Stories Needed

---

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 fine......send it if you have it!

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

AAAA Secret Art available at amazon.com/Ron Koppelberger.....Surreal Dreams One, Two, Three) This is the most amazing artwork I have ever seen!!! Will K. author of Morning Sunshine Spirit.

Amazon.com/Ron Koppelberger

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

amazon.com/Ron Koppelberger

Breathing Fire

Ron Koppel Berger

Breathing Fire

Enlivened by the promise of payment in flames of favor, welcomed by magic’s untold and dreams of ecstasy, he ruled the perch, the straw and the sordid grip upon the secret of fire. Boss Mean approached the eternal source of warfare, of battle and fighting bond with an easy awareness. Pepper and tickets permitted he thought, to hold the balance of forever in spiced embers of time, in enemy eyes and war, scarlet battles for the red flames of perdition.
The tiny flame guttered and ebbed, flowed and elongated in rhythm to the desire of its master. “ By the Gods I’ll have my turn at chance, by the fires of hell itself.” he exclaimed to the flittering shadows and the small blaze of candent existence. A small ember, a spark of fire lit the air above the flame and in its place a tiny ebony moth appeared, flittering, evanescent and erratically circling. Boss reached out and touched the space where the moth revolved. Opening his hand he grabbed the tiny shadow. It was a warm flame in his palm and it beat its wings furiously, tickling his hand. “ Sweet lords of soul shine, by the wayfarer winds of swords and precious battle lines, give me your victorious bond, your will unto the possessor of fire and victory.” he yelled to the ceiling. Smokey disarrays of mist collected near the ceiling as the room filled with smoke, the smoke of ceaseless wars and conquests unbidden. Boss whispered, “ By the Gods of reception and the revolution in tongues of rapture, by the flames of province, by the gods.” His breath disturbed the flame and the tiny brilliance of a hundred year war.
Boss counted the blessings of fire, of war, of remitted peace. Engraved in the lines between youth and ancient rest, lay the face of a consuming treaty, in want of fervid passion, in his countenance the fond flow of anger and desire, desire for the shade of conquest dealt by the fires of what owns majestic histories in won wrath and promised rule. He relished the flame, his lips parched and cracked as the sooty smoke drifted if wave of ambient gray. The tiding of conflict, “ Moth, betray not my need for victory.” he chanted in singsong rhythm to the wavering flame, the small mirage of searing advance.
Later, he would sing to the silhouette of fire and war, in unswerving passions of commanded power; in the end, in all and all he would covet the seed and feed the raven with a single rose as the advent of war sought its possessor and charge.

The Enigma

Ron Koppelberger

The Enigma

Consecrated opium winds and amplified fields of sensual grace danced before his tired eyes. A disconcerting fear ornamented his hunger for the solution to the enigma. A lionized encounter with the shadowy secrets of conviction and oblique convention, the doorway to greater things and bidden by the curious, called and moved him to the center of mystery.
He streaked the rough hewn surface of his beard, he hadn’t shaved in a week. Revolutions of wilderness wash and wild temptation to go south, to the nether realms of the unknown rubbed like sandpaper against the surface of his brain. The pen of believable hopes and suppressed desires deposited their task in his lap and the enigma remained an enigma. Mystery upon mystery and secret upon dark secret, a symbol of life and the signifier of death, the cruciform was an ambiguous challenge.
He dusted off the bits of dried clay that clung to the stone tablet and traced his finger across the secret script. Blind in distinctions of history, the possibilities plagued his every waking moment and shapes in shadow played near the corners of his weary eyes. The evasive passage was a delirium of contradiction. The stone seemed to vibrate as he slowly unraveled the secret. “ A breath of life and never-ending eternity….” it had read.
He looked at his hands for a moment, unlined and youthful as they had been for one hundred and twenty years. It had been that long he realized with a touch of nostalgia. The secret had been revealed to him years ago, the enigma in stone, he thanked the gods.
Sipping at his cold black coffee he considered the bitter sweet sustenance and its wont for a palette, its desire for the dawn and its nascent beginning, the start of a new day.

Captivity

Ron Koppelberger

Captivity

He became aware of the lukewarm furrows of chattering breech in the stone arcade by the advance of shadow and chambered envelope. The sunrise announcement was an essential eye and it fostered the wonder of the arched totem. Cockroaches, incredible in simple matters of disposition, perfectly satisfied with the performance of inherited engagement. They filled the porous walls of the arcade with a lodger secret and a surreptitious sound, a passion, a harmony of lullaby autonomy.
He feigned sleep with slited eyes and precarious constructions of barterd awareness. A penetrating ray of light shone through the empty alliance of lonely shallow sorcery, clean and warm in mountain ascent and amber grain, in saffron and gold, in waves of wheat bloom. The chains lay cold in dispute with the dream and the garden called in destined climates of portent and storm. The cockroaches respecting the will of ebb-tide watched and waited.
The man found evidence of harvested revolution as he discouraged his exile to the arcade. In settled designs of sensation he assumed the contented flow of saffron and wellspring invocation, for reason and the future of the world, the quest for a place unto the respite of captivity and slavery.

Wild Temptation

Wild Temptation

Ron Koppelberger

The reality was like an evanescent passion a state of being made true by the early light of his dream, his fantasy. Chase Kickshaw changed the shade gently, down to up. Intimate circles of light filled his eyes like glowing halos of release.
Case looked out of the dirty glass and bit his lower lip, doubtful he thought. He was a pioneer in the company of love. She would be real, fresh and rare, a rare jewel of his design.
Quiet moments passed and he waited patiently for her to arrive, beauty in all his troth and hers’. He waited with expectant breaths of love. “My sweet.” he whispered The decanter held a bit of honey and mint, he sipped the brew from the wide mouth of the decanter. Heeding the suns’ judgment he looked to the sky, the sun waited for her beauty, what he had prayed for the sun and the sun and the sun, he saw it in glory tempted by his eyes and his desire.
Case turned from the window after the day had gone to pass, the sun remained. He was blind except for the image of the sun. He wondered fore a moment at the blindness then he fell to his knees, knowing the beauty of his new mistress and the wont of his neglect.