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

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A Stray Strawberry

Ron Koppelberger

A Stray Strawberry

An antique possession, hunters delighting in the welcomed myth of unrestrained temptations. A bartered bewilderment in dovetail yesterdays and sated thirsty dawns, in the reflection of a polished metal trigger. They rumbled and grumbled in belching declarations of fraternity and in vision of unfurled freedom. They had placed the net in the center of the beasts run. Clandestined, entwined with a rush of wild strawberries and briar scrub the trap availed the promise of a grand trophy.
Glistening marshland bog wavered in waves of mist and ethereal smoke around them. Khaki shorn boot laced encampments of scandal and bloodlust followed the tides the hunters swam in. They hid unshackled and in clever contempt for the beast and it’s wild domain. They embraced the crush of primitive power and hoarded anger, anger that drove them to make an example of the hunt. “An arrow in the heart of the beast!” one of them whispered. Devised by measures of desolate glee they waited in blind hatred for their prey. “Absconder!” another one whispered. “Strength!” one of them muttered.
In sure order the beast obliged the hunt and an age of seconds and still hours halted as the beast tore the first one’s head off with razor sharp claws and gnashing teeth. “Strength!” he had muttered. The second one screamed and flailed as the beast eviscerated him in a flash of knifelike fangs. “Absconder!” he had whispered. The third one stood his ground shaking and waving a sharp blade. The beast contemplated this moment and disappeared after gulping up a few stray strawberries. The third had whispered the word, “Harmony.” in rebuke and fear, the arrow forgotten and the beast placated.

The Builder's Prayer

Ron Koppelberger

The Builders Prayer

He anchored the steel beam into the sacred stone face of the mountain. Faded, worn and bothered by desert sand, washed smooth by warm rains, the giant stone face howled in defiant regard unto the distant twilight horizon. A wolf preserved by the ancient hands of time, the desert said selfish, reclaiming the stone bit by bit.
The builder applauded his ingenuity and determination, his wont for the soul of a dream, to touch the great spirit and take passion with steel girders, pulleys and the rough hewn hands of fate, a set of carved granite steps to heaven and beyond, to the precipice of the wolfs head, by the way of constructed peeks and divine assurance. The first rays of morning sunshine would meet the crisscross construction of steel and stone steps, cut by hammers and chisels, by the force of a mans will to achieve the secret of gods and old castes. In prayer to the purveyor, the builder, the perfect pulpit to the giant wolf, he saw the shadow of the spirit, all and all through dusty sore eyes and bleeding chapped hands.
The builder climbed to the summit, surveying his work and the vast desert plains. He sat near the top between keen stone ears and unseen by giant eyes of wind blown granite. The leather bag fit neatly into the palm of his weather worn hand, the leather softer less worn than his palm, sculpted and tested by sand and stone. The builder pulled the small soapstone holder from the bag and laid it to his right against the sand worn surface of the wolfs head. He took out a tiny cone of incense, lighting it and placing its smoldering candence into the holder. The builder prayed and closing his eyes he found the wont of ancient spirits. The incense drifted in lazy tendrils of mist against the hot air, he exhaled and whispered in smoke, dust and warm acquiescent breaths; the builder whispered his exclamation, his eyes alight by the setting sun,
“All for the soul of a dream, the spirit of holy
Enclaves and sacred wilds, a stride to evanescent
Means , ethereal union between then and now,
Here and after, today and tomorrows promise, a
Moment in time told by the agreement between
Man and stone, spirits in passions untold by the
Builder of man.”
He slept near the edge of an indigo sky, the ashes of the incense still, cold and used. When he awoke the narrow bridge between what is and what will be had been crossed. The builder wore the wolf, by eyes of bidden knowledge, by gray fury coats laden with the fresh breath of a dawning existence and paw pad passage. He howled to the skies and made his way toward the desert rose and the promise of commune between desert and new borne desert dwellers.

Little Tyke

Ron Koppelberger

Little Tyke

“How’s my little tyke?” the tall farmer said to the tiny clown staring up at him. “Kiss my butt!” the clown replied with a sneer and a quick wave of his hands. “I can see that this little devil needs some learnin Margie.” the farmer said to his lanky wife. The tiny clown coughed and lit a cigar, puffing on the fat brown smoke he said, “ What comes with tall water farmer Zeek?”
“Well little man I’m sure I don’t know, what comes with tall water?” the farmer replied.
“Boogers and crap, that’s what farmer Zeek!” he yelled up at his questioning face. The small clown stepped closer and stomped on the farmers foot. The blue-jeaned man stood back and whooped as pain shot through his leg and up into his stomach. “Ye eeeeeeeeeeaaaaaahhhhhaaaaaaa!” he hollered. The clown laughed and pinched Margret on the rump.
“Yer a sweet lookin thang lady!” he said as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. Margeret grabbed her howling husband by the hand and stormed off toward the main tent. The clown chuckled and looked at the bottom of his tiny shoes. There were razor barbs runing the length of his tiny black loafers and a spring loaded nail near the tips of both shoes. “That’ll teach those no good sons a guns!” The tiny clown guffawed again and scratched his head, maybe he had been a litle bit rash with the bean poles he thought. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a pocket mirror and smoothed back his colored hair. A cherubic face stared back at him, stripes of grease paint ran beneath his eyes similar to a football player and his lips were bright red. “Perfect for the show.” he whispered to the mirror.

The Genuis Tiger

Ron Koppelberger

The Genius Tiger

In evolutionary terms the tiger was an anomaly, a genius. He shared a motley adornment of orange fire and coal black striped fur with the other tigers, Fanged, carnivorous yet sly in an apostate leadership of higher function. The tigers abode, his sanctuary was a cozy rock cave hidden by saplings and bramble scrub.
Food, he thought one day, I need food. He had seen and bypassed a myriad of pits designed to capture the large beasts of the jungle. On the sly he had seen his brothers and sisters captured and killed by the coalition of man. Thinking of food and the dark skinned men he layed a trap.
Using his front paws he dug a three foot shallow and filled it with loose twigs and logs. It was designed to ensnare a mans ankle long enough for him to pounce in confident attack.
The man came a week later, seven nights the tiger thought purring gently in expectation. In graceful thanksgiving his stomach grumbled with half-caste expressive anticipation. The precious quarry stumbled and fell face first into the makeshift trap. The tiger growled and leapt killing the man with a single bite. He was quick and effective treading the tether of life and death expertly.
The tiger slept with sated satisfaction, safely confined in the sanctity of his hidden shelter. He thought, I’ll never be hungry again as he devised another trap in blissful ecstasies of revolving evolution.

Breeding

Ron Koppelberger

Breeding

The poise of chance and suspicions of blood, he was pale and in cunning contention for the cardboard house. The cosmopolitan delta of priceless abodes lined the alley with desperate conviction. Niches of cardboard and makeshift tents constructed from discarded conveniences defined the resolute pledge to survive.
He had sojourned from cultivated boulevards to the remnant purchase of a cardboard shelter. Cleveland Vern grinned at the vagabond haven. The box read,

“Sugar Mill Appliances, South Hammock Blvd..”

Cleveland had an indulgent fantasy extracted by the cause of time and fate. He had once owned Sugar Mill Appliances and the confusion of bounty that came with it. This was his inheritance, his legacy, a cardboard box. The stubborn rebel in him dreamed of burning the appliance warehouse to the ground and killing the bankers reproach with a fat insurance check. Foregoing reason, Cleveland gave the man in the box his tie clip, fourteen carrot gold. The box was his. The man gave a pointed sputtering thanks as he coughed a thick flemy cough and moved out of the box, The fortune of a relevant provocation, the tides of truth and time.
Cleveland sat on the smooth surface of the appliance box floor; he stared at the gray granite and cement walls of the building across the alley. He had rank now, status in the cardboard town. He would rise to the challenge. He shifted in his makeshift home.
His face contorted in anger as the first trickle of rain leaked through the roof of the box. The others had plastic sheets covering their houses. He shifted in his three piece suit wondering what he would have to trade for a piece of plastic.

Trinity

Ron Koppelberger

Trinity

The trio turned and seized the care of wellsprings in shadow and inheritance. The summons to dreams and amber convocations in wolf lore and silhouette. An ebb flow galaxy of ministry, they sang and searched the deserts of promise for lands and savannahs of sunshine advantage.
They howled and the fur bristled on their backs as they drew closer to the fray, the edge between desert and palm scrub, palm scrub and vistas of eternal saffron, chaste in rampages of summons they followed the shimmer of carnivals in cause and the footfalls of man and wolf, angel and demon. They wagged their tails , fortune, flow and sway, in the4 forbearance of shadowy dreams and portents that entitle the earth and absolute elegance of passion and romantic relevance, the scandal in scruff, the champion in respected dream transit, unto thine own the trio true to the fray, to quell the riot, to deter the blood of innocence in bosoms of safeguard and reward.
The wolves moved in shoulder to shoulder, hours of fate and means, “YEEEEEEOOOOOOWWWWWWWWW.” in wise vouchers of maw, they howled as the sun shone against the dark cloak of satiny fur that defined them as shadows and saints.