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

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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.

Stagnant

Stagnant

Ron Koppelberger

The slender stalks of wheat knew the wont of those who cherished natural care. They would concern themselves with the harvest and the garner, by the need of man and woman and child. The saffron ripples moved in harmony with the land and some arrived, yet some sought the other the will of fire and the will of destruction.
The wheat remained in overtures of nourishment for the blessings of what would come, yet still the land would be parched with flame, divided by two both dark and light. But for now the wheat remained and the fire stagnant, yet to be.
The horizon went on for an eternity giving birth to dreams and saffron yet desiring a harvest of sustenance, knowing the spirit of wheat bloom and the heart of men. In the midst of the day the sky sang gentle tunes of warm wind and bright yellow gold, waiting for the souls of those who would be among the blessed and the damned.

Thrice Instant

Thrice Instant

Ron Koppelberger

The desired the pacifying taste of freedom, defined by the need she pampered.

“Implore, enjoin by

Passions apple and the

Still water of my mix,

Give me thrice in an instant

The savor of what

We have and the first kiss of lovers

In high skies.”

She chanted to herself. The brew she stirred said delicious, simply delicious. She sipped the mixture and thrice instant cringed at the taste. “What are you?” she screamed, “What in heaven are you?” she screamed again. The mix bubbled and cooked and devoured the pot, the stove, the kitchen and finally the small cottage.
At last she sighed and the brew rumbled in her gut. “If for a taste thrice instant I’d be devoured as well!” she realized.

Evaporate

Evaporate

Ron Koppelberger

Postponing spring bridles the hardheaded grace he shared with madness was risking the invisible picture. Fine Balm lay separate from the challenge of failure and substance. He had harnessed the frequency, the contract between purchase and evaporation, the wont of essentials and the likeness of a ghost. He had become invisible, evaporating by the second, a foot his eyes and then his legs, his wicked temper gone to sedate comfort.
Fine had showered and abandoned his need, his need to drink the essence of life, the blood of darling socialites and matrons in memento. Vampire fellowship, cosmopolitan endurance and specters in velvet, he had simple evaporation like harlots’ in secret.
Fine stifled a chuckle and danced in reviving awards of opiate sweet. He had gone invisible to the glare of the stars and the space between here and there. Patrons, lawless and wandering barefaced, intrigued his mind and in the end Fine gazed into the mirror seeing nothing. Embracing places of provision he saw the harbinger of suffering vitality and his sacred union with blood. Messy tears and hallowed promise expressed his prosperity as he fussed the hour of deadlock, he would taste the defeat of his failure with a vampires desire.

The Order Of The October Chaff

Ron Koppelberger

The Order of the October Chaff

The magic of quiet attire in twilight seasons and Fall address wore the melancholy of Halloween mists, the shadowy sensation of wistful winds and the throes of an aged bargain; Summer for Winter and Fall breaths of intermission, the moments considered the change from Summer to Autumn orange, tattered leaves blown in a heaping blanket of crumbling decay and cool airs of approaching snows.
The town of Hallowawe lay hidden in secret anonymity near the edge of Acres Woods; The surrounding vistas were well worn in harvest bloom, fields of sorghum and wheat cloaked the landscape between Hallowawe and Acres Woods like a great ghost of undulating saffron sky in the distant Summer sun. The houses were old with character and old fashioned regard. Main street lay in the center of Hallowawe, running East to West through the heart of the town. A Texaco gas station, the Prow Pharmacy and Hanson’s Grocery among others lined the street with easy promises and simple satisfactions.
Race Case, his mother had believed his name was perfect for him. When he was a baby she found herself racing after his curiosity; he was always into something she had told him when he was older, “Race Case, chased ya all over the place. “ she had laughed. He considered his mother for a moment as he stepped into the Hallowawe Feed. He missed his mom. She had died about three years earlier. She hadn’t suffered, she’d died in her sleep quietly and without exclamation. She was the reason he had moved to Hallowawe. His parents had been farmers until his dad passed. The farm had gone to seed literally after his death. Maybe he was meant for this life, the farmers lot he thought as he ordered seed from Barley Huss the owner of Hallowawe Feed.
“ Near Winter now Race,” he said with caution, “You aren’t thinking bout plantin are ya?” he asked.
“Nope, this is for next year Barley; I thought I’d get a jump on it before the others, sides it’s savin me money. Always buy my seed early Mr. Huss.” Barley handed Race a receipt and said,
“Yer one of the good ones.” Race grinned and said,
“See ya in the spring.” as he walked out into the street where his truck was Parked.
The evening twilight was a portent of the Halloween season, children in costumes and candy buckets full of Beer Barrels, Hershey Bars and a scattering of pennies. The sky lay in orange silhouette on the horizon, frayed bleeding spears of crimson as Race drove East toward the farm.
The old truck, A Ford F-150, smelled of oil and exhaust. He turned the radio on as the silhouette of the setting sun shone in his eyes painting him in a soft amber hue. He had turned the radio to an oldies station; a song by The Doors was playing and Jim Morrison was commanding,

“Break on through to the other side……

Break on through to the other side…..”

Race traveled the two lane road into the countryside. A flock of crows sat next to the road pecking at a dead raccoon and squawking, “Caw, caw!” Race rolled the truck window up muffling the sound of the birds as he passed.
Unwinding in a long reassurance of farm country vista, his property lay directly ahead, the curving dirt driveway flowing into the main road. The truck bumped and rattled in aged complaint as he turned off the main road onto the bumpy two-track. Trees, oaks and pines, lined the stretch of driveway for a quarter of a mile ending with a small three bedroom ranch and a two story red barn.
Race parked the truck and glanced at the burnt orange twilight horizon, tomorrow was Halloween. He rarely got any treaters nevertheless tonight was devil’s night and his mailbox was fare game; he didn’t think anyone would venture as far as the house. Last year they had smashed his mailbox beyond repair, he had replaced it with a brick and stone pillar with the box securely cemented inside. The evening sky was a bloody smear and drifting from distant points of life came the Oder of wood smoke, tinctured crisp Fall air in seasons sure.
Race got out of the truck and listened; he had seen the silhouette, the shape of something fast and tall reflected in the glimmer of frayed indigo and saffron light, near the corner of the house, the far side near the Azalea bushes. There were flittering shadows and an echoing whisper, a soft hush of sound like a swarm of flies, big bluebottle, buzzing in mass.
The front of the ranch was prefaced by a big bay window, the quiet yellow glow of interior lights shone through the part in the heavy drapes. Warm and safe he thought nervously. The yeowl of a cat in heat tore the silence in pointed wild wont. The buzzing continued a bit louder now and the shadows near the tree line called secret mysteries of fear. Maybe he should go back into town and get the Hallowawe police, maybe he should get the hell back in the truck and drive as fast as he could toward Hallowawe he thought as the shadows multiplied and spread out into the wood line near the edge of the house.
Race swallowed his fear and the trepidation that held him in place as he moved to the front door of the house. The stone steps were covered in a slick mess of crimson, blood, thick, viscous and fresh. Race inhaled in shaky contemplations of death; devils night, was it animal blood, he didn’t think so.
The shadows near the corner of the house shifted and swayed and Race made a conscious effort to ignore the buzzing sound and the whimpers he heard, the howling groans of some great goblin phantasm, the demon spirit of Halloween, in all souls confection, Candy and blood. Blood and dandelion weed, syrupy cotton tufts and black droplets of jagged leafy growth led to the side yard, he had used weed killer on the ragged grass but he was plagued with dandelion weed. The scattered weed sang copper near the edge of the walk, perfumed in dark stain and accented by the buzz of a million flies.
Race glance at the gray and ebony shadows at the corner of the ranch, whimpering he definitely heard a whimpering sound. What was the secret hidden behind the corner? Were they fearful conveyances of pain, injury, was someone hurt, perhaps a child, a babe in distress. He walked slowly to the corner of the house. The blood was smeared in scarlet palm prints on the wooden lattice trim. “ Here goes.” he said in a whisper to himself. Looking around the edge of the house he took several steps back.
The flies, there was a shape swarmed in flies. A human sized mound completely enveloped by flies, a whirling shifting mass of winged green and blue bottle flies. The sound was deafening. The whimpering was coming from beneath the thick blanket of flies. He had to do something, but the flies, he thought cringing . He had to help.
Race touched the whimpering figure and a great cloud of inky black flew up like an explosion, buzzing madly. It was a woman, he could see she had long ravens black hair and full pouting lips. Her eyes glowed a bright neon green and they implored him, pleaded with him to help. She was dressed in a burlap dress, an old grain bag; it was covered in blood from the neckline to the bottom hem.
She moved her legs and Race noticed they were covered in welts, scratches and angry purple bruises. She grabbed his arm as he stood there in silent waves of shock. The flies were crawling into his eyes and mouth tickling his lips wildly. She pulled herself up with his hesitant help. “What the hell Happened?” he said through the buzzing swarm.
“Help me.” she moaned in response, “The order, the order are coming. We’ll have to get away, they’ll kill us!” she said in a halting stutter of what was obvious terror.
“ Come on, we’ll go inside, “ he offered as he held her up. “I don’t know who’s after you, but I have guns in the house. We’ll be safe there.” She took a few shake steps and whispered,
‘Guns……..guns won’t stop the order, they’ll kill us both! ” she groaned as
they moved to the front door.
Visions in ancient drama, the caste of flies followed to impossible conclusions of darkness. Race edged the front door open after finding the lock, with his help she stumbled through the door. Once they were both inside, Race pulled the screen door shut with a rattling metallic bang, the glass in the top portion of the screen door crawled with the blue flies. A few lingering flies found the freedom of the house but the majority had been held at bay outside.
She was beautiful, her features, subtle, soft , primal in flushed checks and glistening eyes of fire. He shut the interior door blocking out the cloud on the screen glass. She crumpled to the floor in a heap. A few errant flies buzzed around her face as she sighed in relief.
Race listened as she confessed the better part of her nightmare, her soul bared for him to see in confused gushes of fear and tremulous vision. He looked more closely at her thinking the blood on the burlap bag came from some horrible injury, she’d need a hospital he thought but after a quick survey he realized the blood wasn’t hers.
“The Order of the October Chaff, they’ll find us here! We’re not safe! They’ll kill us with magic’s and the road to hell!” she said in halting unstrung fear. He listened to her labored breath , the sound of her terrified exhalations. The air was thick with the coppery odor of blood and something else, the scent of fresh cut flowers, lilacs and blood red roses. She looked at him and whispered, “Please help!”
The sound of an echoing howl, a thirsty exclamation, by the edge of the wood line, surrounded the house, flittered through the walls in a dull muffled screech. She began to cry, tears welling up in the corners of her almond shaped eyes, trailing to the hollow of her checks and spattering against her bruised legs. He couldn’t help staring at her, she was the pinnacle of beauty, dark and enchanting the wants of a passionate embrace. He touched her check, brushing away the tear there; it was a damp silken droplet and before he could think he put the tip of his finger to his lips. The tear was warm, salty and tinged with the desire of a careless abandon.
The howling and the screeches continued outside, closer and more insistent.
“We’ll have to leave now! They’re near now…..” she implored Race. He stood there staring down at her in quiet reverie , sated by her tears; magic illusions of Eden he thought. “Sweet, sweet siren, yer the perfect picture of love , the sure sense honey.” She stood up on shaky legs. Grabbing his hand she said,
“We have to go!” the howling continued and the sound of high pitched screaming filled the air, the currents of October chill, the Halloween season and realms of the unbidden, by degrees and dire darkness.
Race pulled the heavy drapes away from the front window and peeked out. The woman screamed behind him and he staggered back a few steps. There was a face in the window coated in thick sheets of insect life, cockroaches, crawling and filling and spilling from his mouth. In the midst were a pair of scarlet rimmed eyes, bulging and wild.
There were four or five of them standing in a semicircle in the center of the front yard. The figure in the center was covered by thick mats of gray fur and two wolves stood guard beside him. The figure to his left was covered in waning tides of butterflies, monarchs and yellow buttercups, flittering, floating in clouds around her; he assumed the figure was female. The shape to the wolf’s right was horned like a twelve point buck and covered by thick ropey braids of hair, knotted in dreadlocks like a rastapharian. The last was winged like a raven, dark shadowy and screeching, the silhouette of a thunderhead in dark skies, momentarily illuminated to reveal thousands of ebony colored birds, ravens, like a tornado, circling in loud bands of sound, pulsing and haunting.
“The Order of the October Chaff. They’ll take me!” she screamed. The front window shattered and glass flew inward as a million flies filled the room and swallowed up the woman. She was a shapeless mound of black; shifting in commune with each other the flies buzzed and swarmed. Phantomlike she moved to the front door, step by step, the flies compelling her. Race grabbed at her in an attempt to restrain her. His hand came away in cloying gobs of flies. They were chocking him, filling his lungs, his mouth; he screamed and bit down, spitting as he crunched mouthfuls of the insects between his teeth.
The woman shifted through the glass door, opening it and stepping outside. Race collapsed in a heap of flies, smothering him with their want, their need, he fell unconscious.
Later that evening he awoke to the sound of children laughing and squeaking glass. He stood and looked out the screen door. He saw three or four small shapes running up the drive. Devil’s night, he remembered. They had waxed what was left of his front windows. He stepped outside as he began to recall the nightmare. The front of the house, it was painted in scarlet, in blood across the front of the house.

THE ORDER OF THE OCTOBER CHAFF

Race paused, thinking. The scent of lilac perfume was in the air. A moth flew close to the front porch light, fluttering, a half dozen or so, maybe more. One of them landed on him, then two, then more. He heard a howl in the distance. The moths came by the thousands and Race knew the order of the October chaff wasn’t complete yet.

Neon Electric

Ron Koppelberger

Neon Electric

Posey Wing lay beneath the window sill staring through the blinds; there were a few missing louvers and he could just make out the neon signs exclamation.

“HOT….L”

Vacancy the sign flashed. The red neon gave Posey a candent red eyed appearance, pupils dilate and undialate, scarlet like the eyes of a dog in a photograph.
He dozed in a nightmare restlessness, sleep without rest. The sound of his sighs, his exhalations in smoke scented perfumes and moldy carpeting, in cockroach heaven, tinctured the electric buzz of the neon sign with a breath of life; he was lonesome in beggar realms of dirt, stone and humid tears of sweat.
The air conditioning was just beneath the far side of the sill, the foot of the bed, close to the door. The far corner of the blinds bled dirty droplets of dust down onto the cold metal of the conditioner in spattered dew drops.
Clairvoyant, he was clairvoyant. He knew someone had died in the room, he could see the man laying in the floor near the bathroom. He wasn’t there he knew that, nevertheless he still saw and in seeing he suffered the misery of the clairvoyant.
Blood, puddles of blood , the green nap of the carpeting was stained a dark brown, almost black. They hadn’t bothered to replace the carpeting. The man lay in a nimbus of mist, scarlet, frozen in time; hanging above his head was a fine spray of blood, still, glistening, suspended in an instant.
Posey turned from the ugly taboo and grabbed the pack of smokes he had placed on the edge of the window sill. Voodoo amusements he thought as he lit the cigarette, voodoo amusements my man. He inhaled deeply savoring the taste . He needed a coffee, black and strong. Posey stood and grabbed for the ancient coffee cup. There were bits of green and blue mold floating on the surface of the half empty cup. “Yuuuuuucccckkkk!” he groaned.
Crossing the room, past the mans body, the blood and the sightless eyes, he found the dark silhouette of the radio; he turned the knob and the radio blared to life. There were three or four stations playing simultaneously, a Mexican man talking in wavery exclamations , drifting in and out , wavering in ripples of sound. Beneath the Spanish broadcast a Pink Floyd song , he couldn’t remember the name of it; there was the faint sound of a minister in a preachy voice, “Re……ent, ……….pent sinners!” he exclaimed over the Floyd song and the Spanish dialogue. He listened for a moment and decided the radio was haunted.
As he was about to turn it off, he paused; from the bottom of a long dark hole, a tube, gravely, liquid, dark and in ethereal command , a voice sounding like bubbles and static, deep. The voice reminded Posey of an old episode of The Outer Limits, an alien voice, definitely not human. He clicked the radio off and an image clouded his mind for a moment, babies crying in a long tiled room, a woman in the throes of passion, and the alien.
The alien, the monster was a black silhouette in shadow, gurgling, flemy and in vigilant dimensions of madness. The shadow tilted at a crazy oblique angle near the corner of the room. Posey jumped as the radio blared back to life. “……iners repent, ye sinners!” he heard in infinite echoing static. Posey trembled uncontrollably for an instant as the monster melded into the corner of the wall. Posey paused for a breath and a hazy moment of contemplation.
There was a tiny sink and mirror on the opposite side of the room. “Coffee.” he whispered to himself as he imagined the bitter taste of caffeine. As he crossed the room he grabbed the cup from the bedside stand: the logo on the side of the mug read,

“Wild Coyote Inn.”

With a picture of an amber colored coyote on the front. He dumped the ancient brew into the drain. Bits of fury green mold clung to the basin. Posey ran the hot water and using his hand he pushed the chunks of mold into the swirling rush of water. Taking a bar of soap wrapped in paper, he washed the mug and mixed a cup of coffee with the white labeled generic brand he had bought earlier that day.
As he drank the coffee became viscous, it tasted like blood, the lifeblood of a dream, a nightmare in pass. Posey wiped his mouth on the starched white cotton of one of the motel hand cloths, it smelled of bleach. The towel came away stained scarlet in smears of blood.
He exhaled loudly as he clicked the radio back off, dumping the mugs contents into the sink. “Just coffee.” he said aloud as he looked at the brown liquid staining the sink.
Posey grabbed a t-shirt from his battered suitcase and slipped it over his head. He found his tennis shoes and slipped them onto his sock less feet. His mother had told him, “Always wear socks with your shoes Posey, otherwise your feet will stink!” He felt a brief moment of guilt as he saw his mothers look of admonishment peering through a veil of years.
Posey walked out onto the front stoop closing the door to the room behind him. The sidewalk was washed in the flickering neon light of the hotel sign. A pile of dead flies lay scattered across the sidewalk beneath the sign.
Posey crossed the street and began walking south on Mawson Lane. As he approached the corner of Mawson and Rhy he spotted the prostitute on the corner. She walked toward him as he approached. A cool sashay, lipstick and curly blonde hair. She wore a lace halter done in white, sweet songs done in dry deserts he thought. She massaged her hip with long rose colored fingernails. The scarlet colored miniskirt inched up just far enough for him to catch a glimpse of her panties.
“ Watchya doin honey?” she said. Posey paused in mid stride, she was covered in blood and long gashes, knife wounds covered her arms and throat. Several of her fingers were missing as if she had tried to fight off an attacker. She seemed oblivious.
He had discovered his Psychic self when he was eight years old, or rather it had discovered him.
He had been by himself at Aziza Memoriam park; there were swings and slides and spinning wheels for the children. The barbecue pit was near the center of a group of picnic tables and the public restrooms. He had been on the spinner by himself; he pushed ran and jumped on the spinning wheel. Around and around, the wind, tall pines and picnic area became a blur. Jumping back off, his head swam for a moment and he staggered to the picnic tables. The smell of burning charcoal and hamburger grease filled his nostrils. He felt sick as the park wavered and tilted in front of him.
He saw three or four men around the barbecue pit, only thing wuz that they were ghosts he thought, he could see right through them. He was frozen in place as the scene unfolded before his eyes.
The men were laughing and yelling, “Burn baby burn!!” one of the men shouted in a whooping rage.
“Got dat beech but good man!” a scraggly man in a green t-shirt exclaimed.
“That’ll teach that miserable witch!” the third man said to the green shirt.
He watched as a plume of smoke drifted in thick oily streams from the cement pit. The cloying odor of charred meat hung in the air and Posey gagged back the contents of his stomach. He went over and looked in to the cement and mortar barbecue pit, Ash, gray ash and ghosts in blood and bones, “Blood and Bones.” he whispered aloud as the prostitute waved him closer. High-down in his memories, he took a few steps closer to the bleeding woman. Her mouth moved but the words didn’t match, a mans deep tenor. “Beware the wrath of the jade willows breath and the blood of the myrter!” She said as she looked at the bleeding nubs of her missing fingers.
Posey took in a deep breath, clean and tinged by the scent of lilacs, perfumed incense. The prostitute turned away from Posey for a moment and said, “ I love the scents of summer honey. Can you smell that, it reminds me of my grandmothers perfume. She always wore it before she went to the store or bingo. Grandpa said she was a rare beauty and she baffled the sky. Do I baffle the sky Posey? Do I make your heart race like a wild Raven Posey?” she asked in an easy rhythm of seductive coquette. “Do I baffle the sky Posey?” Posey stared at her as she tried to apply her lipstick. “Cherry blossom hun.” It was blood red and in commune with her bleeding face. She kept dropping the damn lipstick, her damaged hands weren’t working. “Gosh darn it Posey, I can’t get this right.” Posey thought for a moment and offered,
“You definitely baffle the sky miss.” She grinned in open eyed glee as she put her lipstick away.
“Thanks honey…..hey…..” she gave him a sly smile, “I might be sweet on you Posey, how about a freebee babe?” Posey shook his head in horror at the thought and said, “ No thanks…..ahhhhhhaaaaa?” he questioned.
“ You can call me Daisy.” she offered in return.
“No thanks Daisy.” he said apologetically.
“Suit yourself hon.” she said as she crossed the street in directions of unknown haunt.
Posey looked at the spot on the corner where Daisy had been. The was a spreading puddle of scarlet and several bloody footprints pointing further down the street. Only thing was the footprints weren’t hers, they were large, a mans footprints, tennis shoe tracks, clearly heading toward the Neon Electric.
The city offered a few rarities, good bear, a good burger, museums for the eclectic minded, he hated modern art, and the Neon Electric.
Posey lit a cigarette and too a breath of smokey relief as he followed the bloody shoe tracks. He ended up standing near the bright neon glare of the Neon Electric. The footprints led inside. He looked at the ticket booth for a moment then the sign. Two stories high the sign flashed green and indigo light, spilling out onto the concrete in black light illumination, the bloody tracks glowed in the signs wash.

“NEON ELECTRIC.”

It sang in a staticy hum.
The ticket booth to the black light museum was empty and the front entrance beckoned him with its unbidden secret. Posey went inside.
His eyes took a moment to adjust to the black lighting. The first thing he saw was the jade willow, six foot tall it took up an entire corner of the front room. The jade sparkled in the shadow light like a great ghost. He could hear the wind blowing through its jeweled branches. Near the base of the willow lay the body of the ticket taker, crumpled in the final throes of death.
The hall leading to the back of the museum was lined with shelves and colored neon lights. A giant mural of a seductive ornate design covered the opposite side of the hall. The mural showed a woman kissing a man in a fireman’s uniform, she wore nothing and her eyes seemed to loll with the black lighting in the hall. The shelves were lined with glowing curios, glitter covered, painted bright and obvious.
Posey moved into the hall. There were smears of blood covering the floor and tennis shoe tracks. Posey had a brief flash, a vision overwhelm his senses with the sight and smells of a nightmare drama.
The end of the hall seemed to waver in the dark lighting, swaying at a crazy angle, and the smell of blood fresh, coppery. Posey tried to fix a glance at the shadow he saw crouching there, or was it laying there, he couldn’t tell, his psychic senses were in full swing. Dressed in black he saw a skull faced reaper with a blood spattered scythe. Black and white bone, sinew rending unto the blade. The figure screamed, “ Drink the wine! Drink the wine Posey!” Posey shook for a moment as if jolted then he paused the red neon glowing in his wide eyes. He looked at the pathetic creature crouched beneath a display of stained glass crucifixes. “ Drink the wine!” the man whispered in a throaty exclamation.
Posey stared at the shadowy shape of the killer, he was still, quiet in solstice with the screaming ghost, “ Drink the wine!” The mans head had nearly been blown in half and a sodden mess of brains lay next to his motionless figure. Blood, great puddles of congealed crimson liquid pooled beneath his body. He had just missed the action. The killers escape, his way out by self destruction.
The man whispered, “ Drink the wine Posey!” he held out a bottle of grape MD 20/20 toward Posey, “ Have a sip my man, have a sip!”
Posey turned and walked out of the Neon Electric to the waiting street with its freaks, ghosts, burnouts, hookers and dirty dreams of poverty. He made his way back to the motel and bolted the door behind him.
“HOT….L” the sign flashed as Posey layed down in a haunted portion of respite.

Threadbare Tyranny

Ron Koppelberger

Threadbare Tyranny

Chimes and withering roses, warm gusts of perfume and tides of killjoy resolve filled the spaces and clutter that Bacon The Clown occupied. “They’re vermin, dirty lousy vermin!” he whispered to the green witch smiling back at him from the vanity mirror. “Lousy rotten bloodsuckers and jerks, all of em rotting jerks!” he said as his body quivered with anticipation for the performance.
The year had gone as well as it would have had he been in hell, in loathsome cotton candy misery, in popcorn shame and costumed arrays of clown hatred. Tempests and twilight fires he thought as he added a few final touches to the grease paint on his face. I’m threadbare with all of this crap he thought, threadbare and burned to the bone with tiny smiling faces and overgrown children looking for the hoot, the holler, the guffaw. His woe had been the motivating factor in his aggression and he simply screamed with joy when the little ones cried out in fear. He grimaced and the paint crinkled with his maniacal grin. “I’ll show them the tyranny of the threadbare, the tyranny of the wonted clown, in all his glory and with just a touch of glee!” he said aloud as he made his way to the dressing-room door. His black gloved hands slid against the door brass and the knob remained steadfast, outside he could hear laughter, mocking him, shaming him with it’s accusation. “Let me out!” he screamed at the door, “Let me out!” The laughter continued and he reared back and slammed his fist into the door. “Let me the hell out!” he screamed in rage. The laughter continued and he grabbed a chair and slammed it against the door until it splintered. “I’ll show you the tyranny of the threadbare, I’ll show you!” he screamed. He grabbed the knob again and jerked hard, the door wiggled in it’s frame for a moment and the trim came loose falling to the spotted dirty floor.
Stepping back he ran toward the door with his shoulder. The door slammed inward before he made contact with it and the carnival barker stepped through the door. The momentum of both men knocked them to the ground and the barker died on the spot after hitting his head hard against the floor. Bacon kneeled over the barker and shivered with the cool air that floated across the circus common. Spit rolled from between his lips and he coughed a few times as he tried to rouse the barker.
Two children screamed and pointed at the clown, “He’s the one, he’s crazy, he killed that man!” Bacon raised his head and shook, “No…it was an accident, I was locked in and it was an accident!” A crowd gathered and the clown tried to regain his feet. A large bearded woman stomped on his foot and he fell back to the ground. “He killed Al. He killed Al the Carney Leroy!” Leroy looked at the clown and slammed his fist into his face. Leroy’s hand came away with a smear of paint and blood. Bacon fell to the ground and moaned, “The door was locked…I couldn’t get out, it was an accident I swear it!”
There were dozens of people around the clown now and they all took turns punching and kicking him. “STTTTTOOOOOPPPPPPP…it was an accident, an accident!” he said through broken and bleeding lips. When they were finished they tossed his body into one of the large green trash dumpsters along with his belongings.
He awoke near midnight. There was dried blood covering his face and he had two black eyes that were swollen and puffy. His legs ached from the bruising and his side hurt like crazy. “Arrrrrggggghhhh!” he said as he spit out a gob of blood. Gray clouds tinged the midnight sky and he thought of moving west as he climbed out of the dumpster. “Gotta get goin!” he said to himself and the dirty green dumpster. He staggered to the main tent as he looked for the generator that powered everything in the circus. There it was…ten gallon cans of diesel fuel lined the yard next to the generator. Bacon reached into his baggy trousers and pulled out a lighter. “I’ll teach those no good jerks!” He dumped over one of the canisters and watched it flow under the main tent. Reaching into his pocket again he pulled out a scrap of paper and lit it. Tossing the burning paper into the diesel he limped-ran to the edge of the encampment and the road leading west away from the circus. The big tent caught fire and by the time he got a mile away there were several explosions.
“Gotta go west.” he said to himself as he made his way into the night a threadbare tyranny on his mind.

Little Tyke

Ron Koppelberger

Little Tyke

“How’s my little tyke?” the tall farmer said to the tiny clown staring up at him. “Kiss my butt!” the clown replied with a sneer and a quick wave of his hands. “I can see that this little devil needs some learnin Margie.” the farmer said to his lanky wife. The tiny clown coughed and lit a cigar, puffing on the fat brown smoke he said, “ What comes with tall water farmer Zeek?”
“Well little man I’m sure I don’t know, what comes with tall water?” the farmer replied.
“Boogers and crap, that’s what farmer Zeek!” he yelled up at his questioning face. The small clown stepped closer and stomped on the farmers foot. The blue-jeaned man stood back and whooped as pain shot through his leg and up into his stomach. “Ye eeeeeeeeeeaaaaaahhhhhaaaaaaa!” he hollered. The clown laughed and pinched Margret on the rump.
“Yer a sweet lookin thang lady!” he said as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. Margeret grabbed her howling husband by the hand and stormed off toward the main tent. The clown chuckled and looked at the bottom of his tiny shoes. There were razor barbs runing the length of his tiny black loafers and a spring loaded nail near the tips of both shoes. “That’ll teach those no good sons a guns!” The tiny clown guffawed again and scratched his head, maybe he had been a litle bit rash with the bean poles he thought. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a pocket mirror and smoothed back his colored hair. A cherubic face stared back at him, stripes of grease paint ran beneath his eyes similar to a football player and his lips were bright red. “Perfect for the show.” he whispered to the mirror.

The Morning Dew

Ron Koppelberger

The Morning Dew

Mottled sunshine flittered against his pale skin as he roamed the garden path. The dew shone brightly on the Lilacs and Roses but mostly he noted the dew on the stray Dandelion that had grown up in the middle of the Daisy bushes. It was there that he found solace, a type of peace likened to a long sleep and a good meal. She had handed him a cut Dandelion before she left. Her presence or rather her lack thereof was little evidence of her visit nevertheless the Dandelion was a reminder.
He had been sitting on the front porch of his Spanish style ranch, the alcove was arched and provided a good view of the gardens and the well kept lawn. The whiskey he was sipping at tasted warm and welcome, he had been thinking of his predicament. The fact that Wolf was fifty-seven and alone, without consort or love bothered him but not quite enough to do anything about it, besides no one would replace Grace his wife. She had died of bone cancer and the process had been long and drawn out; he hadn’t been surprised by Grace’s death just exhausted and sad. She had been gone a good ten years or rather mediocre ten years. He had spent most of that time alone except for Rain, she lived across the copse in Courage Glenn. He had gone out with her several times. She was attractive and a bit younger than wolf and willing to start a relationship with him if he wanted it, he just didn’t know. He had been thinking about Rain when he heard the moan. It was a sorrowful sound, like a female in pain. He stood from the polished wooden swing and called out, “Is there anyone there, are you ok?” Jasmine and dreams of carefree seasons filled his mind strangely for a moment. “Is there anyone there?” he repeated into the dark of the garden. He heard the moan again and took a few steps forward toward the path. A promised destiny he thought, what if I go into that garden and find her hurt, bleeding maybe even dieing? A journey begins by the way of thrush and thrash he thought as he stepped out into the yard.
He stepped past a marker and a measure of the past, the red rose bush his wife had loved so much, he paused for a moment and caressed one of the blossoms, folded and compact in the darkness. Farther down the path he could see the faint glow of something, it looked like the outline of a woman. He moved forward down the path toward the light when he heard the moan again. It was loud and filled with grief. He paused again and looked into the dark toward the glowing figure, was it a ghost, he thought of Grace for a moment when she spoke. “Come to me Wolf, Come to me!” she coaxed. He stood there for a moment wondering and praying both. What if this is madness, he had been alone a long time, maybe he was losing his mind. She called again, “Come to me my love, come to me Wolf!” she insisted. The voice was not his wife’s, she had died of bone cancer ten years ago and he knew it could not be her, but then who was this woman calling him into the dark, a ghost? She moaned again and it sounded more like a sob. “Come to me!” she pleaded.
“Who are you, what do you want with me?” he said with just a bit of fear.
“I’m dead, I’m dead, you must help me Wolf, you have to!” she moaned in a quiet whisper, closer now and visible to Wolf. She was beautiful, close to his age and…she was glowing in a strange amber light. He stepped closer to her and she reached her hand forward to touch his. A tiny spark of electricity jumped between their hands and Wolf felt a low vibrating intensity overwhelm him. “You must help me Wolf!” she said directly to him. He was having a hard time believing his eyes, she was trailing a halo of fire from behind, was it the damn whiskey, he didn’t feel drunk. “I’m dead Wolf, and I don’t know what to do!” she cried.
Wolf said, “You look alive as me honey.” he said as he attempted to console her.
There was a rattling in the bushes and she grabbed his hand, the flow of energy felt good and he smiled oblivious to her fear. “We must leave, it’ll find us here!” she insisted. The bushes to the side of the path shook in the distance and there was a cracking sound as if tree limbs were breaking. “We must leave!” she pleaded again. Just then there was a high pitched scream from the far end of the garden and the sound of water, like a river rushing furiously. She pulled him toward the house nearly dragging him. He watched as a trail of fire blossomed out behind her as she moved. The sweet syrup of Jasmine incense and wild honey assailed his senses for a moment as they moved onto the front porch. “That’s a soul that abides by the darkness of an indigo night, wonting in search of spirits, and the eyes Wolf, the eyes are terrible!” she informed him. “We must abide the fear with passion, passion for what was and what will be. We must become one with the moment!” she pointed into the cabin with a ghostly trail of sparks.
They locked the door behind them the shadows of the cabin dark and warm. She stood like a glowing fiery specter before him, her arm outstretched and inviting. The terror outside the cabin forgotten, left behind the instant she moved into the cabin. They would be one with the night and life and forever, had he found his wife, he wasn’t sure. He thought for a moment and smiled, he didn’t care she was his now and he was hers. The night wore on and he sipped at the whiskey glass contemplating his new love. She would see him through ghost or not, she would see him through. The clock on the wall read 2:45 A.M. and the refrigerator ticked coolly in the kitchen as the night wore on.

Amy Huffman

Friendly? Flutter

The surf was a deafening as the silent touch
of hand against arm.  A subtle pull:
of wave and warmth and almost

swept away.  

My toes and thoughts tangled.  Tumbled.
Caught.  The direct flash
of the wind-brushed sand broke the spell.
Running backwards through mist and memories
I stumbled only twice.  Reconfiguring
the argument to a plea and back again.

I found the music.  Disturbingly distracting.
And drawing me into a blurred focus.  Land-
locked arms.  Smiling.  Drumming.  Twirling.
Rhythm forgoes responsibility.  And consequences
fall to the left of remembrance.

Three beats against the wind, and it’s easy.
When you are dancing with an angel,
you can easily forget ,to care,
that the devil wants ,you,
to go for a swim.

Purity's Vengeance

Little boys should never play

with matches inside a mind

field(ed) by timers and dice.

Duck! (Or was it dick?)  I know,

luck is not the lady you had hoped for.

Or the tramp you ran out the back.

Rather, she is a black-fisted bitch

with a paw for each of your eyes.

Scratch them out yourself.

Her nails are still wet. 

From leeching your brother's sin. 

Mistaken.

You are an only child?

Well, only a child would latch

on to such irrelevant distinctions

in the face of such sanctimonious slaughter.

Get your point out of my face!

Before I show how hollow your pants really are.

Ah ha!  Now the true trick takes

shape.  Shadow and light

help my sight(ing).  Of your

most embellished guilts.  I'll take

two.  They are smaller than both of us

hoped.  (Let them go.)  You would

only choke on their seams.

Aligned.  Alight.

I count electric sheep

all night.  Their Frankenwool flames

dripping from fictitious hillsides.  I know

I lit the torches myself.  They Bah

Bah Bah me.  Bad!  But I am not

the scientist who infested them with this

dream life.  My nightmare

continues, a waking

                                 haunt, devoid of blinking.

At least such strobing would be soothing. 

Instead I shoot

thimbles at the ceiling, marking

their physical march across my psychic waves.

Julie Kovacs

Garden of Stained Glass

That gray cloudy sky turned to pink

as you stared past the stained glass frame

of your childhood on weekends.

Only the fruit on the orange tree remained

jasmine replaced the dingy sneaker smell

after each romp through the woods.

But now nothing is left to worry over

not even the sour milk

that was left sitting on the counter

the cat did not even bother to drink.

Instead of your arms being covered in dirt

they now wore bands of gold

gold for today

gold for tomorrow

gold for eternity

eternity passed into tomorrow and today.

..............................................

One Way Ticket to Paradise

Sitting in the car late that steamy summer night

a mysterious light shone up ahead

dirt road wide enough for one car suddenly appeared

a parting of the trees by a hoot owl named Moses

I sat up in the passenger seat brushing off empty

hot dog and French fry containers

half empty soda cups

were far from being the end of our nightly picnic

when all of a sudden that lone single light

split into two then three, showing colors of a traffic signal.

You seemed amazed as if we stepped into a magical

fairy land where only the wolves came out at night

to howl and people slept soundly with the television set left on.

Not quite in a trance you turned on the ignition and started driving,

following the lights that danced farther down the path right in front of us.

Fireflies they were as I peered close to the windshield

the moonlight guided us into a realm never before seen by

anyone on this side of the earth's veil.

Winding up through hills the car climbed slowly

with the occasional tree root being felt under the tire

once at the top then we slowly went downhill past

the shadows of oaks and maples that danced in the wind

the only comfort I felt from your hand reaching over to

touch my left shoulder, unsure of where we would be taken

and if we would return home safely.

At the bottom of the trail I could see the rising sun in the rear view mirror

blood red against the still dark night

no bats coming to fly towards us nor fear of the unknown

just a blanket of warmth from the honeysuckle air

entering through the open car windows

and the vision of cherry blossom, jacaranda, and floss silk trees

deck out the emerald green landscape

with the sun smiling down

a lake of sparkling diamonds on the surface

nobody else present except seabirds to welcome us home.

..........................

Welcome, Death

Empty faces float around the deserted carnival

seeking a special one of their own kind

a young sixteen year-old girl

who had no desire to die under the maple tree

as the birds sang in the sunlight.

Ticker tape ribbons swirled

at her last birthday celebration

cascading over the forgotten graveyard

where only one headstone

chipped and broken lay

the winged skull upon it

eyeless and restlessly wandering

for its doe-like mistress

seeking a cool drink of life

from a pebble-bottomed brook

only to be startled

gaze upward at

a white face of death.

 

Julie Kovacs lives in Venice, Florida. Her poetry has been published in Children Churches and Daddies, Because We Write, Illogical Muse, Poems Niederngasse, Aquapolis, The Blotter, Danse Macabre, Silver Blade, The Camel Saloon, Falling Star, Blue and Yellow Dog, Veil, Moria, Nether, and Cherry Bleeds. She is the author of two poetry books: Silver Moonbeams, and The Emerald Grail. Her website is at http://thebiographicalpoet.blogspot.com/

New Horror Fiction 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

Susan Dale

 

Provencal France

by Susan Dale

 

In mornings of green liquid lights

Sultan snails inch

morning pilgrimages

To barrel bushes of astringent lavender

Straight up in purple spikes

 

In the nave of afternoon angelus

The sun falls in golden showers

On Cezanne’s pale mountain

On pale stucco villas

On red tile roofs

All basking in drowsy torpors

 

Cathedrals and chateaus

Carousals spinning with silent horses

And Van Gogh’s silver filigree nights

Carrying absinthe stars

and vagabond moons

 

Lunar clouds in mistral skies

Falling into jeweled waters

Caressing,

curveting around

A Mediterranean’s rocky shores

The Ghoul Saloon Is 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

Susan Dale

September 6, 06
              Susan Dale

     The darkness of rain
   A slow dying of bounty
  Leading to a somnolent space
    Where dreams are carried off
   By the merchants of Mohammed
         Autumn comes
     with wounded stars
     and lean-wolf moon

October, 07
  by Susan Dale

October in a melancholy cape of rain
     Drifts off from autumn
  
Distant eyes looking off
       to misty mornings

Giving way to a passionate sun
    Of lemon luminosity
    And blue-eyed skies
     Stretching to Egypt

       Waters wrapped
     In blankets of foam
    Knees to chin autumn
  Curled up in a golden ball

Fish bones, broken glass, driftwood       
        Washing on shore
Covered with the shrouds of seaweed

    Breaking in - a long whistle train
And the winds playing scale in the treetops

Taking the opulence of crimson leaves
       And bright hard berries 
Leaving behind sculptures of naked trees
      Stark against an ivory sky


The Pageantry Of Autumn
                 by Susan Dale
  
Tawny afternoons that stretch
To the rings of Jupiter

Are they our daydreams
Captured in cottony clouds
Floating under a tabernacle sun
Those honeyed days of bees
Bending the fading phlox
Crickets chattering songs of courtship

All being carried on cool breezes
Beating wings over the golden sunspots
Splashed throughout our autumn
day-dreaming days

One mellow moment dissolves into another
All melt within the sunny splendor
Of melancholy autumn

Susan’s poems and fiction are on Eastown Fiction, Tryst 3, Word Salad, Pens On Fire, Ken *Again, Hackwriters, and Penwood Review. In 2007, she won the grand prize for poetry from Oneswan. 

Farthermost Dream (Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry)Illusions In Shadow (Flash Fiction)

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

Susan Dale

TO BRET: MY GRANDSON (1)
by Susan Dale

If ever you should wander off
To places far from me
Know that yet I am with you
Woven through the fabric of your being
Like Solomon’s prophesy
In the long-ago yesterdays
We cannot know.
Nor was there a light of grace in our journey
Only the toad you found by the back stoop
And the kitten you made promise
To never go into the street.
But the fierceness in my hands
Was embedded in yours
When we tore open the seams of the earth
And wrest from the heavens
The poems and the dreams
We deemed to be ours
Like strings of stardust
We wrapped ourselves in
And wove back and forth,
And into each other
So that when and where you go
To places I cannot follow
Know that always, I shall be with you.

Night, 07 (2)
       by Susan Dale

Tearing out the pages of a long-shadowed noon
Sundown throwing a net over the half-light
at the far edges of  sundown

Closing a fist around twilight

In medieval oaks, winds moan in broken chords
and fall into shadows of trees

Note by note into the leaping darkness

Night of wolf eyes
Of moon membranes
Delirious stars

Unconditional surrender to a dark horizon
Settling into the cosmic directness
Of black-stone night

Believing Backwards (3)
          by Susan Dale

Believing backwards
When hearts wore grandeur
And souls were delivered to us
on the wings of angels

When spirits floated between dimensions

And while shadows leapt
darkness beat night to the skies

Then - When
We returned to ourselves
Time orbited space
Stole light
Permeated our dreams
But stopped for no one

Susan’s poems and fiction are on Eastown Fiction, Tryst 3, Word Salad, Pens On Fire, Ken *Again, Hackwriters, and Penwood Review. In 2007, she won the grand prize for poetry from Oneswan. 

Bobbi Sinha-Morey

  Bobbi Sinha-Morey

 

 

Dark Afternoons

 

It was so simple then

 

in the dark afternoons,

 

beneath the unbroken

 

clouds and placid sky

 

when I thought I saw

 

you again on the icy

 

path coming towards

 

me in the thick snow,

 

uncovering a memory

 

that lay buried not long

 

ago. Tears of mercy

 

coated my skin and you

 

welcomed the grey light

 

of my home to sit with

 

me in the same dusty

 

chair again. I listened

 

to your words and there

 

rose a metaphor. You

 

knew I collected sadness;

 

the grief I shared inside

 

almost sagged from

 

the weight. I'd never let

 

you go again like I did

 

before; and, now that I

 

see you, your aura has

 

left a grey light on my

 

door.

 

 

A Wrinkle In Silence

 

Under the vast pallor

 

of the sky the blanched

 

morning stares in like

 

a face flattened against

 

the pane. I turn my head

 

away from the window,

 

the last memory I had was

 

the small lake wrapped

 

in its wrinkled silence.

 

I would have loved to

 

crack its mirror with a

 

rock, lay facedown in

 

the snow, chip off a crust

 

of ice for my pillow.

 

Today I raise my fist in

 

defiance of the cold.

 

The lake's icy water

 

darkly moves under

 

the wicked wind, one

 

that has stolen the

 

cloak off my wintering

 

soul.

 

 

The Silent Light

 

In the silent light

 

my secret pity has

 

not been a waste

 

when ever day I've

 

been fed on the

 

fullness of death.

 

Daylight has tapered

 

in the darkness and

 

the muted colors are

 

so lonely when I pray.

 

My eyes fall upon the

 

shadow of the moon

 

and outside my window

 

the world has forgotten

 

me as if I've been living

 

in the dark rooms of

 

the past. The solace of

 

the wind has been so

 

familiar, yet it's been

 

unkind; the air is so soft

 

but its voice is like the

 

sharp edge of bone.

 

It wants to wrap itself

 

around me while my

 

unforgiven soul is

 

always starting over.

 

 

 

I am

a reviewer for the online magazine Specusphere and a poet. My latest book of poetry, Rain Song,

is available at www.writewordsinc.com.