Cloudy Ghostly

Ron Koppelberger

Cloudy Ghostly

The pressure of motion and stealthy absolutes rolled in waves of cloudy dander. He stared at the clouds and they sifted in whimsy of vision in his view, of subconscious dreams. A season for gentle loves and a season for delirious desire, spring in bloom and fall cocoons of nascent envelopment. He wondered and flew in unself abandon. He soared with a hawk flying high in yield to the wont of unseen currents, oceans of conjured betrothal to the heavens and in beauty to the moment, an instant of asylum for his sweet dandelion.
Baby dandelion in blush and dander from the heavens and honest sanctity, in importance the youth of curious loves and sated transfixed absolution. He lay staring from warm saffron savannahs to cloudy rolling skies of umbrage and hope for the world, hope for love and hope for the curious dandelion.

Duck (surreal)

She Parts the Umbra (Surreal)

A Dark WSpirit in my House (surreal)

My other Websites (Ron Koppelberger)

Here is a list of my other websites.
Farthermostdream.blogspot.com
ethrealsouls.blogspot.com
ronnie.weebly.com
swamplit.weebly.com
ravenswont.blogspot.com
mirageinblame.blogspot.com


Enjoy

Bristles and Terror (Vampires and Vengence, a tale of blood, viscera and sweet asylum)

Ron Koppelberger

Bristles and Terror

She touched the bristles of the straw broom, her fingertips came away smeared crimson and gray with the dust of a struggle. Small beaded teardrops fell to the wooden floor from the blood stained broom, spattering in tiny blossoms, finely petaled blooms in blushing sinful retreat. She was tapered in rags, burlap hems and heavy cotton sash. Gentle ringlets in golden corn silk haloed her bloody checks, a beauty defined in delicate degrees of warmth.
She returned the broom to an upright sweep and worked the swaying rhythm of mutual discouragement. Pools of cooling blood streaked the floor as she swept away the foolishness of death. The bodies of Frank and Leona Jenkins lay in disarray near the cottage hearth. She had conferred with the shadows in quiet repentance when the couple had invited her into the cottage. She had been searching for food, hands expecting the warmth of another living creature; the door , latched tight in its unbiased remark, its lofty logic, had surrendered its contents as a middle aged man, large silken, worn well in wealth and status. He had opened the door and offered her his hand. She hadn’t perceived him as villainous, nevertheless the truth had borne witness to his evil intent.
She had crossed the threshold quietly thanking the man. He had avoided her gaze as he bolted the door behind her. “You’re ours now babe and we’re gonna have the best time sweetie.” he whispered, “ Purity and grins, grins and ash, grins and ash.” the woman chanted menacingly. His betrayal complete, he grabbed her arm and chuckled, a bit of spittle touched her check. “Grins and ash, save us a kiss for the miss.” the man’s wife laughed.
Her arm hurt where he was holding her and an anger engulfed her in desolate union. She favored her pointed fangs as she grabbed the mans head, pushing it forward and to the left. Her teeth dug deep and he screamed,” Aaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeee.” His blood pumped and he fell unconscious, then dead. The woman came at her with a metal poker from the hearth, “ What have you done, what have you done?” she screamed in a rictus of bare teeth and clenched jawbone. The woman flew backward and into the hearth, smashing her head and rolling into the ash pile.
Scrutinizing the smears of blood she mouthed a quiet, innocent prayer for the wont of a vagabond vampire, a desperate enchantress and an unwary vampire in search of haven, in search of respite near bristles and terror, near night and the passion of an endless dream.

The Tears of a Butterfly