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

Amazon.com/Ron Koppelberger

Auspices In Thuggery

Ron Koppelberger

Auspices in Thuggery

The discourteous strength of thoughtless show and vulgar claim to the breed was a science of thuggery to Rouge Unholy. He disciplined the suave arrival of tearing, towering violence in creeds of thrilling sensation and tumult for the act of aggression. Rouge proposed nonetheless, to the uncommunicative realm of Vampire lore, in cachets of rose colored bloom, he was a design of force and passion. He had made his plea to the brand to the doctrine of eternal sunsets and thirsty desire. Rouge transfixed a negotiated balance between exquisite evil and the need for consul. Rouge saw unsown seed in the vampire as he spoke,
“The pittance of a new raiment, an allay in ash and blood for the soul of your secret conference.” The Vampire bothered a chaste look and seized rouge by the arm.
“ Tantalize me no more by the will of your accusation.” he whispered in perfumed breaths. Rouge hastened to amend his proposal to the Vampire. “The very child of humanity is in subscription to the bond of mortal ghost, give me your gift.” he spoke in dreamy anticipation of the evil he could allay himself to with the immortal pact. The Vampire tapped his finger against Rouge’s scalp as he trailed his hairline.
“ The yield of bedlam is the slandered by which you live and in graces of great mystery and modesty the rack and ruin of your spirit have confessed a tithe to our gain, nevertheless the marriage is to ought.” The Vampire paused and considered Rouge Unholy for a moment, he was clever and to that end he knew better than to invite his courtesy to seasons of desolation.

Chewing Foil

Ron Koppelberger

Chewing Foil

She tangled the bit of string around her index finger, “Foil,” she whispered “Foil.” She was predisposed to sanguine delights, a dollop of crimson for a dollars worth of rouge she thought. She had been in a slow molasses sleep, the lyric ascension of hangdog elements filled her twilight temper with nightmares and the promise of tinfoil.
She reserved the expectation of blood for her evening tide triplet, symphonies of scarlet and fuzzy decrees of sated triplet, blood, blood, blood. Unfortunately she needed the temper of foil, chewing in electric passions of repugnant surrender. Sprayed by the baptisms of blood denied, a thirst unquenched, a dry bone dust desert.
The vampire chewed the foil as she existed in a nimbus of acquiescent accident. A measure of blood for a touch of tinfoil. She thanked the angels of abstinence for her tinfoil and willed the world to revolve in dry gulps of evermore mercy, mercy for the average bond between man and sustenance, between curses and gods blessings, between demons and angels, between heaven and hell, night and day, sunshine and complete desolation.
In resolute suffering she thought tinfoil. The gospels of flavor and tinfoil, gnawing potluck temperance and the will to span the gulf between human and vampire, in knowledge of tinfoil, in ascending jawbone chaw and chewing considerations of necessity. Her salvation and sway, the rhythms of tinfoil.

The Veil Of Sleep

Ron Koppelberger

The Veil Of Sleep

Agile Sin slept in quiet comfort, it was a dark and lonesome sleep she was accustomed to. As the hour of eleven P.M. approached she began to dream in rapid sequences of light, fire and shades of darkness. She was a vampire to the breath that allowed her to continue living, crimson and scarlet in color, the penance of blood stole her sunshine and today left her with demons in the form of a nightmare.
She was by the edge of a great glassy pond, partially dressed and bathing her fatigued body with the fresh spring water, her reflection cried to the gods in shadow light, to be of the caste, the vampire laden unto the task of feeding, sleeping and even bathing. She sang a lullaby as she bathed, something her mortal mother had taught her,

“Clean about little one

The day will come little one

When the seams and stitch

Of a forgotten dream will

Bring you all that it seems

All in all clean.”

She was dressing in the dream when from the corner of her vision the silhouette of a creature appeared. Startled she dressed and stood away from the edge of the pond. “What is this…..?” she spoke aloud. The sky sang songs of evening tide dread in that silhouette, in that great goblin of a beast that had found her in a moment of weakness. She prepared herself for the fight that would ensue when the great beast came to her. It was fire red and smelled strongly of brimstone. It’s horns were great appendages growing from it’s forehead and it’s teeth were pointed and dripping saliva. She watched as it plodded closer to her whispering, whispering.
“Sin, I come to collect what is mine by the right of those who feed on vampire and wolf, by the right of we who have the steadfast hold on dreams and nightmares, we who hold the key to your salvation as well as your damnation. I come for you Sin, in this dream of dreams as a messenger and the spirit that will take you to the test.” he whispered with a lashing tongue and fangs that sang the song of everlasting pain.
“But you are no vampire beast and I shall not succumb to your whim or your test!” she said with a touch of rage in her voice.
“By seasons of betrothed calm and lessons of rapture you will come to me Sin, for the blood, the blood of the condemned and the taste that lies within you. By my eyes and yours!” he commanded as he moved closer to Sin. She stepped back a few paces and drew her dagger, the pass between them filled with a dank fog and sin coughed at the stench of rotting flesh.
“You are dead beast, if you are to test me then how will you do it, you’re not a living thing, how will you do it?” she yelled at the roiling mist around her. His voice echoed in the fog and smoke.
“I will test you in accord with the vampires of old, the vampires of old my dear…to the blood of a lamb and the innocence of a babe!” his voice said closer to her now. The sky filled with the light of a thousand suns in her dream and the trees looked as if they were in flames. The beast glowed a bright crimson and maroon as he loomed closer to the edge of the pond. She could hear him breathing, he was panting now and the heat he was generating filled the space between them. “You will be mine!” he spoke into her ear, “You will be mine Sin!” She drew the silver dagger she had near her hip and thrust blindly into the glowing smoke. The sun blazed and the beast screamed in mortal agony as the blade penetrated it’s flesh. Shadows and silhouettes filled the smokey flames around them and the beast fell to the ground defeated by the one action that Sin had guaranteed him. “You will die now!” Sin said in the dream as the beast faded to nothing and the night horizon returned with inky blue velvet and the twinkle of a thousand stars.
Sin fell to her knees and prayed to the elders, the vampires of her youth and in that dream of praying she found respite with the truth of who she was, what she was and where she belonged. She knew she would never be anything but a vampire, Agile Sin the wash of a thousand dreams and the wish of a lonely vampire, and she dreamed until she awoke, and when she awoke she found a few sprigs of dandelion weed clutched in her palm smelling green and new. Like the fresh cut flowers of a new day and a new beginning.
The flowers stained her fingertips and she tasted the bloom, it was in patches close to her. The stain of crimson drizzled gray and black on the grass as a remembrance of her dream, had it been real? What of the test? She tasted blood and the sensation revived her and made her ready for the evening hunt, except for dreams and nightmares she had no care in the world except to fulfill her destiny as her caste demanded.
The night sky lay like a blanket across the landscape as Sin made her way to the village common and her food, the sweet taste of warm blood would cradle her in it’s ecstasy and give her a reason to move from today into the promise of tomorrow. She sang again,

“Patient vapors hold the

Ceaseless plumage of a raven in

Designs of ancient taboo

And shadows alive unto the twilight of a new evening

Dream and the way of wandering hearts given the

Will of the night and the taste of a tear in silence and blood.”

Under Cover

Ron Koppelberger

Under Cover

The symphony of custom was largely ignored by the Eagle and his crew of mercenaries. The enticement was spooned in careful portions of curiosity and alluring secret discovery. The capitol of conceived dreams was preparedness and Eagle was prepared, with exception to the burlap covered cage. He defined the cage as a passage to reward, to mysteries unknown, the seat of discovery and a thousand told tales of riches and wonder.
His men were background visions of greasy green and sprays of moss, shadowed in silhouette they shared an uncommon commitment to the yield of a good cook fueled by the eagles promise of glory. The cage rattled in the jungle clearing.
The locals had the rudiments of civilization in the form of machetes and bowie knives, they had been used in the construction of the cage. The Eagle had supplied both of those items to the village in exchange for the contents of the cage.
Suds grumbled to the rear and the black and white reality of the cage moved him forward, his momentum carrying him to the edge of the cage. Suds lifted the burlap cover and screamed like a banshee; a moment later he lay motionless on the trampled ground. Eagle thought of cosmic travelers and the ultimate rifle. His expression was grimly determined.
With a test of wont, the need for what lay ahead he waved Quay forward to the cage. Quay snubbed the coincidence that fate had dealt Suds as he crawled forward a long blade between his teeth. The Eagle watched as Quay trespassed the boundary of destiny. Moving in to the clearing he took a wide berth of Suds lifeless body as he moved to the opposite side of the cage. Shifting the burlap a few inches, he peered into the cage. The cage shook and quivered beneath the burlap and Quay gasped inaudibly as he collapsed in a heap of convulsing camouflage and war paint.
In unison and fear the three remaining men fled back down the dirt path to the hummer that had driven them to the edge of the path. The Eagle barely noticed as a cloud cast a dark silhouette across the jungle hammock, blocking the few spears of sunshine that ventured the balmy jungle shadow. Eagle moved forward, “The value of a good hunt,” he said aloud as he pulled back the burlap covering, “….is as good as the hunter.” The jungle echoed with his screams as he found his treasure and his death.

Lecture Hall Flows

Ron Koppelberger

Lecture Hall Flows

The balance of endless fires branding knowledge and illusions of knowledge disturbed the doldrums of the students as a hush fell over the lecture hall. The professor paused. Nell Buckler imagined the promise of lunch and an afternoon smoke, a satisfying periphery of smoke whirling and testing his addiction, full belly, cupcakes and a bologna sandwich, cool sips of vanilla cola and an amen to the mid point cut in an eight year lesson plan.
The professor rambled on with the remains of a lesson on incarnate manifestations; Nell had taken the course, metaphysical doctrine, on a whim, the notion that a class on ghosts and ghoulies would be an easy three credits had been the essence of his motivation.
The professor stood beneath the bright yellow fluorescents near an ancient wood scared podium. The lights in the auditorium were dim, flickering and the current flowed to the lights above the professor in ample supply, giving him an ethereal glow.
“………..this leads us to the incarnation of demons.” the professor explained. Suddenly transformed, Nell scratched the scales on the back of his hands and belched a great roaring gout of blood, “ darn it,…..” he said as he clawed at the stain on his vest, “what a mess.” Distant in contemplation he thought about the lecture hall flow and the manifestation of tobacco dreams and the cool dry burn of a drag. The students screamed and the professor pulled the fire alarm, running with flailing arms and wobbly legs. Nell sighed and took out his lunch bag, the bologna sandwich fit neatly into his mouth as something akin to coal smoke poured from his nose. Oblivious, Nell thought, Wonder if I can score a date with that cute redhead in physics class as the beating wings of eternity shaped the lesson plan.

Lusty Cares

Ron Koppelberger

Lusty Cares

The necromancy was a passionate pastime in Truck Snarls pale-faced demeanor. He lusted in an elegant alliance with the wont of power, sex and pleasure, any pleasure. Truck sneered at the tiny auburn haired Daisy Chit. She was perched on the edge of the sofa as she baptized her tiny mouth with a splash of Canada Gold.
Truck felt a tense prickling across the nape of his thick bullish neck; he thought in waves of scarlet, a charcoal assessment, cauldrons and warlock amore’. He had memorized the invocation,

“Wills and thrills

Deem it in dreams

And tender seams

Give me yer turn and

Accept the magic’s

We burn.”

As he said the word burn he drew the Gillette stiletto across his hand. A fine spray of crimson followed the shaving blade in a misty arc as it splattered Daisy. They waited and measured the moments by the puddle of scarlet tears beneath Trucks palm.
Truck touched the edge of the blade and looked at Daisy. She was leaning back against the sofa staring at Truck, she whispered,” Come to me love…..,” Truck smiled and moved toward the couch. His palm print stained the beige cushion with red smears as he scooted up close to Daisy.
“ ye got some homespun for daddy Daisy?” Truck said as he kissed her full on the lips.
“ I got the best in beasts baby.” she sighed as his hand caressed her thigh.
The light grew dim and a gentle rumbling rain began to pour in cascades and buckets. Truck knew it was raining inside the house, nevertheless he was entranced by Daisys passionate response.
The air hummed and rumbled as Daisy called out in the throes of passion,

“Rage and downy allure

Come and be sure.”

Truck screamed a moment later as the house tore in two, a division of light and terror, of sylvan egress and whiskered demons in bloody raptures of Canada Gold and crimson smeared cushion.
Something huge, unbidden, unbridled and ancient reached through the rend in space, the torn half of Trucks space. Truck fought and screamed as the phantasm consumed him, as the specter of forever told a tale of obsidian shadow and gray ghost. He slipped and turned in tumult as the air closed around him; an instant later he was gone.
Daisy apologized to the empty space where Truck had been and sighed with a tired requiem. The day turned twilight and Daisy became a picture in ash as she walked through the shadows between what had been and what was a new world of contrasting wonder.

Symbiotic

Ron Koppelberger

Symbiotic

The benevolent knowledge of an independent seed the labor of an absurd schism and free will………even in symbiosis.
The fullness of the day was necessary to the ecology of Avion; Axion concealed his disdain with the piercing ache of sunshine showers and daffodil dreams. Avion whistled and hummed an old gospel hymn and Axion cringed. The vaguely occult twinkling of darkness touched axions lips as he muttered a curse. Avion slapped Axions hand in a high five gesture. “Cheer up Axion, it’s a beautiful day.”
Axion grimaced as his teeth ground in irritation. When Avion bent down to pluck a rose from the gentle rambling rose bush the sound of a blue jay screamed overhead. Axion bent in synchronous compliment to Avion. Axion caught the misty bouquet of Attar as Avion waved the perfect blossom under his nose. Avion smiled, “Come on brother, be good.” Axion chuckled and smiled back sheepishly. As they carried the newspaper into the house, hand in hand, the postal matron drove by and stared with a bemused fascination. The Siamese twins, the pair, one body and two very wonderfully functioning heads, turned and waved at the mail car as she drove by.

Custom Built

Ron Koppelberger

Custom Built

The sky sang in revolutions of orange flame, a frayed twilight bleeding indigo shadows. The wind whispered secrets to the gathering of excited spectators, a gentle caressing consciousness in the way of those who desire the rave of an awareness, the purity of an affected miracle, a dream made substance and given the wide-eyed expectancy of a wonting crowd.
The clearing was secured by the pines and the briar scrub of a sylvan wild, the only egress a footpath, dusty, well traveled and foretelling the end of the trail.
Sable Style stood poised in the center of the clearing, surrounded by the denizens of Houghton Common. He smiled and paced the clearing, back and forth, back and forth. The crowd tittered in anticipation and Sable screamed, “ Tis in the company of dreamers and saints, by the lords of magic and the love of those who dare to embrace, watch and be amazed!” He crouched in readiness and then he threw himself to the ground. Plumes of dust flew up around him as he beat the dirt with his flailing limbs. The crowd swayed and whispered as Sable grunted and convulsed. Finally, his excited condition abated and he, once again, stood before them. The crowd oooohhhhhed and ahhhhaaaaaed for a moment as Sable stretched his arms upward. His checks were smudged with dirt and he had grown a pair of horns, twelve inches each. His cloths hung in tatters about his frame. “ The blessings of Houghton be tenfold with the mystery of the horned angel; you’ll prosper and the needs of a generation shall be met.” He sang in softly sibilant tones. The crowd hungry for the promise hoisted the demon onto their shoulders and carried him in bond to Houghton Common.
In the rise of Sable Style, Sunday gave notice and the towns fathers, the merit of a generation in desperate need, unbosoming wont, were tried as common criminals and taken to the gallows post.
Sable, in reflection, spoke to himself in conclusion, “They found the law of beast and demon for the wont of a moment, a breath of fire, a living sin at the cost of their souls and the wont of a generation.” In retrospect he realized he was custom built by the age of ignorance.

Round Robin

Ron Koppelberger

Round Robin

Belonging to the mix of entertainment, women and cheep cologne was a satisfying wrinkle in the web of tense embryonic existence. He caused the fray, cured the commotion and assured the gaggle of drama. A sure secret, a mystery of import and tempered rumor gone round robin. In a turn to return, a will to passing whimsy, just a whisper to the giggling mistress of screams and guffaws, laughter and flittering evanescent communication; just a whisper in a room full of parishioners. He leaned toward the raven haired beauty; she smelled of lilacs and wine as her gold and diamond earrings danced in delicate circles of light, prismic and casting tiny spears of candent white light against her slender neck. Just a whisper to come along, round robin, round robin.
Her smile faded as he whispered in gentle coquette,” There’s a fire in the loft love, a fire in the loft.” He watched as she struggled to identify the whispering source of her fear. He watched as she grimaced, teeth bared in fright,
“YYYYYIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE”, she screamed through clenched teeth. “FFFiiiiiiirrrrreeeeeeeee.” her face contorted into creased lessons of fright and her expression became a contagious rhythm of flowing fear. The room shifted and the crowd churned to the front door, Screaming surges trampling, crushing in waves of patent leather and stiletto heels, in waves of bloody stomped silk, stumbling ails and tuxedo stain. They surged and pressed and the demon smiled in distracted interest as the broken bloody bodies of a dozen lay heaped near the door. “Round robin, round robin,” he hissed in sibilant appreciation.