Welcome to Horror Rush. Feel free to comment on any of the art you see. This is a place for the homeless, Maybe the lost and wandering. The Stories art and poetry are a reflection of the world we live in and how it deals with us, sometimes good and often not. If you care to send me something inspirational or otherwise I'd be happy to post it here. Give your self a chance to ponder the wont of a dream, a bidden future and the chance of a distant sun, this is Horror Rush and as the title implies there are those things that we have little control over, Maybe this blog will help with the expedition into the unknown.

Will

Sunday, 3 February 2013

Attention Writers of Horror Fiction


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

Saturday, 29 December 2012

Surreal Dreams, Surreal Dreams Two, Horror Express all available at 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.”

Saturday, 15 December 2012

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.