Horror Express,Surreal Dreams,Surreal Dreams Two all available at Amazon.com/Ron Koppelberger

Amazon.com/Ron Koppelberger

Bristles and Terror

Ron Koppelberger

Bristles and Terror

She touched the bristles of the straw broom, her fingertips came away smeared crimson and gray with the dust of a struggle. Small beaded teardrops fell to the wooden floor from the blood stained broom, spattering in tiny blossoms, finely petaled blooms in blushing sinful retreat. She was tapered in rags, burlap hems and heavy cotton sash. Gentle ringlets in golden corn silk haloed her bloody checks, a beauty defined in delicate degrees of warmth.
She returned the broom to an upright sweep and worked the swaying rhythm of mutual discouragement. Pools of cooling blood streaked the floor as she swept away the foolishness of death. The bodies of Frank and Leona Jenkins lay in disarray near the cottage hearth. She had conferred with the shadows in quiet repentance when the couple had invited her into the cottage. She had been searching for food, hands expecting the warmth of another living creature; the door , latched tight in its unbiased remark, its lofty logic, had surrendered its contents as a middle aged man, large silken, worn well in wealth and status. He had opened the door and offered her his hand. She hadn’t perceived him as villainous, nevertheless the truth had borne witness to his evil intent.
She had crossed the threshold quietly thanking the man. He had avoided her gaze as he bolted the door behind her. “You’re ours now babe and we’re gonna have the best time sweetie.” he whispered, “ Purity and grins, grins and ash, grins and ash.” the woman chanted menacingly. His betrayal complete, he grabbed her arm and chuckled, a bit of spittle touched her check. “Grins and ash, save us a kiss for the miss.” the man’s wife laughed.
Her arm hurt where he was holding her and an anger engulfed her in desolate union. She favored her pointed fangs as she grabbed the mans head, pushing it forward and to the left. Her teeth dug deep and he screamed,” Aaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeee.” His blood pumped and he fell unconscious, then dead. The woman came at her with a metal poker from the hearth, “ What have you done, what have you done?” she screamed in a rictus of bare teeth and clenched jawbone. The woman flew backward and into the hearth, smashing her head and rolling into the ash pile.
Scrutinizing the smears of blood she mouthed a quiet, innocent prayer for the wont of a vagabond vampire, a desperate enchantress and an unwary vampire in search of haven, in search of respite near bristles and terror, near night and the passion of an endless dream.

Mismatched Blood

Ron Koppelberger

Mismatched Blood

Fury and overfed wraths of beckoning mayhem whiskered the wolfs slumber with the temper of bitter cream, curds in sour blood, the flesh of a dazed chafe and mazy portent, the carnivals main attraction, “Wolf or Man“ the sign read. The wolf dreamed and in firebrand agitation, forward unto mismatched blood, a type of fury and unbidden allure in fuzzy goosebumps and ecstasy, all bliss and desire, all wont for escape to the cool forest.
He dreamed of her, snarls and growls, howls and grumble-rumble convocations in yellow eyed consent. Fine-spun futures in flame and ash, in cinders and burning accent, he dreamed and in that dream he found release, release unto the elder gods of freedom and hunting passions the carnival cage long forgotten and his mate near, close in the attractions alcove. He dreamed of his mate, the mismatched blood, the contradiction in fanged arrays of whelp offspring, “Good seed,” she whispered to the dreaming wolf from her cage, “ Good seed my husband.” He saw jet black in twilight shadow and the silhouette of an absent sun, black and devouring with an acquired embrace, a gentle surrender to the charcoal fur and clawed ambiance of the female. A dark peck and a wicked pact with the ancient alliance the midnight demons of err. She cooed in his mind and all the substance of ethereal futures revolved around him in delirious celebration, “ Evermore my love, evermore we shall be free from the cage, the lair of men and grinning human children.” The wolf shuddered, the humans were bad blood and maybe so was she, the mismatched assurance of scarlet terrors and bloody heedless wont. He fought the urge to yelp in tangled beds of straw, screaming and oblivious pulling him closer to the edge of desolate abandon. He fought and when he awoke he remembered the mists of what might be, he remembered the chase and the hunt, the divine satisfactions of an angel in alabaster feather and gossamer contrast. He remembered love and the promise of Eden.
Yawning and tasting the cool dawn airs of morning-tide life, he thanked the heavens for the start of a new day and the treasure of insight. “Straight forward.” he thought, “ Moving in paw sure paths toward the divine.” He soon forgot the mismatched blood and prayed, otherwise unaware of the currents, the fates that guide wolves and man. He looked ahead, to the fable of cerulean skies bought by daybreak sunshine and the promise of freedom, freedom from the barkers and the clowns and the other humans in guise of what children find fascinating. He thought of the female wolf across from his cage and the will of what he needed, to find the secret, to venture out and live, simply live free of man and his chains. They were both prisoners to the show, the dark parade, the carnival of the wolf, the carnival of hearts and caged spirt, a mystery unto his knowledge……the freedom he sought was but a dream and in the end of that long day of contemplation a child stood near his cage.
“Lookie, lookie a beast terrible, careful, careful son he might jus take a mind to swallow you whole if you get too close.” The barker turned away for a moment and the child reached into the cage. He sniffed at the boys hand for a moment then lapped at his fingers. The boys fingers tasted of cotton candy and dandelion greens. The wolf paused for a moment as the barker yanked the child away, yelling, “Back vicious beast, back!” The boy wore a startled look as the barker unteathered a whip and snapped it through the cage bars. “Stand back child!” he said as he left a welt on the wolfs back.
Later the wolf would reflect upon his lot again and the passion of the dark female opposite him. She was wild and shadowy nevertheless, she would be suitable and he craved freedom from the confines of the cage. She looked across the dusty hallway and whispered we will be free my husband, we will be free.”

Reveling Ages

Ron Koppelberger

Reveling Ages

Summoned by the rise of flawless paint, by the color of blood-red twilight,

The resonant mind of temptations dream gave renewing tonics and looks of wrest challenge to the group of praying, studious ravens; in confederate rule and real bond they established the angels of dusk with sleek shadow and homage to the mischief of the thankful owner, the master of evening silhouette and darkened indigo night.
He troubled the sky with searching eyes, expectant, needing, beseeching the wont of a dream laden mist , more sleeping than conscious , regal in claims of ascension. He found genuine salvation in the availing energies of enveloping secret. They said shed the seed and join the child of heaven; he watched and the flittering lights in the evening sky danced and sang, close, embracing the heavens and ravens breech. By sought, tried need he waited for the shadow of the sun and dawns promise, to fly in winged spheres of otherworldly passion, he swayed and the fabric of a woven web silken spider silver, rare, laboring the birth of a new journey, embraced him and brought him along to the stars as ravens shivered in cleaving union with the reveling ages of understanding and course.

Velvet Sash

Ron Koppelberger

Velvet Sash

Anew in shapes of columned time and lace frill, in

Rhymes of reason and will. A design in conscious arousals

Of breakfast range

And noon-tide

Sweets.

A better part of the least in degrees

Of ethereal satiation

And dressed magnitude, a forge in furrowed

                                                                                Velvet sash.

Warm Bark

Ron Koppelberger

Warm Bark

Bracing for the whim of doubt and wise diversions

In raven’s breath and sparrows in profound repute,

Unto the migrant will of souls and tears in somber

Everlasting brand, an exiled ambition borne with the

Caress of desolate vagabonds and silent airs of honor,

The mournful cry of bone weary seductions in velvety moss

And stagnant morass, cattails and warm bark, by the

Western sunshine flowing beneath the spaces and between alabaster clouds

Even tall pine bough fur, the respite in terms

Of bidden suns and the way to

Pearls, the way to gentle

Solace and the way to dreaming

                                                                   Dramas in silhouette.

Bidden Breadth

Ron Koppelberger

Bidden Breadth

The relief of arts and alms, of solitary assay

And earthly lulls of silent consent, a perfect passion

In crimson gain, rare in melancholy

And sweet tears of regret,

A divine consummation in the whatnot

Of flames and tinder, ashen in hold, gray in beholden,

Bidden breadth. A fond term of existence in the ethereal mists of love.

Evening-Tide Wisdom

Ron Koppelberger

Evening-tide Wisdom

Each and all in attested blood and dins

Of flight, in fury of course and serene

Dreams, in love’s bitter alm and flames

Of union pain, the silent curios intimacy

And the quiet wondering quest in indigo

Cloaks of evening-tide wisdom.

The unfurled swathe in exhausted yells of

Desire.

Ivory Lace

Ron Koppelberger

Ivory Lace

The poise of an amazing ecstasy

And an allure in scarlet gossip,

The delicate caress of gentle eyes and

Pleasing sighs, a love in dashes of daring

Embrace and ivory lace, a rouge bliss

In dandelion affections and sugary

Confections of fresh blood and

Salty tears.

Another Day In Paradise Lost

Ron Koppelberger

Another Day in Paradise Lost

The shortened, unerring sound of wondering injury was in accord with the pain of a rosebud misery, blooming in waves of agony. The crisis of blood he thought in miserable contemplation. He had confidence in his ability to defy the odds, his mortality, his immortality against the gunshot wound to his stomach. A pain filled adventure and a misadventure in uncalculated distress, he had mistaken the clerk for a snatch and grab mark.
Denver Caymen had pulled the plastic 22 caliber pistol from his waistband and aimed it at the clerk. “ It’s the downs and I’m advancing myself a little credit, hand over the cash Nash!” The clerk had just stood there staring at him with a bulgy eyed fright and a blossoming grimace of anxiety. “You dreamin partner,” he quipped, “…get tha money!” Ten seconds passed as they stood face to face without release, a tight bond of expectation between them.
Surprisingly, the clerk pulled a pistol from beneath the counter almost as if in slow motion. He fired and the first shot caught Denver in the gut, the second nicked his ear and a well of blood poured from the gash. Standing over him the clerk pointed the weapon at his head. Denver prayed and closed his eyes.
The police officer opened his car door, sirens blaring. He would later reflect that he thought he saw the silhouette of a man pointing a gun at a dark shape in the floor, the guy in the floor seemed to be praying on bended knees. The loud crack of a pistol echoed in the parking lot as the officer rushed the door. A dark shadow fell across the convienience store and the fates dealt another hand of chance. The day moved on and the sun sank into the twilight horizon as life and death went into the mix, the stuff of existence and the substance of another day in paradise lost.

Pushing The Fight

Ron Koppelberger

Pushing The Fight

He stood his ground as the Alligator lunged, the rows of razor sharp teeth caught the hem of his slacks and he fell flat on his ass. For a moment he saw stars and shadow then everything was clear again, the morass tinged red from the blood of his wife and the rapidly approaching alligator. He pushed upward toward the lip of the pond. Mud filled his grasping hands and he slid back just a few inches. The alligator charged and he heard his wife moan from the center of the pond, she was caught in a small stand of cattails and reeds. Chance Reason prayed for the first time in years.
Propelling himself with the will of a desperate man Chance regained his footing and scanned the shoreline for some kind of weapon. There was an empty paint can a few feet away from him and the handle was intact. The alligator hissed and snapped its jaws in furious hunger, the two would make a great meal.
Chance lunged for the paint can as the gator shifted forward. Grabbing the handle with the tips of his fingers he pulled the can from the thick mud along the shore. The gator charged, “Hissssssssssss…..”. Swinging the can with all of his might he aimed for the gators head. The can connected with a hollow thump and mud flew out of the lidless container. The gator was stunned for a moment his hunger second to the sharp pain that had nearly split his skull, nevertheless his hide protected him and he paused for a moment as another thump sounded in his ears. The man was attacking him and he grew angry with pain.
Chance moved back away from the gator and looked out into the swampy pond, his wife was crying and holding her arm. He could see the bright crimson plume that was spreading away from her and he screamed with a savage desire to kill the gator to avenge the misery his wife was going through. He ran at the gator and swung the can again. The gator opened it’s mouth and lunged forward to meet the can. With a jerk of it’s enormous head it wrenched the can away from chance and grabbed his leg with a ferocious shake. Chance screamed in pain this time as the gator began to drag him backwards into the pond. He knew he would die if he ended up in the water, the gator would drown him and then kill his wife.
Scrambling with his good leg he pushed backward. The gator jerked and twisted rending muscle and sinew. Chance was halfway in the water now and the gator growled with satisfaction, he would have a full belly this day.
Leaning forward chance dug his fingernails into the gators eye and it screeched in pain letting loose at the same time. Kicking he hit the gator in the mouth and snout with as much force as he could. The gator paused again hissing in angry spurts. Chance hobbled up onto his good leg and stood there screaming at the top of his lungs, “Yaggghhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaa you son of a bitch, die damn you die!” Chance ran after the gator and jumped on top of it slamming his fists into its head and again clawing at it’s eyes. It belched and screeched in pain again as Chance pounded its head.
He was in a slow motion dream, man against beast, he shook the gators upper jaw and pulled backward, the gators mouth opened wider and he tried to swallow chance in a single gulp. The man was hurting him, it wasn’t meant to be like this he thought in Reptile currents. Chance found a soft spot beneath the gators jaw and dug his fingers in pulling his jaws shut. With a ferocious tug he pulled the gator farther up the shore line. “YAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAA DIEEEEEEEEEEEE!” he screamed as he turned the gator on it’s belly. The body was nearly ten feet long and it’s entire length shook as he drug it to the mud and dirt edge of the pond. Chance looked skyward for a moment between screams and jumped with his good leg. A spattering of blood flew up in the air from his injured leg as he landed squarely on the gators soft belly. The gator didn’t move for a moment and he jumped again smashing something like bone inside the gator. The gator lay still and Chance stood panting like a madman over the top of his adversary. A bit of spittle trickled from the corner of his mouth on to the gator and he began to laugh hysterically and in gulps of joy.
The gator wasn’t moving, he had killed it, he had actually killed it. He laughed again and swam out to his wife who was still crying and laughing a bit as well. She had witnessed her husband at his best and he had prevailed, they both had. She threw her arms around Chances neck and kissed him through a well of tears and laughter. Chance hugged her close and began pulling her back to the shore line. They paused for a moment to look at the dead gator. A thin line of blood leaked from its jaw onto the mud mixing with the sand and dirt in a dark kaleidoscope of what couldn’t have been but what was. The day wore on to it’s conclusion and the couple left. Somewhere deep in the swamp morass there were other gators, silent, appreciative and not denying the way of the world. They congregated and considered the fate of the old one. He had been caught off guard and they knew that the end had been a fluke. They had been the rulers of the morass for a long time, longer than any could remember and they knew the next time the prey would be theirs. The next time they would have full bellies and calm waters.

What Destiny Desires

Ron Koppelberger

What Destiny Desires

Churning in tempest raptures and unyielding

Tempers of taunt, narrow season, a wish in the

Daydream loves of princesses and paupers,

Of beasts in life’s constant revolution and heaven’s thrashing bliss.

An embrace torn by the winds of attention and seared by the

Embers of what destiny desires.

The worshiping twilight in clear shades of musty

Shadow and diversions in orange ash.

Innate Romance

Ron Koppelberger

Innate Romance

Clandestined vapors and beloved myths

Of passionate tabloo, the innate romance in

Delicate trembling dances of what’s also

An immediate throbbing pulse, and in rages

Of beating rhythm, in the bond of loves fountain

Fury and immortal spray

Of misty ether.

Wild Wolf

Ron Koppelberger

Wild Wolf

The mournful conviction of love’s desolate

Abandon and passion’s swelling penance,

The useful rant and roar in searing tinder

And special races of tender contrition, the intimate

Whisper in assay and allay, a developing sufferance

                                                   In slavering raves and wild wolf fascination.

Shares Of Solace

Ron Koppelberger

Shares of Solace

The vanilla character in fractured adventures

Of icy crystal, a performance in discerning

Perceptions of ethereal sustenance and

Hungry fanged drizzles of blood. A Monday scrape

In dire japes of featured froth and salted shark

Meats in salivating shares of

                                                                           Solace.

The Edge Of The Fray

Ron Koppelberger

The Edge of the Fray

Parched in sunglow kinship with the professed ancients

Of aimless nomad desolation, wandering in plumes of

Desert dust and smokey ripples of

Warmth, to discover a path in necessary emotion,

Found by degrees of belief, by the naive’, the nascent babies in quest

In pilgrim journeys and whispering

Cradle song, dry by thirsty degrees

Of province, by forward moments in dust and prairie dog divinity,

A crown in cause, set forth unto the sorrows and saga, the drama of youth and age, by footfalls forward to the edge of the fray.

New Books By Ron Koppelberger

 

Voodoo Hyacinth

Enchanting Stories From The Boneyard

Authored by Ron W Koppelberger
A book of frights, troubled diversions, reigning terror and whispering twilight. These are the things you dream of in the darkest hours of the night. These are the ghosts, the demons, the monsters you love to read about but fear in the farthest reaches of your mind. Come delve into the shadows for a brief moment, explore the dark corners of your mind with this frenzy of fear. Voodoo Hyacinth will bring you to the edge and beyond.Available at Createspace.com/4026131 for $7.99



 Sundown Shadows

Horror Stories For The Brave

Authored by Ron W Koppelberger
Horror stories for the evening hours. Take a trip to unbidden shores......travel to lands in shadow and realms of the macabre, dance with ghosts and test the limits of your endurance, let the fear take hold and guide you through the mists, the smoke and the lands of the impossible. Let creatures inhabit your consciousness, strange demons and dreams of eternal life, let the frightening become substance, if only for the briefest of moments. This is what you can expect from Sundown. Available at Amazon.com/4021778 for $10.99

Strange Forest

 

Poetry and Blood

Authored by Ron W Koppelberger
The dreams of a vagrant few, illusions in dawns promise and the wont of a solitary truth. Poetry that fills the spirit with wonder and curiosity, these are the moments we often cherish.....brought to life with the dreams of a generation and the aspirations of many, this is the poetry you need to read.
Available at Createspace.com/4000925 for $6.99

The Ghoul Saloon Open For Submissions

---

The Ghoul Saloon edited By Ron Koppelberger


For this anthology I would like stories about Ghouls…..living or dead. In Bars, in cars in the wild west, in school and maybe even on the moon! Ghouls, Ghouls, Ghouls in any world you would like… ” …we’ll all have a drink on the ghoul!” might be a line from one of the stories chosen for this anthology. Humor is ok and so is outright horror. Send me your best, the story you want to shine with.

Send submissions to: will806095@bellsouth.net with The Ghoul Saloon in the subject line.

Reprints are Fine as long as you hold the rights.

Send your submission in RTF Format.

Length: There is no minimum or maximum

*A for the love of only anthology, I have done dozens for the exposure!


FORMAT: Usual Static Movement formatting rules apply: single space with indented paragraphs, no space between paragraphs and standard 12 font. Use centered *** for scene breaks, and please put your bio at the end of the story in the manuscript. Please make sure your story is how you want it to appear in print, and pay attention to grammar and punctuation!

* Cover art to come.

*Poetry is OK!

Read more: http://staticmovement.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=koppelberger&action=display&thread=849#ixzz26oCtpbwo

Thresholds and Countless Ravens

Heartbeats and the Sublime

Poetry for the lost. Worlds of gentle rain and bright sunshine, worlds full of shadow and light, these are the lines of careless abandon and the wont of dreamers. Come measure the heartbeats of lovers in a summer shower or the footfalls of a lonesome dreamer in the hours before sunup. These are the jewles of blissful broadcast, the moments we live for, the times we leave behind and so desperately desire, these are heartbeats and the sublime. $7.99 at Createspace.com/3983659.

Thresholds And Countless Ravens

The realms of illusion and the songs of untold truth, fantasy, desire and pumpkin grins. All told the passion of midnight dreams and Carnival glass done in scarlet.

CreateSpace eStore: https://www.createspace.com/3992086

  Western Mystic



Ghosts and mysteries of the west, the desert and it's secrets. The future of a generation.....western mystery and poetry at it's very best. The love of spirits in commune with the sagebrush and cactus flowers, desert decrees of heat and wild dance......desire in cowboy duds...travels through the sands of time and beauty at it's most dangerous, These are the elements of Western Mystic. Available at Createspace.com/3970720

Western Mystic



Ghosts and mysteries of the west, the desert and it's secrets. The future of a generation.....western mystery and poetry at it's very best. The love of spirits in commune with the sagebrush and cactus flowers, desert decrees of heat and wild dance......desire in cowboy duds...travels through the sands of time and beauty at it's most dangerous, These are the elements of Western Mystic. Available at Createspace.com/3970720

Farthermost Dream (Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry)

 

Illusions In Shadow

 

Fiction Bound By Dreams

Authored by Ron W Koppelberger
A book of flash fiction daring the momentum of a classic. A world of dreams and elusive spells of wonder combined to create a birth in the imagination of the reader. Shadows and light, the brilliance of the sun and the cool respite of the moon, strange asylums and whispering danger......what comes next? The answer is you, the reader, the explorer of distant horizons and magic drama. These are the elements of Illusion in Shadow. Available at Createspace.com/3953158 for $7.99

 

 

Farthermost Dream

 

Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry

Authored by Ron W Koppelberger A book of Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry designed to take the reader to distant horizons. Explore the red sands of Mars, travel to the distant reaches of the universe. Go to the next Earth and find exotic adventure. Come imagine wolves and kings in worlds of fantasy. Take a trip to the rings of saturn through measures of passion for the far reaches of the galaxy. Rocket ships and twilight horizons, time travel and dark shadows, aliens and the settlers who make their way on new unexplored worlds, this is the essence of Farthermost Dream.
Available at Createspace.com/3948018 for $7.99

Books by Ron Koppelberger available to buy at Amazon.com/Ron Koppelberger

*Twilight-Tide

  Dark Poetry

Authored by Ron W Koppelberger A book of dark poetry for the late hours of the night. Pull the covers tight and light a candle. The world in an evening sky at the edge of twilight, this is poetry for the lost, the wandering, the denizen of late night haunt. Imagine flickering lights, full moons in orange spears of light, the lonely call of the wolf at night or a raven's caw, this is the substance of Twilight-Tide.  $7.99 at Amazon.com.

Horror Rush

 

Horror Stories in Shadowy Light

Authored by Ron W Koppelberger A Book Of Horror fiction for the late hours of the night. Imagine the shadows in dreams of frightening contemplation, imagine a world of light and moonshine illusion, imagine fear at it's best. Pull up a chair and get the candles burning because Horror Rush will set you on edge and thrill you to the core of your soul. These stories were written with the horror enthusiast in mind. The darkness never looked so appealing. $7.99 at Amazon.com/Ron Koppelberger.

A Butterfly Whispers

 

Surreal Poetry

Authored by Ron W Koppelberger
Cover design or artwork by Ron W Koppelberger A book of waking dreams. A world of illusion and dreams, a world of whispers and gentle song is what this poetry encompases. The sun bidden by the twilights horizon and the edge of a long day waiting for the first breath of eternity. Dreams and surreal imagery fill this book with the hopes and promises of a new day. A Butterfly Whispers will take you to the place you want to be. $6.99 at Amazon.com/Ron Koppelberger.

Raven's Blood

 

Authored by Ron W Koppelberger A Book of dark and dreamlike poetry. Imagine a world of dreams. Imagine a world where shadow and light combine to create an image painted in whispers, in silent contemplation, in dreams of what is and what has been. Imagine a selection of dark poetry that stirs the soul and captures the innermost wont of our desires and aspirations. Raven's Blood is a collection of poetry created in hours of silent contemplation and wonder. Come imagine the world in half-lit splendor and often with just a touch of fear.  $5.99 at amazon.com/Ron Koppelberger.

The Light In Snake Fuss

 

Short Fiction

Authored by Ron W Koppelberger A book of dark and sometimes light short fiction. Written with a flair for the poetic and the mysterious. The world of illusion and the world of shadow sometimes merge to form a picture. Painted in hues of sunshine and moolight this collection will stir your soul and give you cause to wonder. The arcane and the new, the unbidden and the bidden this is a fresh collection of thoughts and stories from Ron Koppelberger.  $6.99 at Amazon.com/Ron Koppelberger.

Saffron Mirage

 

Surreal Flash Fiction

Authored by Ron W Koppelberger
A Book of surreal Flash Fiction. A mixture of dreams for every occasion. Tales of adventure and horror and everyday existence all in one. Stories with a surreal slant and an eye for the unusual. A bright sky lit by the candent glow of the sun and the half-light of the moon. 50 stories for the curious and the wandering. Available at Createspace.com/3939904





All Books Available at The Kindle Store.

Horror Rush (Horror Stories)

Createspace.com/3932678

Wolf Craft Submissions

If you are interested in participating in a great anthology about wolves,  wearwolves and lycanthropy send your submissions to Will806095@bellsouth.net.  The writer's guidelines can be found at Static Movement under the message board (Wolf Craft).  Thanks and have a fantastic day!!

A Warm October Night

Ron Koppelberger

A Warm October Night

It was October 31^st and the streets were dimly lit with the lanterns and glow sticks of little boys and girls in Halloween dress. The air echoed with the faint sing-song lilt of Trick or Treat, Trick or Treat and the demon rejoiced, for it was that time, that special time where he could roam free and do as he willed. He was a dark silhouette against the side of the shed as the children passed by, unseen except for the littlest ones who cried at the darkness behind the shed. He stared after them and relished the sound of their tears as he crept forward in shadow and darkness.
There were groans and wild maniacal laughter coming from the Freemont’s house, they had violet lights and bright orange jack-o-laterns lining their drive. A host of clothing stuffed bodies lay draped across their yard and roof. The children oooohhhed and ahhhhhaaaad, they might get potato chips there or maybe even candy bars, full sized ones. Alan Freemont loved to go all out for Halloween and he was dressed to the hilt like a zombie except for the name tag that read “HI I’M ALAN“. On the front porch he had a black cardboard coffin filled with candy. Alan opened and shut the lid as each child came forward. “Cooooommmeee seeee what I have for you little onessssss!” he groaned as he lifted the lid and moaned. The crowd of children giggled and some yelled in surprise at the severed arm that Alan pulled from the coffin. “Here you gooooooo little ghouls and boysssssss!” he moaned again as the children held their pillowcases forward for the treat.
The Demon watched from across the street, wondering what Alan might taste like. He thought about his appearance for a brief instant before he began edging toward Alan’s house. Alan saw the stooped figure moving slowly across the street and a jolt of fear, real fear coursed through him in chill waves of warning. The figure moved closer revealing it’s visage to Alan in shades of black light.
Alan stood there for a moment shocked at what he was looking at. Great costume, only thing was it didn’t really look like a costume. It’s head was misshapen and pumpkin shaped and it’s eyes, those damn eyes he thought; they were dark and glowing black if that’s possible Alan thought. It’s hands were outstretched and wonting, three fingers with blood red claws and bits of loose flesh hanging from the wrists. It moved closer and opened it’s mouth greedily. What came out sounded like, “WHHHHHAAAATTTTT YOUUUUU GOOTSSSSSS FERRRR MINEEEEEEEE!” in garbled hissing spurts. Alan crossed himself and backed toward the front door of the house. “FERRRRRRRRR MMMMEEEEEEE!” it screamed as a great gout of blood sprayed from its jagged mouth. It was shoeless and it’s long scaled feet were visible, it’s toes were like water balloons, soft and flattening out with each step closer. “FEEEERRRRRRR MEEEEE!” it screamed again.
In an odd sense of De Ja Vu Alan saw the creature double and again as if it had been before. The night was warm and dark and he remembered that, the creature, leaking blood and viscera and he sensed the events that would come. It would kill him and eat him for it’s Halloween treat. He had to stop it, he had to change fate. The demon stood before him, saliva dampening its fleshy lips. It grabbed Alan’s arm and bit down hard on his wrist. Alan screamed and jerked his hand away, blood spraying from his injured wrist. “I’ve got to stop it he thought as he grabbed hold of the demon and bit down hard. “AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH!” the demon screamed in anguish as Alan continued to bite it even eating pieces of it’s flesh.
In the end the demon lost, Alan’s determination saw him through as he devoured the creature, every last morsel. The next year Halloween arrived warm and whispering it’s secrets. The demon stood beside the shed in utter darkness, the only clue to his identity a nametag that said “HI I’M ALAN”!

The Light in Snake Fuss by Ron Koppelberger, horror, short fiction available at Amazon.com

Zombie Fades to Dust

Ron Koppelberger

Zombie Fades to Dust

The fathers of substance and the alchemy of growing toward the silhouette of the moon he thought in anticipation of the kill. “Fire Damn!” he said in a whisper to the rose bushes and the plastic pink Flamingos. He was waiting in the side yard for the symbol of his wont, the want to take and dissect and destroy the vestiges of human acclaim.
H3e had killed so many times that the repetition became a kind of De Ja Veu, he felt it in his bones, to the core of his demeanor and soul. The last had been disappointing he had screamed and died of heart failure. He had stood there poised with the knife and ball of yarn. The bag of rock salt in his pocket had seemed heavy. “Zombies, all zombies!” he said aloud to himself. He had killed and killed and still they were, as the day and the night sure and unbidden by his anger. They were all zombies, mindless constructions of flesh. He had his rock salt though, he would palace it under the man’s tongue and sew his mouth shut. To quell the pass of evil he thought. He would then sew his eyes shut for the sake of his eyes, he wouldn’t see to rob him of his soul, no he wouldn’t.
He was filled with the confident mirth of his promise the promise to quell the surging tide of zombies, of hateful devil’s breath. He stood from the depth of the hedgerow and whispered, “Come on, come on out Mr. Monster!”
In the distance a rare summer thunder and dry lightening filled the air with a strobe light glow his face illuminated and pale, crazy, desiring the kill, the intense rush of madmen and shadow. He knew the power of his will and he possessed sleep, the sweet realm of sleep and quiet demise. He would give them sacred havens of sleep, the drama of heaven’s bosom.
The front door on the cottage opened and a man in a three piece suit stepped out. The front porch light shone for an instant illuminating a stout woman in her thirties, she was handing the suit something, a briefcase. She kissed the man on the cheek and he said, “I’ll see you later sweetheart.”
“Have a good day honey.” she replied.
Zombies, both of them zombies, he patted the bag of rock salt in his pocket as he found the inspiration to attack.
In the end he managed nearly half the neighborhood of Suburban Keep. He would live on as the darkness in their lives and until the end of their lives. The end was simple for him and complete. He had stopped in the middle of sewing a zombies mouth shut when a cascade of darkness overwhelmed him and his eyes clouded. The will he thought, the will. He had closed his eyes and groaned as the heart of a greater will overwhelmed him.
When they found him he was assumed to have been a victim of the monster. His eyes were sewn shut as well as his mouth, a chunk of rock salt beneath his tongue. The police wondered about but never questioned the needle and yarn in his own hand.

Raven's Blood a book by Ron Koppelberger available at Amazon.com!

createspace.com/3885973

Elements of Dragon Delight

Ron Koppelberger

Elements of Dragon Delight

He whispered and the flame flowed in smooth easy currents against the roast hare. The smell was tantalizing and delightfully amazing. The dragon sighed and the flame turned a cool blue as the fire cooked the meat. What have I here he said to himself, certainly not woe and the tears of hunger. I have the perfect meal borne of the hunt and the need to taste the delicacies of old. He thought again for a moment as his long tail swished in the underbrush waving dandelions and disturbing the edge of the swamp, “What have I, but the will to live and to dine on the fare of humans and animals alike, am I not the same in that sense?” he said aloud. Feared by all and admonished by none he thought as the cool currents of an early winter stirred the languid air.
The wolf had been watching the dragon from the bushes and as he edged closer he smelled the air, the scent of roast hare overwhelming him and making his stomach grumble. The dragon was oblivious to the wolf and continued on in the way of hungry dragons.
The wolf inched closer and waited for the dragon to turn from the hare. As his fire belched to a low ebb the wolf leapt to the roast rabbit and grabbed it with his sharp fangs. The dragon turned back and roared a loud blast at the wolf as he ran into the thick palm scrub. The creases above the dragons brow grew deep and angry, nevertheless he did not peruse the thief. He would return and next time he would have wolf, but for now the wolf would have his dinner and a few breaths before his next attempt to usurp the good tidings bestowed upon an old dragon.

Ron Koppelberger (Holding onto the light of future realms)

Ron Koppelberger

Greetings from Ron

I have been poasting on this web site for over a year and I do not say much personally except with my poetry stories and artwork.   My Grandmother died yesterday at 7.00 P.M.,  she was in a lot of pain.  I take solace that she is with god now and happy.   Some might say that the forces of darkness have a monopoly on the sorrow we experience and that may be true but I know there is light at the end of the tunnel.
I ordered an advanced copy of Diablo 3 last week and it's due in today.  I guess that's like a task I'm not sure.......anyway the one thing my grandmother wanted was for me to suceed as a writer  she said you are going to be famous someday Ronnie with lots of books.  I have about 103 books with my stories in them and another 160 or 170 magazines with stories art and poetry in them and I am not famous yet.........nevertheless I know I will be because my grandmother was blessed with that kind of intuition....She will be missed and the bad guys have something extra to worry about now.  Anyway I hope you have a woderful day.

Ron Koppelberger

Adoring Breed

Ron Koppelberger

Adoring Breed

Set out for part, broadcast by the dark eyed love

A dream done in charters sought,

Seeking the pass of an ancient bloom

And an old river bought fast

By six gun steam and stallions cataclysm,

By the flame of an eternal light and the fold

Of a web gone astray unto the song of an adoring

Breed , in grave union with fervent

                                                                            Passions and blood.

Balanced Breath

Ron Koppelberger

Balanced Breath

The darkness in dances of ownership provoked by claims

Of scarlet robins in flight, closer to the will of an

Unbidden heart, a fable found in fear of innocence

And swirling heavens alight by riot and fires of

Falling glances, by the tempest in wanton harmonies

Of ash, tears and rain, by the frayed boundaries of an echoing

Song sung in tale bearing call unto eternal shades

Of autumn night and the abandon in mischief and

Wonting hungry avatars of balanced breath, a manifest drama

Of ethereal illusion and spun silken webs

                                                                         Of unfolding breed.

Night Bloom

Ron Koppelberger

Night Bloom

An hour at length in leisure, in wait for the day,

In seconds told by blood and shadow, By thorns

And the blossoms of

Night bloom breath, a moment wonting the dream

Of life and love at dusk and the way of mortal flesh,

A wonder for the briar and the souls

Of vagabond spirits.

Gardens Sleeping

Ron Koppelberger

Gardens Sleeping

Painted secrets in the rapt, perpetual character

Of ageless hope, infused with emergent sights and

Restrained echos of contrition, a resonant silence

Fathered in the worn spray of winter rain

And cool winds torn through the umbra

                                                                    Of gardens sleeping.

Dusty Seas

Ron Koppelberger

Dusty Seas

Bruised bones and chapped hands, by the

Reins of an endless journey and a dollop

Of thirsty resolve, the parched amber glow of

Savannahs in tufted weed and sandy stone,

A mesa looking west, toward the edge of dusty seas

And the promise of a faraway copse,

Done in affections of

Mountain range and

Saffron plains.

Utopia

Ron Koppelberger

Utopia

The approval of nimbus and rainbows, sunshine and cool destinies of rain knew the due of Eden and the moment that willful blessings of perfection united the wandering magic of love and light. A blazing escape to the fountain of accident and youth, the parable of forward betrothal. There, the future of Putnam York was amended to margaritas and immigrant rays of sunglow. He was balanced by depths of shallow and endless evanescence.
A dollar for scents and perfumes, a penny for a smile in lace. Putnam had found Eden in rages of bikini clad beauties and the gentle caress of ocean innocence.
He had found a constant in the maelstrom of shows and missions in solicitous tact , in the discretion of realms in divine shadow and warm thrill. He encouraged the Margarita as he took the paper umbrella and stirred the mix. Sleep overtook him and when he awoke he was in the midst of saffron and amber, wheat and allure, sunglow harvest and warm dusty blossoms that sprouted between the rows of wheat bloom. The day lasted a season and the twilight tide frayed the azure heavens with scarlet and gold tendrils. As it is for the lucky few he had found saffron dreams in the clutch of Eden.

Rare Sunrise

Ron Koppelberger

Rare Sunrise

The rhythm of enchanted illusions and blooms of wheat in cadence with the early dawn, the yielded flow of indigo cloaks that ethereal rays of sunshine assure in spirit of distant hopes and blessed depths of possession, he wondered and mused about those things as he shadowed the wisdom of haunting haze with the heart of a heaven in transit. Just a whisper as he awoke to the day and the future of golden sprigs and sprays, clever bond with the dream that was an eternal sea of amber grain and unimpeded worshiping saffron halos, in preparation for the talent of legend and angels in watch.
It was a managed eloquence in the holy yield of adventure surmised by the passage of tide and the transport of soul for sure savannahs of grain. They found the lineage of custody as they found the rare sunrise. He was bound by waves of fresh sunglow as the breath of calm seas filled the edge of the treasure, the accessory that bidden souls were drawn to in tempers of harvest paradise, berths of Eden and the lay of god.

Transplanting the Seed

Ron Koppelberger

Transplanting The Seed

The innocence of grain and twinkling vestures of passion filled the father of an ambiguous age and constructed ancestries. He agreed with the mistress of measure and the hum of slumbering portent. The bounty of wealth and chance, poverty inseparable and yet divided, stated in afterlife boast, in lessons bargained and rules bemoaned. He felt constricted and yet he saw the pristine savannahs of open skies.
The mistress was the seed and the seed was the sensation, primal and shared by boarders of sylvan egress and mountain vista. Shorn sands in the distance, creeping formerly fertile and again. He was a mortal being except for the mark, natural, supernatural, endless and evanescent.
The mark defined his birthright and the constant mind of interchange; gypsy circles and howling wolves…..a life curious. He bore the mark in blessing unalterable in rosy calm ascent. The birthmark on the back of his neck defined a furtive weave with the advance of the explanation, the fraternal order of legend and deliberate ladders to mystery. He whispered, “Love in natural man a mistress in saffron and creation, the garden…….the garden.” She was a good mistress and the crescent on his neck defined the moment. Clear, concise disposed to battle, and seasons of unavoidable forge the better of his dream.
He moved in subtle dominion, by the fray, the southeastern fray and the pleasure of magic. Fur clawed resonance and grace, he grumbled and inside he reasoned the likeness, the mirror image of the forge a recollection in gentle exhibitions of gild. The seesaw love of sweet savor and arrival. The arrival of blessings in maelstrom , blessings in fray, his fray, the lay of wolves and environs of ethereal intoxication. He forestalled the passion of his need and drove the will of fountain cascades. Cool, sated slaked by virgin baptism and pure proclivity to the spirit of god.
He began and in the destiny of wheat, the seed, pure chaste and by the measure of wolves and men.

A Legacy of Fire

Ron Koppelberger

A Legacy of Fire

The fragile concealment of cobwebs and monoliths, the character of consummation and oblivion, It was a means of misery And yield in immigrant oceans of dark beauty. He was scathe less and in pure sabers of trust. A degree of whispering depth ran the length of his spine, a brand in degree of avatars and romance. The brand on his neck was a semi-circle, incomplete, a half moon, bought by servitude he wondered.
He had the unchaste division, a sanguine acquiescence in immortal sweeps of vast savannah and blooming birthright. The braids hung in gentle ponytail encouragements of flowing electric seam. Bonded to the desecration and frayed by the trespass of immense anti-harvest flames, tongues of heat given the light of hell. He saw fire and flowing waves of wheat, saffron god he thought. He growled and flexed his claws. He saw himself running wild free to the flame, “I must succeed.” the wolf sang. “The desecration of STREAMS, PATHS AND THE GARDEN UMBRA, I MUST STOP IT!” He donned the cache of twilight tide and headed west, to the wind and the rain and the decree of great heroes, to the dominion of quiet slumber and intimate cinders in the dream of his future, perhaps the future of mankind, for the want of desolation of the promise of heaven, he was just a wolf and just a man, nevertheless those who would destroy hope and the wonder of a blessed dove stood fast in his path and he knew he was the key to humanities survival, the need of a yearning truth. The taste of ash wet his tongue and he knew the time was close. He saw the garden and the world in an instant and the vision was pure beyond those who would desecrate the secret, the bond of blue sky and endless wheat.

Passion in my Evermore

Ron Koppelberger

Passion in my Evermore

He sipped finding solace in the amber colored tea, honey and Jasmine in the weeping rain, just a touch of twilight in the distance and the moment of silence stood between them with an awful finality. She was a vampire and he was pure bred wolf.
“What of the springtide fray Ash, what of the hunters? You know the creed always hunt for fresh blood in the spring. If they catch us together it’ll be death for both of us.” Rapture said motioning to the east.
“They won’t come here Rapture, they don’t know about us.” Ash replied trying to convince her to stay. Rapture thought for a moment as she ran her hands through her long sandy locks. She was pregnant with ashes child, she would have to find shelter, the vampire ancients hated the wolf and her trespass wouldn’t be forgiven. She had to leave, find asylum somewhere in the west. She had heard about a convent that sheltered those who had made trespasses against the vampires. The sands of desolation and despair overwhelmed her for a moment and she went to ash finding comfort in his arms. “I have to leave ash.” she hadn’t told him of the pregnancy.
Deciding to travel together to the convent, at least that’s what Ash believed they’d be doing, was his inspiration, Rapture had other plans.
They sang long into the evening dusk and when they had said the last they slept. Rapture awoke to the sound of distant owls and flittering droplets of rain as it pattered against the cottage window glass. Quietly she packed and slipped out the door making her way to the western path. She’d have a few hours to travel before the dawn horizon stole the landscape.
Ash awoke just before dawn, Rapture’s side of the bed was cold and the door stood slightly ajar, she was gone, his love and laughter, his days of long refuge in her arms gone. The woods to the East of the cottage were full of loud shouts and approaching vampires on the hunt, she had been right, they had come this far and if they discovered him he’d be killed.
The yells grew louder and the chant of vampires in brood screamed the wont of blood and anger; they’d be bound by their opaque cloaks and facial covering, vulnerable to the approaching daylight, still he’d be no match for them. It sounded like they were twenty or thirty strong. Following the ally beside the cottage he moved to the north circling around to find the western path where Rapture would be.
Ash moved west toward the convent and his love. The hunters would be on horseback and so Ash had initiated the change, growing long gray fur and sharp teeth, it would be faster he thought and easier for him to hide if they did catch up with him.
The day wore on for ash and near noon he caught a wild goose and devoured it. His muzzle still coated in the gooses blood he ran west hoping to draw closer to Rapture. The sounds to the East were distant and unrelenting, they were moving this way far from their haunts and hideaways. Ash knew they had been found out otherwise they’d have turned back, they never relented when it came to forbidden union. The legend held them fast and sure, he knew they’d kill them both if they were captured.
The vampires believed the end would come from the marriage of wolf and vampire, pregnant desires with teeth beneath they’d say, chains to the destruction of both castes. Ash paused near a clear stream and sniffed the air quietly, lilacs and cool air tinged by the wild forest daisy. He drank from the stream and looked at his reflection wondering how Rapture could love a wolf, the fear of farmers and men, strong tempers and rare breed like her.
His dreams would foretell the promise of their union, he knew they had to be together, they had to share the bond of wife and husband, they had to he thought in new courage and faith.
Near the edge of night-tide as the sun settled into the horizon he arrived at the convent. Angels with teeth, both wolf and vampire. The fires glowing around the outside square were bright and inviting yet there were guard, cautious knowing the hunt would come their way. Tethers held several large stallions in place and two men in dark attire approached him. He stood in the shadows unclothed from the change. “I’m here for Rapture, she may have arrived for your shelter this morning. I am a wolf in need of clothing as I have made the change back from my long journey.” One of the men disappeared for a moment and another threw him a pile of clothing.
“Put the cloths on and show yourself!” he commanded. Ash did as he was told. “We know what you have brought with you, the hunters are close.” Stepping out of the shadow with his hand outward he apologized.
“I am sorry for the trouble, if you’ll get Rapture for me we will be on our way.”
Looking to the far side of the clearing he saw Rapture climb onto one of the stallions while leading the other his way. “We are ready for the war to come with the hunters wolf, leave us and we will stay to fight the hunters, take your wife and leave!” Rapture brought the horse around to ash and he climbed up on to it with practiced ease.
“We have to go Ash.” Rapture said with a nod to the west. They tell me there are fields of wheat and saffron to the west, and asylum for us and our child to be. Ash looked at her lovingly for a moment understanding that she was with his child.
“You are my passion in evermore sweet Rapture.” The war would stay behind them and ash prayed for the convent and his destiny.

Quiet Smile

Ron Koppelberger

Quiet Smile

The sweet affections of mistress allure

And gentle eyes of fire, the scarlet bloom

Of freshly aspiring love and the corn silk of Raven’s breath

In billowy bonnets of measure, a quiet smile

In passion and sensual supposition, an

Unbridled desire in ash and mist.

Measure and Time

Ron Koppelberger

Measure and Time

The outcry of analysis and blends of

Current, A grooved soul of endmost redress

And belief, the disorder in rants of celebrity aflame. The body

Of tomorrow and yesterday expressed in riots of

Mystery. The environment of decreed measure and

Time.

Everything in All

Ron Koppelberger

Everything in All

A rare layer of blooming essence and desires of judgment,

The sweet wine of dandelions and daisies, of tears

And dreams in amber vistas of wheat and saffron

Sunshine. The consuming passions of everything

And what heaven descries for the will of god.

Passive Revolutions

Ron Koppelberger

Passive Revolutions

The daily marriage of Sumpter Sash and Gretta Gashing was a romance in discrete fame. An underground mascara thick and ashen gray covered them in a cloak of shadow. The precautions were arrayed by brilliant intervals of light and endless seas of twilight. The betrothal of light to the silhouettes of long shadows in reflection.
The pause between grooves of glowing sunshine and the caste of binding mirrors and smoke defined their love of union. The spirit and the confederate allay of an ascending forethought and the trail of cold wound web followed their paths in the wont of an unbridled desire to be close to each others gift.
Standing in gaping submission to the flames of an elevated innocence, a promise of cyclic discretion, they found the way of betrothal and sweet sanctity in twilight.
Sumpter ruled the day and Gretta submitted to the shadow of his luminescence, notwithstanding, Gretta ruled the blessing of twilight and inward shadows; she announced the indigo beginnings of tall encounters and the remedy of night unto an ancient day. A substance of breath and suspiring sleep, dreams and the morrow. The marriage of day and night.

An Oddity

Ron Koppelberger

An Oddity

The reverence Baslm Jenkins felt for the provision of miracles and marvelous tempers was a fulcrum of decision and result. The world would go through yesterday and tomorrow, but the reservation was here and now. By the pale glow of the moon, by the sun in morning-tide glow and twilights warmth, he reveled the tender legacy of a bewildering raspberry cornucopia; just a taste, just a taste of Eden and victual verse. A smidge of raspberry creed, sweet in the tears of nirvana, flavored by heaven and wrought by the forge of Valhalla. Raspberry odd, odd to savor the enchantment and convention of contented serenity, it was a taste in spirited absolution and natural bloom.
He evaded the realms of pain and the dire anomaly of dieing. His consumption, his unrefined ails abated and emaciated flesh became full, whole eyes bright and in fires of phoenix resurrection. Raspberry odd, miracles in abounding dreamy worship, dancing ballerinas and circus ponies in fresh hay permeated the taste of divinity and the man, Baslm Jenkins became an angel in infirm corporeal bond, yet unbound by raspberry odd. Baslm dreamed of tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow in raspberry odd.

Carnivals in Rust

Ron Koppelberger

Carnivals in Rust

Unshaken by the wheels of revolving metal and quaky rainbow

Light, a thrill in thrall and a scream of joyous

Event, by popcorn scents and greasy gears

In shifting conspiracy with the clang and clamor

Of childhood dreams, of clowns in Vaseline and paint, by the

Light of crescent moons and sodium lamps, by sooth and

The wonders of drama, the realm of carnies and

Ponies in galloping dusty row, by cotton candy cheeks

And carnivals in rust.

Waiting for Home

Ron Koppelberger

Waiting for Home

It was an expedition into Bakus reckless incense and vigor, an uncultivated scramble of liberty; he handled the TV dinner tray as he dropped it to the floor, he scooped up the last bit of meatloaf from his gray socks, he liked the way the juice squished between his toes. Spatters of gravy had sprayed across the floor in a fan pattern of sauce.
Baku Upsilon, Baku from his native tribal designation and Upsilon because he had been the twentieth warrior in the tribal hierarchy. Potato chip bags and other trash padded the mosaic tiles of the tenth story high-rise. Baku considered the view from the penthouse window, a profusion of uproarious wanting, of dashing squirming squabble on the streets below. They move in circles he thought, from one corner to the next. Baku touched the window glass, dragging his gravy coated fingers across the glass.
For a moment he considered the man who had brought him to the stone jungle. He was pale and blonde, dressed in soft tethers of prepared cotton cloth. A deceptive enticement to the means of outsiders.
Baku paced back and forth across layers of spilled food and empty wrappers. He wore nothing except for a white pair of fruit of the looms and a pair of gray socks. He knew they would come to the apartment later in the morning. A woman would clean the floor and a man dressed in what the referred to as a “suit” would dress him like the others. Baku remembered the woman from the previous day. She had worn a lacy dress and a silk scarf on her hair. She was well fed he remembered thinking that she might eat some of his food. She had spoken few words except to comment on his uncleanlyness.
Baku hefted the ceramic ashtray in his right hand, he took a long breath and exhaled with a grunt. The endless sea of glass and stone was too much for him. Declaring his intent he invoked a benediction in his native tongue and waited, waited for the man to return, waited for the warm winds of home.

When the Coast is Clear

Ron Koppelberger

When the Coast is Clear

Persia Temperance saw the dead reckoning of an intimate, unshackled blood lust, it was a secret passion, a blessing, a blessing bartered for the eternity of forever. The merger of vampire raves and mortal conclusion was a consideration of the utmost for Persia. She liked being a vampire and her desires were weaned on blood, the blood of humans.
She licked the beaded scarlet droplets from her chin like a cat. She waited, she had to be sure the coast was clear. She hadn’t been interrupted in her pursuits with the young couple and she was roused to a sated lethargy. In a poised silent calm she stood before the plate glass window of the apartment window. She watched and waited for the streets to empty.
The Willena Bog was her asylum and she only had a few precious hours to return to her resting perch. There were vegetables scattered across the polished wood floor and parquet tiled kitchen. The couple had been out shopping in the nightly market that marked the town of Jenuessee’s Carnival celebration. Persia thought about the Hammock and the jungle wild, the tribes from ancient times, the subtleties had changed for Persia with the passage of time. The last hundred years had seen radical changes and some improvement for her lot. She always exercised caution as the tides of time were in her favor as long as she was careful in the hunt. The tribes had been savage in ancient times and the mortality rate, even for those who were immortal was low, nevertheless she had survived and her line had flourished.
The couple had been unsuspecting, unaware of her presence in the loft apartment. They had fallen to her thirsts with relative ease. Her foray into town was a curious one this evening, the carnival was in full swing. She wouldn’t be seen. The wild music and the painted denizens created a perfect air of secret purpose, still she waited lest someone see her leave the apartment. A band marched in crazy screams and beaded castaway dreams below and she realized her time to leave the apartment was at hand. With a passion for her safe haven she moved out into the streets, by back alleys and cobblestone she made her way back to the swamp and the frayed edge of an eternal night, a night marked by her unbidden desire and the wonts of a vampire life. As it was, she found solace in the fact that she had filled her belly and marched in a parade of frivolous abandon. The swamp called and she availed the call, her mind on the ethereal light that was her life, her existence in distant vistas of vampire heaven.

The Toy

Ron Koppelberger

The Toy

Heaps and clumsy echo’s of childhood debris bespoke of the remedy for the distance between momentary diversion and decaying fancy. Always tottering on the misty deluge of tears and tantrums, Laird Apse’s children wrenched smashed and grumbled glowing alibis of boredom with the things Laird gave to them.
A laughing clown lay in ragged disarray, mussed and angled to one side. A set of building blocks lay in splintered slivers across the surface of the tiled playroom and pokes of pickup sticks lay in Carmel coated stillness near the growth of baseball cards that cascaded in crumpled silhouette from a dismantled cereal box.
The new toy would mirror the folklore that children could be satisfied with the appropriate incentive. Tribal and bundled in leather straps the humble package established the trust of total enjoyment, the nature of the beast and it’s gap toothed intrigue.
Laird grinned as he layed the package in the center of the room and called his sons Pulley and Knot. They scampered into the room with glee. Fervent, impassioned by the possible treasure and gain, presumption and fair-haired expectation, they clutched and tore at the secret dream, the endorsement of magic allure. A bidden summons in expectation of greatness, They found thrill in thriving occupied spaces of esteemed amazement, their expressions shadowed by wont as the freed the leather straps and canvas folds from the velvet agent of a veiled gift. The cream pitcher was an alabaster and gold etched masterpiece inspiring awe in Laird. Tea and cream, sips of heaven he thought. “Yummy” Laird whispered as his children looked at him in bewildered confusion. And in a saying told the thing done is the theft of youth.

The Spoils of Glass and Sand (Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger

The spoils of Glass and Sand

The calm mistress of heed unhindered by the hold of charmed allusion and uneasy loves, filled his thoughts with the intrinsic need for gullied course, rabbit wills and hopping always, in secret chawing nibbles of grass. He watched the rabbit creep across the glenn and into the hidden copse near the west side of the gully. What of the contract, the promise for beacons and spotlights, sunshine and twilight, sylvan wilds and sand, endless eternal sand. What of the promise, “ To dust,” he whispered; just a phantasm of arranged fare, he thought. The promise………, he saw the spoils of sand to glass reflections in gathering temptation. Tempted to abide and willed to trust in the promise, he thought in furrowed scathless perfection. The promise and what was begat by the turn of tide, what nascent dreams and rushing rivers will, the promise to countries in ash and townships full of starvation; and what ails the healthy? The promise unto oblivion, except with the sunshine compliance of man and revolution. The promise to passage and resurrection’s devise. He sighed and smoked in lazy tendriled passion, a cool ambiance of tobacco and wanderlust. He looked at the rabbit……..” A full belly tonight” he said aloud, “ and tomorrow we reap the rewards of the hunt, the hunt for salvation in the face of bloated bellies and gaunt demeanors……., merely a rabbit, he thought.

The Roast (Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger

The Roast

She found the novelty of cooking the salmon colored chunk of meat to be a welcome offence, a check in lieu of the crime. The mythology of gods and dreamy provocations, the scent of roast scum, the hopeful rose in want of a sated stomach, a full belly and a dollars worth of wine, in what’s under the sun and near to the heart of homespun cooking.
She had prayed and prayed on the hodgepododge of homeless spectral vagabonds. A mystery of dirty faces and tattered wont, accepting and blameless. He had returned to her tiny asylum in the suburbs in stride with his aching stomach and the need to eat. He was hungry for the hungry, skid-row and all that desired the sustenance of a good meal.
Hungry for the hungry she thought. An unsaid thirst for the mercies of human harvest, in full bloom, in ravishing sweeps of desire.
The lessons of wretched existence, torn, bruised living had given the homeless man an edge and he perceived the witches design. Resolved to coincidence and the character of an enchanting verdict, a surrendering motivation, a turn of fate for the man and his silent acceptance of the witches will, he saw the solace of a bitter alm; I’ll be a sour turn in her swollen belly a dubious anger in her stew pot, a bit of sin in her fame, he thought. The wild bother of witches and warlocks, the rooted essence of revenge, he would devour her with his unmitigated froth, a bad savor indeed, for his brothers and sisters.
The witch dispatched the tattered vagrant with a great flourishing sweep of the blade as she sliced him into edible bits. The seconds tempered the scent of roast wills and baked to do. Finally, the charge found perfect haven with the roasted fare, the succulent appeal in ringing bells and timed buzzing ovens secured the approach of the moment, the grand design of cannibals and demons in feast.
The witch groaned, “ Yummy for me, yummy for me.” The fare was beyond all expectation and she ate until the trifle of hunger begged that she repent. She swore by the spirits and unbidden feasts. “ Tis a notion in passion to rave the merits of a good man in breaths of consuming desire, to my friend, to the vagabond prince of hungry revelation and the taste of a sin ever so sweet. “
* The path of freedom and vengeful rebuke define the nature of a judgment brought forth by the nature of greater wills. In singular fashion the witch became ill and died in her crime.

Irons (Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger

Irons

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.
Corals 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 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.

Whispering Silence

Ron Koppelberger

Whispering Silence

The scattered knowable yield of

Half-breed motley twilight in slavery

And tethered horizons, a berth in

Abandoned indigo treasure, in unborn

Scarlet sunglow and pleasures of

Whispering silence. A shepherded angel

In shadowy silhouette.

Welcome Cries

Ron Koppelberger

Welcome Cries

An effect dispensed by the source of reflections in tinctured

Arrays of desire, by rapturous seas, the need

To summon the season of despairing

Deserts and places known by shadow,

An assailing brush with the insistence of beginnings

Without end, a courage in sundry might and able

Envy, a generous consequence judged tremulous

And threadbare by welcome cries

Into the dark.

Ragged Blossoms

Ron Koppelberger

Ragged Blossoms

Innocence alone,

Unto the divine,

By the light of unseen forces in coppery

Tears and wonting aspirations

                                                                  Of ragged blossoms.

Veils of Illusion

Ron Koppel Berger

Veils of Illusion

Pieces of emerald glass, bequeathed unto the cool shores of

Azure seas and amber sands, by drifting eyes and clear sunshine

Souls, the taboo of lonely aspirations

And eager exile, swallowed up by the passion of

Sorts and dissolving dramas’, in foggy

Veils of illusion, made sweet by vivid dreams of Eden.