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

Amazon.com/Ron Koppelberger

Slob

Ron Koppelberger

SLOB

The possibility spoke of mongrel revolutions. A greasy shadow covered his wild growth of stubble. Consummated in the pasta and quickening stain of spilled bear, his recliner creaked as he moved his bulk. Chaperoned by the conventions of numerous pizza boxes and garlic butter stained foils his living space screamed for a maid, a loving touch.
The beige walls were stained with oily fingerprints and the remnants of smashed flies. He wiggled his toes in the remains of a half eaten bag of potato chips and belched. Empty beer bottles and soda cans littered the folding chair next to his recliner and the stain of dried vomit, milk and chunky chocolate covered the front of his shirt. He sipped a soda can and yelled, “ Six points booger men!” the doors were all locked and the dust caked windows were nailed shut, “Can’t get me booger men!” he whispered as a bubble of spit formed on his lower lip.
“Booger Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeecccchhhhhhhhh!” he screamed to the trash strewn apartment. The doorbell sounded an electric chiming promise, a promise of fresh supreme, absolutely supreme pizza and cold liters of frosty cola. He stood and shuffled through piles of wrappers, bags and food wrappers. Strangers, strangers and booger men he thought, “Booooooogggeerrrrrrrrr.”
He pressed his eye to the keyhole and peered out. The smiling face of a pizza delivery boy grinned back at him. Fumbling with the latch and deadbolt he unlocked the door and yanked it open. Terror and gibbering horror greeted him in screams of bound resonance. He stumbled, “Boooooooooooogggggggeeeeeeerrrrrrrrr, Booooooooooo…………..” he gasped as he passed gas uncontrollably.
The head of the delivery boy bounced among the plastic sacks and cardboard assortments of trash in a scarlet spray. “BBBBBBBOOOOOOOGGGGGEEEERRRRRRRR!” he gasped in breaths of hot suspiring fear. A fetid blast of air whooshed at him ruffling his hair and filling him with dread. The thing, a gelatinous mass of flesh and glistening Vaseline shimmer slid the pizza box into his shaking hands. “YIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, Booooooooooggggggggeeeeeeerrrrr!” he screamed as he waited to die. The beast grabbed the door and swung it closed as it left. Peeking in through the closing crack in the door the creature growled “Booger indeed, booger indeed my man!”
Passing out he would wake later to cold pizza and warm cola. He shifted in his recliner and through a gulp of pizza whispered, “ooooggggerrrrr men.”

Out And In

Ron Koppelberger

Out and In

The enticement was living and breathing beast in tandem between courage and the dominion of sin. He was in the flesh of the moment, the conception of apples for loincloths and thorns. Theodore Scullion was absorbed by his unsullied temptation, growling uninterrupted by sentiment or guilt, he thought of his desire instead.
He would unlock the secret realms of gold, gold and diamond gemstone, piles of crisp one hundred dollar bills stacked in perfect union and quiet whispering arrangements of fortune.
Theodore looked at the enormous wall safe and dreamed of divine pastures. He had scored small before now but this deal would suit him for life, hookers, hooch, and a flurry of Cadillac limousines; Theodore’s mouth watered for fresh truffles and filet mignon. In wicked compulsion he touched the door handle of the walk in safe. It was a cool platinum gloss. The suggestion of incandescent brilliance contrived the action. Theodore ventured a forceful yank at the safe door.
He had gotten the job as a security guard on a whim and a prayer for futures unbidden. Leo dens worth was a billionaire and an adventurer, Theodore knew he wouldn’t be back for months. He planned his attack and here he was pulling open the safe door just as easy as pie.
The whoosh of the door heightened his schoolboy desire at the simplest level; he stood back in shock as the door swung open. A deluge of ice and snow poured out onto the polished marble floor. Theodore’s shoes crunched and slipped against the white powdery snow. The cool air frosted the tip of his nose in a biting exclamation of the impossible. He stumbled over his ambition as he stared at the revelation the premium in ice and rare encounter. An array of masks hung on the cold metal walls of the safe and the cloying perfume of a ripe melon drifted out into the room. Apprehensively he covered his ears as an uproar of fire and brimstone ministry filled the air, inarticulate except for the persuasive warning, “……..out and out, the sleep of unwrought consolation beholden unto yer soul, beholden unto yer soul………” Theodore caught the door handle and sealed the safe with a frigid whoosh of relief.
His fantastic ambition unraveled as he wandered into the living room and collapsed into the comfort of an easy chair the gateway to hell sealed for now. He sniffed the air for a moment and the veil of reality lifted. The sun shown double and the moon cried blood over the frosted landscape. In an instant of understanding he knew the penance, the cost of his trespass, hell he thought, “Who would’ve figured, who would have figured?” In a flash he was frozen to the core and shorn from the world only to be absorbed by the darkest realms of desolation and sorrow.
The safe remained closed and Leo Den’s secret was safe for a while and in quiet silence the gate anticipated the arrival of another, bidden by the promise of easy lies and wonted passionate sin.
Theodore begged hell to advance the sin of life but the plea went unanswered as the flames of perdition melted the ice and seared him to the center of agonies unbidden.

Primitive Appeal

Ron Koppelberger

Primitive Appeal

The asphalt was hot against his hands, hot, aching, searing. When he pulled his hands away a chorus of befuddling, repentant exclamations poured from his grimacing lips, “ Oh Jesus, Jesus God!!” he gasped. The palms of his hands were inflamed and the skin near the tips of his fingers was burned. “ Jesus God almighty!!!” he whispered as he gently brushed the loose bits of gravel away.
The salesclerk had said the shoes were a perfect primitive temptation.
“ Tha ladies love the primitive look.” she had exclaimed. “ oooooooooohhhhhhhhhhoooooo, haw nice. He looked down at his burned hands and the crazy stitch of the leather and fur; He dreamed in that moment, he saw lions and tigers on the hunt and in quandary with the suns heat and the morning chill. He saw horseflies as big as quarters and dime sized mosquitoes. “ Ahhhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaahhhhhhhaaaaaaa.” he sighed at ease with the dream.
The fine spray of intimate incense blossomed before him like some grand unfurling cloak of sanctity. Rose blush and attar, perfumed in excellent attire, fine-spun gold hewn tundra’s and the love of nightfall baptisms, “ Wild man, wild,” he shook his head and the fog abated for a moment. “ Wild man, those are friggen wild.” The attractive teenage girl smiled slyly and winked. In that moment he forgot the trip to the hot asphalt and the badly fitting shoes became the temptation of primitive desire. He smiled back and said, “Thanks.”
Later that evening he would reflect on the primitive appeal of the shoes and the phone number of the young woman. Once again he thought of tigers, wolves and lions. “ Primitive appeal indeed.” he whispered in quiet reverie.

Live and let Live

Ron Koppelberger

Live and let live

The shrewd haul, the weatherproof asylum, the carefully exalted argument for universal gold. He saw evergreen nuance in the hundred dollar bill, it was perfection, a generous dollop of amazing art. He had spent a year perfecting the silver plates, a year of diligent dreaming in vagabond tatters. The counterfeit bill was perfect and the paper was in whitewashed unity with the fresh ink. From one dollar to a hundred. He had bleached five hundred one dollar bills and reprinted them with the silver plates.
He felt prosperous as he surveyed the clothesline full of money. “Ahhhhhhhaaaa!!!” the smell of drying ink, he sighed in quiet admiration. He inhaled the scent with profound measures of intoxicating glee. Benny Worthy was his partner in crime, he had supplied the ink and enough inspiration for both of them.
The oaken varnished veneer of the door rattled on its hinges. “Open up it’s Benny!” he went to the door and unlocked it, cautiously leaving the chained portion secure. Peeking into the hall he saw Bennies unmistakable figure impatiently shifting from one foot to the other. “Come on, open up!” he groaned. He opened the door to bennies betrayal and the end of their relationship. Benny pointed the 38 revolver in his direction. “Here…” he tossed a knapsack to the ink stained floor and said. “…put the plates and the money in the bag Hank!”
Hank filled the bag with the hundred dollar bills tossing in the silver plates last. “Thanks Hank…..” he chuckled. “Thanks Hank……for the memories.” he sang. Benny turned his back to Hank and walked toward the door. Hank had the semi auto 22 rifle in his hands a moment later. He aimed at the center of Bennies back and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened, the gun had jammed. “Live and let live.” Benny chanted as he left the room. Hank sighed realizing he had no choice.
A single hundred dollar bill lay crumpled, unnoticed against the floorboard. Smiling he realized that would buy him an unsurpassable drunk.

The Natural World

Ron Koppelberger

The Natural World

The outrage of feeble dreams and ancient forerunners in portent, awe inspiring Slug Worthy thought. A magnificent, spontaneous style he thought; morose yet brilliantly perfect he considered. A concocted allegiance of puzzling stones and bone dust elementals in desire, he thought in deepening interest.
The photograph of Stonehenge lay before him in lurid gray granite and twilight horned moon backdrop. A portrait in the natural environs of an unabiding desire, a stolid proof one might touch, roughhewn in obelisk concentric, Stonehenge the purveyor of the impossible and all within the conveyance of a most natural conclusion. It was a mystery in the natural world, dark bidden horizons in time, in breaths of old taboo and modern dreams.
He considered one of the boulders laying atop the pillars. Slug saw himself in grandiose poise, perched atop, screaming to the heaven’s in wild rebuke to the natural world, to taxes, to bidden beasts of burden. He thought of screaming in revolt to the tall sky line edged in skyscraper stain and littered by the human debris of modern existence. He thought of screaming and a gulping gasp, a gorge of anger filled his throat.
“Stonehenge,” he said aloud “…come to me in stars and alliances of ancient wonder, vanguard of the shadows and asylum for the pilgrim….ohhhhhhhh Stonehenge!.” Slug caressed the glossy photograph and sighed. The natural world upset the ballest of dreams and dusty mists in legacy of what lay ahead, the myth of forever. “ Ohhhhhhh Stonehenge, “ he exclaimed in passion and tears, “…..what secret unbidden, what desire untold by the wishes of primitive wont and wild desire. Ohhhhhh great circle of gray and twilight, what compassion do you dare me, what compassion for the graces of my quest, my journey to the nights fray?” he questioned with flailing arms and tears, tears of need and lost lives in rendition of old times and the youth of a new world.
Slugs tears ran in rivers and eventually the picture became blurry and damp, paper and dimples of moisture. Slug somewhat overwhelmed by the illusion and his delirium passed out and slept for nearly two days. When he awoke he sighed deeply and thoughtfully; looking at the bottle of Irish whiskey he vowed the oath of reborn will. The picture of Stonehenge lay bare and stained, long forgotten in disregard to Slugs consciousness.
The desires of city streets and shopping malls called to him and somewhere, cuddled away, nuzzling his old desires, the warm cascade of whiskey tumblers and rhy thirsts awaited like a sleeping tiger.

The Reunion

　
　
　
　
　

Ron Koppelberger

The Reunion

Stone gabble was impatient in his concerns for the reunion, his snazzy labors of sealed admiration. He had fashioned a proof, a swift conspiracy of perfection, in fancy welcome ,in impressions of grandeur.
“Believe my success, believe my success, my patient pinnacle dear cousin, dearest wayward priest.” he whispered quietly to himself as much as the expectation of his cousins arrival. He went on “ Believe my success.” to the Rembrandt and Persian tapestries adorning his walls, “ Believe in my judgment, my tempered fortune, my good luck, my riches and my poise, believe.” he repeated.
Liberty Demitasse was his fifth cousin removed. His crest and admitted notable, his wealth rumored to be the birth of a grand ascendancy. Stone was determined to impress his cousin and the prospect of the reunion was an obsession. The wherefores of Liberty he thought. His kinship to liberty was unfettered by the usual bother of brothers in success; Stone, starry with flowing desires of pride, with esteem for what might be the advent of portfolios and profit, lordship and furrowed business squawk, waited in suffering patience for the outline of futures in fast track; a mantle in union he thought, in cologne, in tonic, in wishes deepest desire, the union of what will be a privilege unshaken.
Stone paused for a breath as the front door rattled in its frame. In custom he straightened his lapel and primed the escapade a la Stone. The door opened in revelation and utter disappointment. A beggar in burlap, a slave in sweaty rags and torn remains; he held his hand toward Stone in greeting.
“ Filthy tramp, sour lunatic dog, begone!” he exclaimed as he heaved the heavy oaken door shut with a solid rebuke. The beggar considered the lineage of stews and solitary wisdom, the turn in curves of fate. Liberty gave agreement, the lace and surrender of freedom, in oasis’s of prominent station and gilded excesses. The necessary salves of wounded burden and direct conviction were the evidence of ancient paths. In his triumph unto the grand brilliance of freedom Liberty Demitasse had arrived and his arrival was an acceptance of freedom, true freedom.

Dreams In Frayed Cotten And Straw

Dreams in Frayed Cotton and Straw

Ron Koppelberger

　

The harmony of gossip in black, in blood and bidden assassins breath bore his title and even so dreams and nightmares haunted him in slow easy demonstrations of fear. He was Sable Warden keeper of the sentence, the purveyor of the gallows, the hangman’s knot and the edge of a triple bladed sword. He was the mask, the crimson spray and the dull thud of heedless punishment, he was the magistrates executioner and the lever was truly heavy.
Sable sighed and rolled amongst the cotton sheets and straw padding. He was caught by the half-light of a terrific phantasm, a sleep chartered by the wont of a decision, a choice given him in the moment of death.
He dreamed of starlight and dark suns at night, he dreamed of red smoke and flame, the better part of a battle wrought for the sake of the kill. With quiet stealth he saw the figure of a man in dark havens of silk, he was levitating and laughing. Sable knew and his knowledge bought the drama. The figure floated closer and he raised his triple edge. The hilt of the sword was solid silver with triple wolfs heads at the base. In the smokey light the wolfs eyes glittered, the eyes were blood red rubies, the blade the sharpest in the township.
Sable swung at the floating specter and screamed with a furious anger. The man laughed as the blade ripped through his mid-section tearing him in half and dropping him to the ground in a spray of blood and viscera.
Sable grunted in his sleep and shivered; in the dream he wore his executioners hood and silver tinged vestments of leather. He saw the sky as the twilight shone its light on the figure of the man. There was a twinkle of metal around the dead mans neck. Sable wiped tears of blood from the corners of his eyes and uncovered the flash of metal. It was a necklace hewn in gold and slick with the mans blood. The design was unfamiliar to him, stars, half moons and emerald slivers of stone. Sable grabbed the chain yanking it free, the spoils of battle he thought.
The sky bled bright orange and red and in the distance wolfs howled at the approaching blood moon. As the shadows closed in around him he moaned and rolled in the cotton sheets, sleep laden and borne by what was due he dreamed of crimson seas and the wont of an untrod path, the path of an unconscious passage, in dreams of love, loves lost and the end of his humanity. The blade lay next to him in darkness and he continued on dreaming of yet another battle. Sable swung his sword and the flesh was always pliant, the blade unforgiving as he sliced the head from a slender figure in union with the fight. Wooooosh, a moment, a breath of mere seconds as the head toppled revealing a woman’s face, it lay, face upturned, bleeding on his leather boots.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” he screamed recognizing his wife’s face. The sheets tangled about his feet and he dreamed of a scarlet sash binding his ankles and a small child, a boy towing him through mud and ash and the embers of countless fires. Sable kicked and screamed as he was pulled along, he was helpless in the child’s undoubting sway. The bed creaked and shook as he screamed in fear and convulsive thrall.
In the dream, the source of his unconscious hell he kicked screamed and fought the child pulling him, dragging him toward unbidden ends, toward an executioners fear.
Haze filled the air for a moment then thousands of leaves, dry, crumbling, flittering and fluttering like a million moths, they fell down around them and buried them absolutely. The tugging ceased and suddenly the child was gone.
He stood amongst the pile of decaying leaves brushing the heap away from his face. He moved forward. Ripples moved beneath the thick blanket, fast scurrying toward him in circles, and the sound of children at play, singing. The sky flashed a brilliant fire red and the leaves disappeared only to be replaced by mist and a sparkling dew that covered a long sloping hill of grass.
The castle stood in the distance and in the front a large pole with long tethers attached at the top. A group of children circled the pole each holding a tether. “We all fall down…….” they sang. They were expressionless as they fell to the ground in silent play. Sable moved to the edge of the circle, the children had dark half moons beneath their eyes and were covered in leaking bloody sores. He thought, the harrow has passed.
He groaned and tried to awaken without success. Daring fate he moved closer to the castle and the arched entrance. Bitter acorns lay in wooden bowls on either side of the gate, pausing he removed a handful and placed them into his pants pocket.
A shadow appeared near the stone entrance. Tall in black shawls and silver blades covered in scarlet. The figure yelled like a wild banshee, “YIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE!” the figure grimaced and swung his knife blade at Sables neck. Sable stepped back and swung the triple edge of his sword. The air parted as did the flesh of the banshee. Blood and a thick viscous spray of ash filled the air and stained his sword. The figure fell to the grassy ground and an awareness stole over Sable.
In his dream he remembered, he remembered the gallows, the knots, the fare of a blood thirsty throng. He remembered the face of the aggressor, hung months earlier. He touched his cheek, hesitant, cold covered by the executioners hood. Sable groaned again remembering his wife and son, the reason he had become what he desired in hate.
Near the end of his dream he cried and a single tear tempered his blade, then he awoke.
The sky was dark outside and the sound of cicadas’ filled the space between his ears. He looked at the blade next to his bed and the black hood he had worn since their deaths, his wife and son.
Reaching into his pocket Sable pulled out a handful of pealed acorns. He whispered, “let it be at an end.” as he chewed the bitter acorns. Leaving the castle keep he moved on toward what he wonted, life, rebirth and new days bought by the hope that he could regain what had been lost.

Aria In Shadow

Ron Koppelberger

Aria In Shadow

The embryo grew in news and the tramp near the edge of Promise Nod looked to the name of Aria, the violent summoner of arid winds and fiery desire, a witch of reputation in promise.
He faced the front shingle on the ancient cottage door, all gray with scarlet lettering, “Aria The Steeple” it read. Humbled by the shame of poverty and the passion he felt for Aria, he stood waiting for her acceptance. A father to be he thought, a child in due by the fates and by the wont of a black witch.
Polly Dray knocked on the rough hewn oaken surface of the witches door. A rapt gift of practiced patience stole his haggard face in waves of anticipation. They had met by the Western Glenn, she in dark eyed attire, a rare mix of magic and satin ease and he in suffering regret, a pale faced clumsiness prefaced by the rags of misfortune.
She had come to him in a dream.
“Bidden by the wont of child, a dark need for the birth of an apprentice.” she had whispered in his sleep. She led him to the edge of a glass pond, silent, secret and in clandestined shadows. They had given the sky a moment to remember; twilight, scarlet desires in fervent passion, they had followed the crimson heart of ecstasy , of bliss borne from the grip of wedlock, in sin, darkness and fire, bought by the unbidden features of broken taboos and uncommon affections. They had created from rags and silk, a bond by blood and the cleaver eye of a witch, Aria the violent and Polly broken in spirit, he only aware of the moment, the due he needed to climb the delicate petals of stature and life.
A turn for the better he thought as he stood waiting for the door to open; the arms of an angel he thought of the witch, my sweet Aria blessed by the gods and her husband to be.
A few moments later the door swung open unfurling darkness and the trappings of his illusion. In naive currents of desire he thought, her rouge is bright and her lips sweetly shimmering in scarlet whispers of song.
Aria stood before him, covered in blood, apron smeared scarlet by her bloody handprints. His look of cloudy delirium became a look of surprise and dismay, yet he had known, with a surety he had been aware. She crossed the gulf of Polly’s shock and pulled him close.
“Sweet man, tis just a moment before twilight and the silhouette of night-tide saints, calm yer fear and cool yer dismay!” she hugged him close and the vapors were sweet as well as coppery with the violence of the witches passion. She kissed him gently in convincing measures of bond.
The sound of night thrush filled the wild around the cottage as the moon cast its light across the small clapboard house, the breath of drama told in a grim distraction.
Hear ye!” she said in his ear quietly.
“See ye!” she nibbled his ear breathing warm summer winds and daisies into his accepting consciousness.
Aria led him into her asylum. The door closed shutting out the evening sky and the path he had traversed to be with her. He saw soft shades of amber light and the odor of baking bread filled the air. He was enchanted not seeing the body of the man, rended and broken, dismembered and slashed in crimson, splashes of death. He didn’t see the cold edge of the blade laying near the corpse nor the smile in darkness, in secret cankers and charcoal soot.
Aria patted her stomach and grinned wider. “Our baby dear Polly, we’ll raise her to be a queen, a princess in power, to avenge your rags and my prison, to become the pasture for our devoted moment of vengeance dear Polly.”
The table the body was laying on dripped pattering tears of blood against the burnished oaken floor, pooling in a savagely satiating aura of red. Aria stepped back sliding in the sticky mess, nearly falling and for an instant he saw her, ancient, bleak and candent by the fires of hell, in her moment of weakness. His eyes became clear for a moment, just the briefest of admittance and a sleepless gathering of strength crept into his countenance. By dust and roses he thought, what wore the witch, his sweet Aria what wore her.
Pulling him close again she sang in his ear.
“Like sacred storms and the rain of tangled dreams, give me my cleaving affection in dire confection.” Polly listened and wavered from his insights, perhaps she was an angel in dark airs of passion. She touched his eyes and sent him a vision. Sunshine and spring flowers in bloom, children playing and sparrows flittering black then white, black then white, white and black. He opened his eyes then, seeing her for what she was, dark, evil and angry; nevertheless she loved him and he was frayed, burned by the struggle and she was carrying his child in her womb.
Sprays of sparrow song and dandelion bloom anticipated the birth of Arias baby. Polly saw darkness and the same expectation in Aria’s eyes.
She sweat blood and smoke, fire and wrath. He looked to the midday sky and thought, it had been nine months brewing, stirring in the mists of fate. Happenstance was discreetly convincing the wind and the tempest currents. Polly wrestled and wondered for his child, for the troth of a darkness borne in ecstasy and wont. He wondered and his contemplation secreted the wisdom of one who was enchanted by the notion of flowers, azure heaven and god, guiltless deliverance. He struggled for nine long months finally deciding. She’ll be my daughter named beauty and love, balanced by my devotion. Polly thought again and to the edge of the darkest horizon. He would end the witches life after his childs birth. For the winter to come and times of hunger, he would steal the child and the breath of the witch, the steeple, the killer of innocence, for the promise of his soul and his daughter. He would take her the moment his sweet salvation was borne into the world.
Aria lay in wait for the hint of her achievement, her daughter, in spasms and convulsions of birth, in revolt, in revolutions tide she screamed and fought the pains of child birth. In an instant the child was borne, into the light and shadow of Polly and Aria, crying new wanting the things of the world and her mother lay in reverie, in asylums of warmth, candent and in the way of sacred angels, her father strong with resolve.
She dreamed and cried and thrashed at the world, tiny tears sliding across her ruddy checks in infant passion.
Polly drifted between the realms of shifting day and a suffering night, he best a twilight thought. She’ll be away from the witch if only I can manage he said through a sudden and overwhelming lethargy. Polly’s eyes widened and Aria laughed in salt and flame, loud, hysterical and wild. She laughed and convulsed in rhythm with the childs tears, her daughters power.
The baby touched her check and Aria screamed as a bright sun appeared there smoldering her flesh and burning her to ash. Polly touched the child, his daughter borne of a dark witch and a vagabond and his hand came away shriveled, old by degrees of time as the future spun ahead.
Brick and mortar replaced the forest glenn and the sound of airplanes, cars and scurrying footfalls, the footfalls of countless people filled the air. Polly saw his daughter for a final moment before he crumbled to dust. She was laying on a city sidewalk, the concrete jungle of Promises future. Passerby glanced apprehensively down at her, looking for her mother and wondering why a baby was laying in the middle of the busy crowd. Her writhing newness was the birth of an era a time in passing seconds and days of fast evolution.
She waited for her parents in the shadow of a brilliant light. A swan and a black and white sparrow, of the suffering witch and the desire of a tattered castoff.
On her way to work the woman, kind in expression reached down and took the baby to her bosom, away from the hard surface of the concrete sidewalk. She noticed the pile of rags laying next to the child thinking of a homeless mother or father.
The woman smiled and sang.
“Hush little baby, go to sleep.” The baby grinned and cooed bound by the promise of an era given to the romance of a secret future.

***

Twenty Years Later

She was twenty years old now, no longer that innocent babe. Cloaks of light engaged her wherever she went, nonetheless. She stood on the top floor of her new penthouse apartment and sighed as her husband whispered into her ear.
“It’s great isn’t it hon?” he said as he kissed her ear.
“It’s just beautiful Shaver, just beautiful.” The sound of music and singing, tribal dark and wild drifted up from the glossy burnished cedar floor. “Must be a party downstairs.” she commented to Shaver.
“Must be honey, maybe we’ll go down and introduce ourselves.” he offered casually. She looked at him for a moment wondering.
The city skyline was gorgeous she thought in clouds of distraction. She stared over the rail to the balcony below. There were people milling about the patio and they were laughing as they ate crackers and pate’ The sky grew dark for an instant as she heard the name. Aria, the woman on the patio was starring up at her and smiling.
“Come on Aria, the band’s great!” she looked away and went back into the apartment.
For a moment the woman, Aria had looked old ancient and familiar. Shacking her head she walked back into the penthouse. She could hear her husband talking to someone on the phone in whispers.
“Hey honey, we got an invite for the party.” he said excitedly. She remained silent thinking about the child she was carrying.
“Great honey!” she called back as she prepared herself for the party. “That’s great.”

As He Prayed

As He Prayed

Ron Koppelberger

App 1900 Words

Stone Rare stood on the precipice. The moon base was deserted and the only signs of life were the silent rush of air that filled the dome overhead and the screams of the undead population. The edge of the open vista standing before him was long and pointed to the distant sun, a twilight in moon phase. The raised Dias glowed a bright fiery red and the tendrils of light that spread out from around the platform stretched into the dust and open plaza below.
He looked down into the valley and prayed, there were tattered remnants of what had once been human shambling and shuffling across the dusty plaza walk. They moaned and moved closer, he was safe for now yet alone in his human mortality, except for the virus.
Stone continued to pray as the plaza filled with the damaged remains of what had been the moon bases population, destroyed, leaking blood and viscera, eyes sunken and purposeful to the allegiance of need, wont, wild fury and desire. They craved the human experience, the flesh of what was not dead, what stayed close to the bosom of god. Perhaps it was because they were cursed by the virus or maybe they were in the silent grasp of a more powerful force, something dark and evil.
Stone turned from the platform and made his way back into the complex, he had his Rambler, a laser gun, powerful and ready for the undead meandering the depths of the station. His face wore days of stubble and he rubbed his check, chapped and sore from the dry air in the station, the humidifiers weren’t working right. He prayed again, a miracle was what he needed.
Pushing open the door to lavatory A he went to the wash basin and splashed some warm water onto his face, something moved in the last bathroom stall. He looked close to the floor and saw a pair of ankles, pants around them next to the porcelain base of the toilet. Two hands, flesh mottled and reddish crept down and pulled the waistband of the pants up. He looked into the mirror again, his eyes were lined weary and old, he felt old. The stall door banged open and a man shuffled out with some effort. He was bluish and his lips were bulled taunt in a snarl. He could tell the man had been one of the bases technicians, he had died recently.
Stone moved backward and away from the man, he was slow and unable to manipulate his shamble into a run. As the lavatory door shut tightly behind him he looked into the dim light of the hallway toward the rows of security lockers.
The goal was to find the main lab, locked and behind a security veil, then with an antidote, what he hoped was, the antidote in hand, he would make his way to the launch station where the small craft waited for flights to earth. He knew there was a chance they had gone home infected, the virus active and waiting for the unsuspecting population of the planet. The cure he thought with a touch of hope, a brief moment of approaching sunshine. He knew they had a vaccine, the problem was the lab techs had all died and behind locked vaults.
He went to the lockers in the long hall and tried a few. Locked and several hanging open with the remnants of what had been a normal existence. A sound from the darkness of the shadowy hallway, the sound of approaching bodies, and screams, there were a crowd of them, bloodied torn and decaying in the confines of the moon base. Stone paused for a moment, turning toward them, he fired a few shots from the Rambler toward the ceiling panels overhead. The tiles collapsed to the floor in a heap of tangled framework and plastic tile. It would slow them down.
He moved back down the hall and turned left toward the science labs, lockers lined this part of the base as well. For a moment he considered the virus and how it had come to be, what had they been aiming for. Fields popped into his mind. Fields had been the last living person he had talked to. One minute he had been sleeping and the next he was yelling and thrashing with angry need. Stone had placed a single shot to Fields head and finally he had ceased to move. He had cried and mourned the loss because he knew he was alone with the undead.
The shadows stretched in fuzzy rows confined mostly by the steel doors to the labs. Stone thought for a moment, the coming winter, cold lonely and dead yet shambling, aching for the warmth of new blood…food, all they wanted was a taste, a taste left for the undead and here he was pulsing with life and, he considered, the will to survive, the will to get home and away from the nightmare. Stone pulled out the key card and moved closer to the locked doors of the science lab. There was a narrow metal gash in the left hand side of the door, carefully he pushed the card into the slot. He prayed, would it work; near the end of the hall plopping wet and methodical, a leaky faucet, the sound of a water balloon making contact with a hard surface. The figure was standing then falling face forward, up and down inches at a time with each fall. Its legs were broken and the shambling gate was more like a lunge as the dead man fell over and over again.
The door hummed and opened for stone, his prayers had been answered. Slipping inside he pressed a green button on the wall and the door slid shut.
The lab was empty except for the rows of metal cages and test tubes lining the counter; there was an observation room lined with red smeared glass and behind a half dozen peering faces, licking at the glass, tapping for weak spots , he turned away from the taboo to the far side of the room, Salvation. The refrigeration unit was working, he could see the yellow flashing light above the door. Stone moved to the refrigeration unit and pulled open the heavy double doors. Inside were an array of plastic bottles and syringes filled with the vaccine. What a tragedy, they had never had the time to use it.
Stone grabbed one of the syringes, the liquid inside was clear and pure looking. Rolling up his sleeve he inserted the needle into his arm and injected the clear substance labeled X-243 into his arm. His arm tingled from the injection as he sighed with relief. There were several portable freezer packs on the shelf and he loaded them up with the syringes. Strapping them across his shoulders he made his way back to the entrance.
Stone grabbed the Rambler from his waistband and prepared to shoot his way back down the long dark corridor. He pressed the green button again and the door slid open with a whoosh. The hall smelled terrible, all decay and coppery as he let the shadows close in around him again. The crowd at the end of the hall was bigger now and they were screaming as they bumped into one another, otherwise they hadn’t made it as far as the science labs.
He had to make it to the docking bay, one floor down from him. Maybe he could avoid the crowd. He turned left into the darkness as he headed for the stairwell at the end of the hall.
He was burning the breach between what was real, what was nightmare and what had become real as he stepped across the torn and broken remains of several lab workers, for a moment he had spotted movement, there wasn’t much left of them the others had eaten them nearly to the bone yet tiny groans came from one of them, in that moment he cursed the scientists and what they had done, he had to make it back to earth. He knew there was a chance the others had been infected, they needed the vaccine and he needed to be away from this god forsaken hell.
Yanking at the green metal door near the end of the hall he peered into the darkness of the stairwell, Silence and the distant echo of the stations air control units. He stepped in and felt his way to the rail near the stairs. Cautiously he made his way down the two flights of stairs to the launch deck.
Light crept in from the corners of the door and he tugged at the handle. The door moved a couple of inches outward as it bumped up against something. Looking through the crack in the door he spotted the problem, there was a body directly in front of the door. He pushed harder and the body sat up and screamed wildly. Stone pulled out the Rambler and poked it through the door at the thrashing figure. He fired a few quick bursts and the dead man lay still.
A nascent moment of breath stole over him and he felt energized, he would make it, to earth, with the cure. He hoped for the morrow with a passionate intensity, the struggle would be worth it, he had to make it. Another pulse of energy overwhelmed him and he pushed the door open wide to the space port and the loading dock.
He paused for a moment to pick something up out of the floor, a broach, silver and ancient etchings, it opened and a picture of a young eager couple stared out at him. He closed the broach clasp and placed the jewel in his pocket.
There were three ships at dock and another three that had managed to escape. Stone walked up the boarding ramp into one of the ships. He closed the ramp behind him and made his way to the control area. Purveyors of revolution and space travel had never foreseen this situation. He rolled open the port doors and looked through the bay window into the cool dark confines of space. There were a few dozen bodies spinning lazy circles around the entrance, weightless and unseeing. He fired the main engine and the rocket roared to life. The coordinates would be preset for earth all he had to do was launch.
The child in him was thrilled with the legend in myth, space travel and home away from the awful horror of the moon base, “Do you own what belongs to the heart of desire and eternal rest, scarlet tears and the love of another day for tomorrow will be with the help of our breath.” he said aloud as the rocket launched into space for earth.
The starlit sky called the heavens and the hope that Stone felt was overwhelming, but what if. They had gone on infected, what if the vaccine had never made it to earth, what if? He looked forward to the approaching earth and a shiver of fear ran down the length of his body. A new frontier, he had to hope and he did have two freezer packs filled with the vaccine. “What lay before the temple in seasons of chance and change, an alm and a prayer for mankind, a prayer for mankind.

Supernatural Ease

Ron Koppelberger

Supernatural Ease

The delicate touch of the endless eternal twilight horizon lit the mid point between dark and light on 531- G, daydreams and cold coffee filled the days with the fruit of long passions and an aching desire to see spring blossoms rather than Krokus bloom and weed. Hunter Nobel stretched his tired legs and stood up from the metal folding chair. He thought of home and the sun, the earths sun, steady, bright and forever. She hadn’t wanted to come to the new west as they called it, she hadn’t wanted him to go to the new frontier either.
She had stood before him, haughty, emerald eyed and lanky with auburn hair, hands on hips with a defiant look on her face. “You don’t need to go to that Damn planet Hunter, we have everything we want here on earth!” she had proclaimed with a gentle nod of her head. The argument had lasted two hours and in the end he had watched her walk out of his life.
The sky bleed spears of crimson stain and to the rear all was pitch black. Gathering his camp he moved toward the distant horizon. The whisper of forgotten ghosts caressed the landscape and ruffled the endless sea of Krokus; the flowers had been the settlers choice and they flourished with a supernatural ease like everything else on 531. In the distance bright stars glimmered and called for the discovery of other worlds, other lands and adventures, adventures in darkness and light, heaven and hell, sought diversities that sang the songs of lonely and populated worlds.
Dandelion wine and the taste of bitter alms whet his thirst, a strange combination but quenching, fulfilling the moment with fact, the fact that he was alive and alone in his day or perhaps night, the defining line had become blurry 531 blurry. The shadows of a faraway mountain range stood behind him calling out to the sea of glass that poured from the sky, the wavering blooms of thousands of Krokus blooms and ragged weed. He had planted Oaks and Maples in the darkness of the plain, always hoping for the best, trees and some semblance of earth; closer to the light side of the division he had planted apple trees and Blackberry bushes. The planet was not quite ready for the populace that longed to populate her shores. The oceans were vast and of both fresh water and salt, salt and tears, fresh water and marine life that resembled earths.
He had seen the seas from the bay window of the ship that had dropped him off. He had thought of emerald eyes and the desire to run, full speed backwards, nevertheless he had pushed. The natural ponds and lakes were in the thousands and the water was clean and unpolluted, filled with what looked like trout and tasted like chicken.
A season of passing marked the trail between the delivery ship and where he had come from. He would plant and prod the soil hoping for new life, the prospect of shadowy dreams bequeathing the future, and that alone made it worth it, the prospect of futures bidden to the heart of 531, for everyone on earth, for the spirits of South, North, East and West, the new west done in flourishes of harvest wont, the spirit and soul of holy blossoms and discovery, lands anew, the tide of tomorrow. A stand of rock lay before him outlined in jagged points and edges. He headed toward the rocks and his footprints left the evidence of his passing between one point and another, between the seas of flowers and a small outcropping of stone with a pond in the center. He made his way to the center of the rocks and opened a small metal container. Eggs, from a variety of fish, with a toss he dumped the contents into the small pond. The trifles of god he thought as he peered into the water after the eggs. The evidence of his purpose was the fireflies that scattered from the surrounding weed, they were big as big as dragonflies and bright like tiny light bulbs. They were a sight to behold and there were thousands of them brought by the settlers before. After a few moments he moved away from the pond and headed further toward the twilight forgetting the dark side of the planet for a moment and knowing that his journey into the light would take months, nevertheless he saw the sun in his dreams and he moved forward toward the rendezvous point.
He watched as shooting stars lit the horizon for a moment, a meteor shower, dozens of fire bright stars in the distance. The day saw the ancient taboo of man and new life rather than the old ways of war and confusion. He moved ahead and the path remained long as he planted and sowed saving the last for the sun. The wheat seed, the promise of what would feed the planet, the wonder of saffron colored fields in endless arrays of freedom and passion, he would save the wheat for the sunshine on 531, making this the place of shelter the conclave of what fate would allow.
As the weeks passed he planted and sowed the terrain with life and promise, the sun grew larger and larger on the horizon as he moved out of the twilight to the eternal day. The sky glowed a hazy blue and gray as he planted the wheat field, and he took care to the soil making sure the toil would be beneficial to the need of a future population, always keeping in mind the fires that lit the earth and her wanting ways. As the tenth week approached he saw a tiny dot in the distance, a transport, a seed ship brought forth by the purveyors of the wheat and the Krokus. He moved forward with the hope and expectation of a fresh spirit, the soul of a new freedom that would bring 531 to its destiny.

August Snow

Ron Koppelberger Jr.

App 3124 Words

August Snow

Copyright 2007

　

Chapter One

“Demons in bloodless abandon heedless, immovable wanting the

Possession of paralytic charms and the infidelity of

Elemental tangents. Disturbed in conclave window glass

And frozen in artic, gnashing consummation of souls in

Distressing late attrition”

*******

Naive, innate enchanting witchery in the sinew of a dream

And the welcome of a quest for the dauntless bustle of futures

Without sin, prophecy forgiven in the cashew of unbidden barefoot

Clarity and journeys to begin.

Soothsayers and the fate of a king in rag-bag vagabond

Discretion, searching the legacy of a fulfilling consigned

Venture and direction, crystal plums of glass and mosaics of raven eyed gypsy smoke. The pittance of a penny for a curious remedy and the

Forbearance of a sainted knight as the journey unfolds and the byway

Of delirium becomes light.

*******

An oath and tears from the eye of an angel in scarlet and azure

Tincture, a white witches spangle. The besotted touch of

Phoenix agility entwined by the breath of a flame and blessed ability.

A shield of luminescent two fold attendance and the ethereal sanctity

Of spiritual presence. A vow exchanged and the blossom of

Balanced blossoms in expectation of god rearranged. Spoken in the throe of

A precious wish, the mystery of sacred speech and unhesitating exhalation,

“Belie the shadow realm

And guide the sacred helm!”

The witches final exhortation as unfurled savannahs and sylvan paths

Align to the discretion of secret pearls and the sashes of destiny. To honor the special substance of alchemy and unbidden quests for the breadth of straw dogs and calamitous curtseying dragons in white, the adventure begins at the even-tide and the frayed seam of night.

*******

Plenteous and fulfilled in the trail of unbidden tears, a moonbeam and

Salubrious star allaying brave fears. The sacrosanct silent, pregnant prayer

To heavens and twilight wine, signifying the journey and thrust of time.

Thrashing thresholds along the path of tiers and stone already parched and

Feigning a desire for home. Ripples of wind and owls in vociferating

Vocation of wondering wisdom, the bleat of distant sheep and wolves howling winsome with worry for the hunt and incensed by the scent of a human, drizzling saliva and a famished grunt. Straight imbued with the direction of stitches in a long seam, he continues northward forever it seems.

Drowsy, overwhelmed by the victory of a night he collapses tatter Malian still seen in mist by demons in flight. Phantasms and portends of mythical call fill his conscious almost all, the brood of broadened ash and sunshine

Arrays of risen abeyance in possession of magical conveyance and curious

Enveloping crimson ascent in the hold of god’s consent.

*******

The morning dew and emboldened moted sunshine flittering against his pale skin as sleeping in hours times four and flourishing angels in glowing luminescence like sentinels akin. Dreams of Eden and patient cadence benevolently drawn in the truelove trifles of countenances passing, the winded wetlands of moss and lichen hue surpassing the charcoal tattered, gangly shadow of powers amassing. The corruptible morass proceeding a time to come, the journey irrefutably undone, by an unlearned question of wandering sum. Why is it you and why am I not the one? Evil shrieks of death and damp cattail fluff. He sleeps and discovers that the love of an angel

Belies the wish of a demon, The angel sings.

“You were simply dreaming.”

Balanced and alive aware of the quested blessing yet to arrive, Elements of delight in the conquest of spite.

*******

Chapter One Part 2

Intact, harbored in delicate folded safety and asylum he exhales,

Suspires and breaths the byway of hammock wreaths. Paths of glory and firmament above a journey of winter love. In defense, to the harbingers of sorrow and the eyes of darkness, his course caresses the saffron blooms

Of haloed guidance and the ramble of pilgrim rag tag abandon, “Onward North!” he cries to the blanket of warmth and the southern skies.

Sunbeam brilliance lights the way as he meanders through another day. Honeycomb delight and the sweet nectar of god along with the hungry

Abeyance of demons he is destined to trod. Mossy Lilly pad frogs and white

Stag infinity are companion in stride, relevant realms of phantasm

And spectral effulgence no longer hide. In conscious definition of

Suspended belief he finds little refuge or relief.

The shadow of malevolent wrath is found in the egress of swampy defiled,

Beguiled touches of earth. Chasing the brilliant rapture

Of dancing white light he finds the will and the remains of angel aspirations

Embody the fight and a moment of pronounced abolition in the face of inhuman sedition. A wraith of delinquent play practiced in glowering contempt,

“From my anger this human will not be exempt!” Unique, strange and faithful to the wary valor and promise of the quest, in necessary requiem

To a world without sin and the vary transcendent win he knows the sanctity and power of love is without rest. Servants of intended revolt and enticing creed waver in shimmering chagrin, expecting the swale and whim of a hero in disarray and feigned courageous endeavor, “In twines of slavery you will spin!” the wraith exhorts as it begins. Relevant buckwheat realms of visionary egress and the protection of prayers in strong echos of Sheppard

Testimony resound in warm exhalations of misty rain.

“Our father who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name.”

“Stop, cease, halt!” in hurtling screams and anguished alarm a wraith in impossible wrenching clawing confusions of one disarmed. Embraces accepted in veiled mist the spectral demon resigns to the bog of marsh and charcoal sentence, moss and vapory penitence. Animated vigor and the

Balance of benedictions spent on the ethereal gasp of passage lent to the will of god and the courses of sacred quest near the grasslands he shall rest.

A journey to conflict and the peace of grace adorned in the fashion of a myth

Overflowing with truth and summons to say, “I’ll be on my way!”

*******

Tramp roses and ragweed sprigs vehement and tender souled in northward

Gleam, the love of chartered butterfly wings and sighs of sweet smelling

Pine needle sap in the melody of stitched seams. Sunshine bugs and gnarled roots in the manger of dried leaves and fluttering silken cocoons. Straggly, scraggly irresistible beds of wavering grass, the exit of byways in demeanor of swampy morass. Immigrant feasts of dried fruit and capricious fermented wine, the benediction of enveloping airs and dreaming time.

Fastened by transit and the need to rest, horseback lanes and the twilight reins

Of sleeping saints and pleasing confessions of nightmare repose are best kept in the wont of a nighttime rose.

*******

The transmigration of souls in the grasslands of ceremonious fanciful presence and the way of plenty. Supposed in mists of beguiling, rollicking

Memories yet born, the kingdom of unlearned possession and dire obsessions with the veil shorn and truly adorned unto the vesture of a valley in wheat confederate and replete. The shuddering mass of those in northward grass and the fear of leopards in wait, he hears the rumble of thunder detonating with brutal warning. From ambling broad clouds and the phantasm of forces swarming. The flittering evanescent passage of deeply carefree shadows

And showers of daisy petal rain, detours of savage rite in the morning tide and day sojourns tumbling unto pain. Footfalls and ethereal angels in synchronous flight with the ebony cloak of a warm summer night.

He dreams a dream of rainbows and the city of brilliant sinless

Abandon. The nascent growth of a holy seedling tall in girth and concealed berth. The sudden swelling of souls in supplicating sumptuous earth. The wings of a dove and virgin splendid abbeys treasured in misty smoke

And reflections of miracle mazy mirth, the flames of the mantles rare scarlet hearth. Faithful breath and whispering alive the sweet blossom of prophecy will survive. In taunt fur and bristling growls the fangs of the shaman leopard will bawl.

“The grasslands will be the place of your fall, for here we be powerful some of us all!” The leopard grins in toothy glee he knows the man will see. The spectral warning fades to dust, onward north he must.

*******

Chapter One Part Three

Nursling skies of generous promise and resolute bodies

In incomparable conditions. Flourishing, sublime grass and opinions of contrite rendition. The cloudless firmament fulfilling the prophecy of relations in light and the bastion of earth and heaven, venturing an endless night. Burdens of ancient divinity and fathers of substance in precedented

Fulfillment and secret journeys, he accepts the provisions vaunted by the

Carefree sunshine spirit and yearnings, venturing terrains of contemplation

The shaman leopard is close to the source, cat-paw stealth and desires of adoring, hungry flesh, he pronounces the design of a hastened mesh.

Broods of blood and patchwork invitations to secret effect, divergent eruptions of gather stride, the seeker shamming interjects. Our cleaver forefathers fulfillment in clothed graceful greeting, proposed, innate and junctures of escape. Leopard contention and slothful repose accorded and supposed, descried by battle he guards the crossroads to paths of repute, a leopard in grasp and gape clawing from the center of eternity and a grassy maw, surrounded by the twilight horizon and all, in confident belief he sways and chants an armored relief, leopard speed and the sanguine need enduring the harrowed grain and the wrath of a distant rain , the end of tolls

And tenuous flooded play. The man shouts in exhausted prairie fray, “To the lord above the wings of a dove and the ruin of ruptured rifts, send this beast a sleepy cascading gift!”

Rearranged by reason the skies answer his prayer out of the holy season,

Rainstorms of scarlet and amber hue the leopard receives his purposeful

Due. Reserves of radical liquid abandon and prairie wind deepened in defiance and deceitful reliance, the shaman leopard attempts

To rescind the scarlet curtain of interrupted sin.

“Dire-damn and fire-damn, bulwark of dried grass

Deter this shower before your servant fall to cower in the

Mans morass.” Forestalled excluded by the labor of a man

And the angel in god’s nature and drenching embrace,

The leopard roars in his place.

“Edges of mountain and ledges of fountains be your fate, conditions of hell where you’ll be late!” He looks to the distant coasts and the hilly host of land in the lord, he has shorn the will of the leopard with sanctity

And more. The leopard collapses in a baptismal heap, for now he will remain asleep. Hordes of sleeping beasts, the immortal quest lay before the feast of pathways and byways in issued belief, the symbol of comforting relief. A luring religion and notched jagged luminescence in sovereignty and

The expanse of god’s presence, the way of the sun and the lay of the journey

He travels onward, done to seed and the dire need of an angel in pass and the one to the last. The eventide horizon and glowing waves of light, laid bare and in assembled tramp sojourn he sees the testimony in flight, vowing by adoration and supplication to the eternal fight, a beseeching voyage of purity, the vista of a sinless realm and the guidance of a sacred helm.

Seas of grass and skies of glass the secret of footfalls in fertile earth

And the ever present cure of tender mirth, an affected rebirth, wide and long he swaggers in song,

“ Declarations of love

And the lord above

The tendrilled kiss

Of a maiden in bliss

Resounding in symphonies of glee,

This endless swaying sea.”

*******

Refined in rumbles and tumbles of sage rugged seed, his eyes practice the test of an ornamented need, to loyal winds and the fall of speed, unto anointed flesh and the oasis at the evening-tide wine by the gentle currents of palm and tempered rest, the drink, the thirst of a flowing dream in ribbons and worlds yet unseen. Abilities of light and the way of second sight

In pleasures of perception and promising parcel….the liquid sorrow, the rippled pool of rain beckoning tomorrow in sated overflowing celebration
in whispers of possession and wild obsession . Citadels of sanctity

And balanced conceived of corrals in reflective shadow in the refuse of certain hopeless vows, of tended tendrils in craving unabiding thirst the oasis calls unto the wont of the man in the first. The guardian angel provides and by this thought he abides.

To be continued in Part Four………

　

Chapter 1 Part Four

Enchanted reflections of tinctured glass, hollow, brimming

,sleek, inflicted double twofold times three, the slaked surprise

Of patent finished glares in the face of an azure sea. He dips his palm

In visiting whispers of sated seesaw wonder and calm, into the mirror a fashion of curse and sometimes somber speaks aloud,

Tis your mind they seek to cloud.”

He clenches his fist and stirs the puddle remains of appellant fancy

And the devil’s rain. Answered, in succored reason he knows the season

Of revelation and angels whirling in birthright light, probable, profitable he amends the fight. Adventure and advance he pays the pool

A curious glance. Bottomless and dry mindless squandered an unfulfilled

Lie. He greets the meandering purpose of carefree skies

And the eyes of a cautious rescue in mid-evening-tide, the spirits of saints

Abide the relationship and the quest he states aspiring without rest.

“I must continue rounding west.” In secret eternity mountains loom,

Contrite reserves of contented contemplation, careful in prayers and awareness of the moon, drawn close and in eventide azure

Glow the twilight approaches the beholden row.

A sprig, a branch, rooted pine bough berths, he finds

Asylum with gentle mirth.

A bed of pine needle wise, in the midst and alive.

A raving natural ceremony in careful cardinal darkness deep,

Spells of bonded congruity with,

“Now I lay me down to sleep.”

He lapses to return in beguiled nod to the realm of phantasms

And dreaming footfalls trod,

Along paths of trinity and tromping infinity, a colloquy with the

Forgiving day and a fight with the shadow tattered silhouettes

Of ebony night.

Dreams of hills and bristling fur he discovers an alliance with a cur.

A barking wind and a howling enchantment in the bosom of god,

He rescinds the dry abandon of deserts ahead finding the heart of benevolent

Divinity instead.

Cunning, curdled flasks of wine sleeping in ambrosia and jabber

Palaver with the beasts that dine, on the aspirations

And fears of a bridled human venturing near.

The curvaceous, vivacious maiden in goats-head herds in those before

Their screams never heard, tended and shorn as if they had never been born.

She approaches in cloven hoof veil and to his avail

The misty rain of slumber and meadows of infinite pain,

Call and push the warning decree,

“In search of place, person thing, measure our fate before you begin!”

Her shadow touches a rent in the dreaming crystalline caste

Of sleeping fast.

“Agile, aghast a spectral past let our advice be your mast!”

He commands the ballast from deep within, he hazards happenchance

\to avail the city without sin as he measures his dreams and the veil of sleep,

The breath of life in yielded keep. Ghostly cadence and moments of

Bearing in optimal arrival, the miracle of his survival in realms of slumber

And established divided earth, the sanctity of god’s hearth burns with a fervid glow. In the bosom of cradled cause and sleeping pause he will grow.

Paradise and the possibility of accidental disposal, tempted

By the cycle of August snow, he prepares in sleeps

evanescent grasp for the earthen eligible invention of gasps

And groans, laughter and moans. Culminating in a moment seen by the revolution he seems to seek in the twilight quest he finds the glory of burning

Ashen flames and begins to feign the seizure of ancestral magic

As she returns her influence to the tragic beasts of enchanted

Precedence and mead owed malady bare,

The blasphemous sacrilege might not be there.

A portent, a ghostly echo of wrinkled supposition, withholding repetition,

Sanctity scolding the repentant snow and the ice of a crystalline

Faith in the absolution of lathes lamenting lashes of turn

And the embers that burn with elemental fury,

For the present he finds the conscious mind

To amend and defend paths and dirt track, a phantasm, a

Blundering wreck. Today he will ascend the foothills of the sorcerers glen.

******

Chapter 2 Part 1

(August snow and the Downy Jasmine Correspondence)

Careful ascension in deserved skill and untried rigor, he favors destiny with beginnings and bonded vigor. A surreptitious consent

To the generous ardor of arcane apportion and

Gangling preternatural shadows of entourage design, shrewd beggar

Silhouettes lengthened by twine.

The surety of enduring defense and symmetrical wiles

Of paths that beguile

The mountains and the nurtured knowledge of heeded savannahs past,

Ethereal August elements and wonder in steep foothills

At last.

The essence of sweet prospering showers, unspoiled rapture in daisy petal pastures of whispering notion and gallant potions captivated

Undue. Echoes of sworn tireless expectation

True, prevailing and direct the thunder of a divided sect, covered

In crawling vines daises behind, he traverses the makeshift carpet

Of wallowing times.

Weighted and in smidgeons of equal lines he plods into the efflorescent

Minds of ancient brood,

Modestly disparaging his passionate mood.

The cruelty of seizure and confusing dispersal,

The baron conflict of reversal. A tattered robust vesture

And the sanctity of his gesture. In a genuflected plea he finds innate innocence

And the immersion of spirits near the curative absolutes

Of souls that see, the wash of backwards rough and

Enchanted ambiguous chafe contributing enough drooling drizzle

And professed facade in the deterioration of a transmogrified nod,

From the sands of time and the estranged kindred beast

Reckoned, glimpsed in indelible feasts of fury and angry measure,

“To devour your soul, my secret pleasure! The hollow, sallow, chewing, chewing and charmed, snitches, snits and the grit of your bones I will

Farm!” He gasps and rasps as moss and dirt become blood and bone,

He screams to the path ahead,

“North, South, East and West by god with your angels I will

Tread.”

A growl a howl and jaw full of his resolve will provide the means and master. He will survive and in the bosom of guardian guides closely affected by his side he will thrive.

The belief and vaunt of a cur in care the pedigree bristle

Of a swear and an exclamation of devoted array, the accompanying earthen spirit of companion 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!!

Forest Dreams

Ron Koppelberger

Forest Dreams

He finds himself tempted by the fire, almost overwhelmingly. The dark phantasms that whisper his name over and over again, “Almar Downy, Almar Downy!” He lays unsleeping except for the waking dream, the dream of flames and perdition. He stands before a forest of tall iron pines, there is no way through the wood…except for the hacksaw. He approaches the first tree and begins sawing the lower branches off of it. Soon he has a pile of timber, it must burn he thinks. Lighting a match he sets the pile of branches on fire then begins sawing at another of the trees and another, and another until he has giant heaps of timber to burn. Perhaps he will see his way to the other side of the woods.
The day moves forward into the twilight hours of dusk and still Downy finds himself burning and sawing at the trees. The first sliver of moonlight shines through the trees and the bright orange glow of the fires cast a hazy aura into the dense tree line. “Almar Downy, “ they whisper again, “Almar Downy…”
He saws at the branches until the piles overwhelm the terrain, piles of burning brush in great conflagrations. In the end the woods catch the flame and the tall iron pines light the night sky with a burnt umber glow, smokey and hot. Near morning tide the forest has revealed itself as ash and soot, a once proud enclave for those who seek shelter from the edge of the world. The edge of the world, and this is what Almar found on the other side.
Tall buildings crumbling with decay and great mountains of refuse, a small dirty pond filled with plastic containers and tin cans. A reflection of what lay just beyond the forest.
Almar walked over to the small dirty pool of water and looked at his reflection there and he saw tired eyes, dark half moons and dirty smudges of soot across his face. Had he dreamed all of this or was this his fate.
He stood before the tall pine with hacksaw in hand and looked forward, in that moment he realized that it was not the view to the other side that he wanted and instead he built a house from the surrounding trees, a place to hide from the other side and a shelter against the future, for one day he would have to go to that pond and look into it, but for now the forest would remain his shelter and his sanctity, his peace of mind like the soul of a wise owl who knows the way.

The Light in Snake Fuss, Horror Fiction, by Ron Koppelberger, Available at Amazon.com

Chasing The Storm

Ron Koppelberger

Chasing the Storm

In chase of the storm, in chase of the storm he was in that most absorbing moment, staring at the picture on the wall. It was a picture of a squall and a boat rocking in tall sea waves, the frame hung loose from the portrait and the painting was wrinkled in one corner revealing a dark cardboard backing. He took the nail gun from the tool chest he had brought into the living room and stared at it then the picture. He would fix the portrait, then it would be the perfect image, to chase the storm in perfect harmony with the dawn’s light he thought.
Things that foretell the morning-tide dawn and happenchance he thought as he approached the painting with the nail gun. “Pop, Pop, Pop…” went the gun as the tide swelled and the boat continued to rock on the giant sea waves. Riding the storm to islands unbidden he thought as he raised the gun again, “Pop, Pop, Pop,…” the gun went again.
A long crimson smear and the sneer of a madman, “Pop, Pop, Pop,…” went the nail gun into the soft flesh of his business partner. The portrait over his face and the painting just a wrinkled mess, must be perfect he thought as he primed the gun for another round of firing. The picture conformed to his partners face and the nails leaked long rusty red trails across the wall he was propped up against. “Pop, Pop, Pop,…” went the gun and the storm and the coming morning sunrise sang in degrees of insanity as he mumbled a curse and looked at his work.
Still the cardboard showed through along with the crimson gore of a newly fastened picture in hell. His partner had lied and cheated winning millions from the company and he had been left with nothing except this absurd little painting. He had removed the painting form the office wall where his partner worked, he had thought of the storm and the currents of hate he felt for the man when he formulated his plan of action. Riding the storm, how did that song go…”Riders on the storm, Riders on the storm, take a long holiday and let your children play, Riders on the storm!” Jim Morrison had it right. Ride the storm he thought as he Admired his work in the new dawn light of the living room.
The sun glowed a bright pink and orange through the spotless window glass and the lace curtains, almost evanescent in its strength. The light warmed him and gave him a healthy aura of exuberance as he worked through the morning on the portrait. In the end he would be caught and the irony was that the painting had been valuable worth over two million dollars at wholesale. The police had been shocked by the bloody mess, the scene of carnage and anger. When they tried to question him all he said was “In chase of the storm, DON”T YOU SEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, IN CHASE OF THE STOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRRRM!”