Granny Chaos

Ron Koppelberger

Granny Chaos

The curious brew was crossbred with disease and unfurled deserts of violence. Grannies fervor was a resonant rattle of pans and the silver luster of her mixing spoon. She measured out a dollop of depraved smiles and wicked woe, for the intrigue of a ventured challenge, for the gain of an appeasing moon and the misfortune of man.
Granny Chaos mixed her brew with the sordid crypts of insistent gambol, bets bidden in chance and fated turns of cunning. She mixed her cauldron of root and bloom, of anger and bitter embargo as she sang,

“Lawless, scaly

And jeer, the will of my

Cauldron in a year,

A night, a breath,

A pinch of death,

A telling lie,

A groan and a sigh,

The shade of night and by

The pure prophecy of

Sight, I flay the bones of the

Son in tomes and the

Flesh of a dream undone

By the seams,

A dah a dee te la I seethe mists of

Wing fly raven and the reverie of

A haven for all the fuss and

Flame of the stew,

The same”

Granny Chaos chilled her mix with the ice of an evil eye and the guile of a nightmare demon. In this unheard a drop of love, for the sake of mankind.

The Destiny of Weeds

Ron Koppelberger

The Destiny of Weeds

Bothering the ambition of speckled flowers, blossoms in sweet fragrant answer to the spring and desires of an adorned bride, the ragweed sprouted and sang the song of an unwonted bloom, in tiny eyed dander and a poor mans rose, in the spaces between trees. Shrub and open fields of play lay the dreams and destiny of weeds, the innate consciousness of a haven inhabited by the unruly and the sturdy, the weed being tougher and more abundant in its propagating birth, in its unabashed growth.
The destiny of a weed in favored places and desolate untrod ground, to live ugly or perhaps beautifully by the promise of an appreciative glance and a day borne only for weeds and the castaway wonder of what’s understood by few but the love of a peasant admiring the wishes of a dandelion.

The Light in Snake Fuss

Ron Koppelberger

The light in Snake Fuss

She wriggled and questioned the deft snakeskin bond, the ceremony in sated beliefs, the belief that the viper would mind the miracle in course. She charmed and prayed. She committed her half-blood desires to the suspicions of an insatiable thirst, thirst for control over the cool, sleek craft of her performance and measure of passion.
The silence of her wild inborn assumptions weighed in equal parts lust and need. The snake shadowed the silhouette of ash and the woman waved the mists of perfected art with nimble hands, just a touch of blood and the serum of saints, she thought. The snake fell into a listless sleepy subjugation and the woman, in sanguine appetites of affection, danced and gestured in gleeful commune with the souls of those akin to the snake. Her fangs shimmered and the snake submitted its’ wrath to the devotion of a charm.
In assurances of divine resolute will, she sunk her fangs into the pliant flesh of the snake and sipped, just a bit, just the briefest reprieve in the mystical arena, the sure shed skins of existence. In the nature of creatures we wish, she grinned in triumph and slaked admittance. The portion of the snake that laid hold to the nether realms of whim and fancy completed the woman’s wish as she spun in circles of delight. The sweet nectar of the apple, the taste of blessings in snake fuss. In a moment of reflection she questioned the difference between apples and snakes blood, nevertheless the moment was flittering in distant thought as she thought of nothing but the gain of her appetites.

Books Featuring Stories by Ron Koppelberger (Available or soon available through Amazon.com.)Barnes and Nobel, Books a Million.