note of invitation,
“Vex, worry, distress ye heart
For naught, for luck come
And dine with us in gleeful
Affairs of rare duck!!!!!”
For naught, for luck come
And dine with us in gleeful
Affairs of rare duck!!!!!”
The note was signed Cleaver D. Delight purveyor and director of “Hungry Wolf” 210 Red Leaf Lane. Chintz could almost taste the delicious fare. “yum, yum, yum.” he muttered in nervous expectation. The endless progression of duck had finally begun to intrude upon Chintzes’ pleasure, the seduction of a fine meal, in distant horizons and close comfort. He thought of the precious invite. The will to carry on for the sake of flavor and hungry diversity. He knew the meal would revive his interests. To assure the divinity of professed pallets and express taste, he thought. He’d make the Hungry Wolf the bother of garden marms and brawny croakers. Forget the vegetables and frog legs, tis a season for duck and duck and duck. Chintz Marquis Toss dressed in gilded cotton adornments and delicate slippered hands; the white face powder gave him a gaunt definition. He was in earnest urges to exclaim the work ethic of feasting fortune; he slipped on his long black leather boots, leather and expressive. The Hungry Wolf, worthy of my conspiracy in affection for the feathered quarry, he thought as he swept the silken cape around his shoulders. The day moved forward and near noonday tide he made his way to the Hungry Wolf.
The front door was a silhouette done in delicate sprigs of amber glass and goldenrod design while the handle was a crystal globe, rainbow hued and in spears of sunshine glow. Chintz touched the knob expectantly as he rotated the crystal. The door gave way to it’s secret and the gravel strewn floor rolled and waved before him. Chintz wanted and continued to dream of duck. He stepped forward into the den of hungry wolves and divine wilds. The tables were wistful emerald spheres with enormous boulders as chairs, large, gray and crimson splashed with feathered gore and bird droppings.
Chintz gasped “breathe Toss, Breathe!!!” the tender remains of duck soufflés’ and broiled hare stew sat in a giant cauldron nearest the table to his left. The smell was enticing and his stomach intervened as he began shoveling the stew into his practiced mouth. Thus the hunters who had enticed the fare of a fine meal sat in patient compliance with Chintz and his obsession. Chintz faltered for just a moment as the hunting party whooped and howled and growled. The gallery was full, beastly aggressive. Chintz finished and belched in compliment. The paw of one of the hunters touched the gentle throbbing rhythm of his carotid artery and in a moment of realization he understood the penalty as he was devoured in grand fashion.
(The turn is torn by the feast of excess.)
- - -
I am aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. I have written 93 books of poetry over the past several years and 16 novels. I hope you enjoy my work.
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