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.