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.