Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Ron Koppelberger
The sense of excitement in him was hued a charcoal shade of black. He was a voyager, a landlord in the desert abode of disorder and mayhem. He had waited a thousand years and a thousand thousand lives for his chance at freedom. He was the dissident dweller, the innate hearth of evil intent, the spirit bearing gifts of corrupt cloven angst.
The vast savannah of wheat and saffron amber ramble was a direct contradiction to the arid, waterless plains of desolation he was confined to, bound by the chains of divine purposeful angels.
He was badness, plain and simple badness. The breach was at the epicenter of the saffron grain fields, descried by a circle of bloodstained stones and the bones of both animal and man. Bone dust dirty dirge he thought as he looked at the enormous crucifix and chain that guarded the spot. He imagined the great maw dividing the egress as the plains burned with his fury. He would requite the sins of time with his affection.
The badness settled in and waited as the man and wolf approached the egress. He would watch and wait for the summons.
The pair passed the entrance to desolation on their way in quest of third heaven and the city of sinless wonder. Momentum carried them through on angel wings as fiery eyes followed their progress.
Ron Koppelberger
The Innocence of Angels
The tumbling systematic purge of truth found the disinterested compromise of deranged reason. Old Nick was reposing in colors of uncouth endurance, wonders of stone and wastrel ash black. He listened as the angel refined his measure of abrading business. The fervor of the angel was notable to Nick. Must be a fresh one he thought as the angel ministered to him. In retrospect he supposed the angel had been weighted with the burden of a gamboled innocence.
Old Nick was uncertain of the lords sudden interest in his station, yet being bereft of reason he felt that his time was nearly at hand. The angel had expressed the beholden boundaries of a turn. “Accept God!” he had spoken in harmonies of gold. Old nick being bereft of reason laughed as he schemed his earthly assault. The innocence of angels he thought.
Ron Koppelberger
The double game, The turn and the vortex of angry conviction was a seasoning in careful tyranny for Africa Stagger. He burned with the course of a bidden beast, an indelicate prospering of anger and fiery rage, he was the king of the utmost spoil, a diabolical benediction in ash and ebony stone.
He screamed to the padded cell walls, “Kill them all, kill them all!” The straight Jacket had torn loose from his limber body and he thrashed flailing his arms at the walls. Africa screamed at the small square of glass that led to the green tiled walls of the outer hallway. “Help Meeeeeeeeeeeee, Help Meeeeeeeeeee!” he screamed in gasping rages of sound. As he screamed images of flame and ash filled his mind. Laughing between shouts he saw fields of burning wheat in vast vistas of rolling soot. “Heeeeelllppp meeeeeeeee!” he yelled at the nurse on the opposite side of the padded door.
The door leading to the outside ally was propped open at the end of the hall, trash day, he laughed and screamed, “Heeellllpppppp Meeeeeeeee!” He pictured the taboo of blood stained concrete floors, he saw the nurse in perfect miseries of death. “Heeeeeeelp meeeeee!” he bellowed forcefully. The tyranny of darkness shaded black as he thought. The lock turned and clicked several times and Africa waited seeing nothing but the tyranny of darkness.
Ron Koppelberger
A Wolfs Foresight
Rationed in burdens of reflection and omission, the secret of cleaving taboo stood in half-light whispers of vision. A dawn of rare breed, it was a velocity of ragged union. The sun he thought, the sun. Thrilled, absolute in spears of glory and hope, the sun. It was an engulfing allegiance and the divinity of fate.
He flexed his chapped hands seeing, seeing the long nails and the growth of fur covering his hands, his paws, his body. Contracted by the skeletons of misery and the faith of crowns that bespoke of allure, allure to the realm of saffron gold and ancient old gardens of naked passion, angel extremes. He saw a circle of bloodied stones in a dream and a gathering of secret fracture. A fracture in the gloss of humanity, a common aberration, men in delirium, unsatisfied with the gift of wheat, of saffron and splendor, men of doubtless conviction, nevertheless sin and hell following the revelation of their purpose.
He saw them in his dreams and nightmares in evening twilight hunts and by the glow of the full moon. They waited for the third coming of heaven more appropriate to their calling, their task and the advent of their damnation.
The stones and the secret contained by the depths of soil and its guard, the stones guarded by waves of wheat, a saffron spell, a nurturing patience.
Falling to his hands , changing, he loped toward the endless eternal wheat.
Ron Koppelberger
The Toy
Heaps and clumsy echo’s of childhood debris bespoke of the remedy for the distance between momentary diversion and decaying fancy. Always tottering on the misty deluge of tears and tantrums, Laird Apse’s children wrenched smashed and grumbled glowing alibis of boredom with the things Laird gave to them.
A laughing clown lay in ragged disarray, mussed and angled to one side. A set of building blocks lay in splintered slivers across the surface of the tiled playroom and pokes of pickup sticks lay in Carmel coated stillness near the growth of baseball cards that cascaded in crumpled silhouette from a dismantled cereal box.
The new toy would mirror the folklore that children could be satisfied with the appropriate incentive. Tribal and bundled in leather straps the humble package established the trust of total enjoyment, the nature of the beast and it’s gap toothed intrigue.
Laird grinned as he layed the package in the center of the room and called his sons Pulley and Knot. They scampered into the room with glee. Fervent, impassioned by the possible treasure and gain, presumption and fair-haired expectation, they clutched and tore at the secret dream, the endorsement of magic allure. A bidden summons in expectation of greatness, They found thrill in thriving occupied spaces of esteemed amazement, their expressions shadowed by wont as the freed the leather straps and canvas folds from the velvet agent of a veiled gift. The cream pitcher was an alabaster and gold etched masterpiece inspiring awe in Laird. Tea and cream, sips of heaven he thought. “Yummy” Laird whispered as his children looked at him in bewildered confusion. And in a saying told the thing done is the theft of youth.
Ron Koppelberger
He devoured the moldy chunk of French bread and sliver of turkey breast with a wanton abandon. Wagging his tail he sniffed the air in appreciative delight. The scent of wild orchids and burning rubber filled the air. An owl fluttered to the nearby pine boughs and promise barked wildly as he hopped to his hind legs.
The garbage dump was littered with the broken castoffs of the South Hammocks populace. Toys, old cars, refrigerators, cloths and sometimes there was food buried amongst the heaps of refuse. Once he had even found a plastic bag full of beef entrails. Remembering the soft tasty treat he sniffed and hoped for the big trucks. They always brought more food and people stuff. Promise climbed the twenty foot hill to the big gate, it was open and the little house next to it had music and singing. Promise remembered people music. His other life involved the fervent wistfulness of lazy days and canned food heaped in a little yellow bowl twice a day. The woman had a black box that played sounds and on occasion she sang songs with the gentle flow of the box. Promise would bark and even howl and the woman would give him a chewy treat.
Promise padded through the gate and made his way up the dirt entrance to the Intercoastal Exchange. The two lane blacktop led to the wonder of people and food. The junkyard guard watched the copper colored hound meander at a gentle trot toward the front drive. He smiled and grabbed a cheeseburger from the amber and red colored fast food bag that held his dinner. Stepping from the shack he whistled, “Here boy!” The dog turned and lopped back to the man. “Here ya go boy.” the dog looked hungry and his ribs were clearly visible. Promise swallowed the cheese burger in three gulps as he wagged his tail and stretched.
The man was opening the little house and calling him. Promise, discerning the fortune of a new master, willingly adopted the man. The spirit of a shameless fortune begged the encounter to the destiny that Promise would fulfill.
Later in the year toward winter and the frayed edge of fall the man would collapse and gasp in a stricken convulsion of pain, Promise would knowingly retrieve the mans little bottle of pills, Nitro. The man had barely managed yet he survived and Promise would eat steak that night and every night thereafter. The man thought, he’s worth it and indeed he was.

Ron Koppelberger


My books are available here as well as at Barnes and Nobel:
*Raven's Blood(Dark Poetry) at
*A Butterfly Whispers(Poetry) at
*The Light in Snake Fuss(Short Fiction) at
*Twilight-Tide(Dark Poetry) at
*Horror Rush (Horror Fiction) at
*Saffron Mirage (Surreal Fiction) at
*Farthermost Dream (Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry) at

The links to all of my websites can be found at

Thank you and have a fantastic day!!!