Unto The Night
Amazon.com/ron koppelberger
Saturday, December 29, 2012
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A Stray Strawberry
Ron Koppelberger
A Stray Strawberry
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
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
“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.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
The Genuis Tiger
Ron Koppelberger
The Genius Tiger
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
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
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.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Possum Desperation
Ron Koppelberger
Possum Desperation
The Impala was black with fat silver trim and she ran like a top. Trace was nearly twenty miles into the lush jungle terrain, nearly half way there he thought as the speedometer pushed eighty around one of the meandering curves.
The possum scraped at the loose soil with it’s front paws, looking for beetles and grubs, she was hungry. She lifted her head for a second at the sound of the approaching car; in that moment she decided to cross the concrete path.
The car sped closer and the possum scrabbled into the road near the yellow painted divider. She watched as the car, a huge black silhouette roared around a blind curve. She remained still in fear, it won’t see me she thought crouching down in the center of the road.
For Trace the moment hung suspended in a flash. He saw the crouching possum and jerked the wheel hard to the left. The car leaned on two wheels and flipped over into the rushing shadow of palm scrub and cattail filled ditch. The car careened off the soft mossy embankment and into a pine tree; there it came to rest on it’s side wheels turning and motor revving for purchase.
Trace groaned and reached for the key, turning it he cut the engine. For a moment of hypnotic divorce, divorce from the reality of the moment, in a breath of seconds he saw himself lying against the drivers side door. There was a deep gash on his right hand, the patter of dripping blood filled the silence. He tried to move and a sharp grinding pain blossomed in his left leg. Was it broken? He wasn’t sure but it hurt like hell.
Trace inhaled deeply and unbuckled the seatbelt. At least he had worn the belt, it had probably saved him from flying through the windshield. He had to work at it and the pain in his leg was nearly overwhelming, but he managed to move into a sitting position. Looking upward at the passenger door he realized he’d have to climb through the window. The glass was shattered and it lay in piles around his bottom.
The sky went from a shadowy azure and piercing yellow to a burnt orange twilight as the hours passed silently. A flock of seagulls flew east toward the distant ocean and Trace saw them through the shattered passenger glass; they were flying in a triangle heading toward warm seas and inland perch.
He maneuvered himself into a crouch, his leg hurt and he determined it wasn’t broken but sprained, nevertheless the pain was a terrific pulsing heartbeat in his hip and knee. Reaching upward he pulled himself into a standing position. His head poked through the passenger window. Orange twilight reflected in his tired eyes and the gentle whisper of a warm wind ruffled the bloody strands of hair against his forehead.
Trace pressed his good leg against the side of the drivers seat and began climbing through the window. After struggling for a few moments he found himself sitting atop the door, feet dangling down into the smashed Impala.
Trace sat there looking at the curve in the road, there were skid marks and a dirty slash in the embankment. He was lucky, no major injuries or at least he didn’t think so. He tapped out a cigarette from his breast pocket and lit it. The cool mentholated burn of the smoke filled his lungs as he leaned back and blew a cloud of smoke into the bloody twilight above.
The bleeding on his right hand had stopped, drying into a thick maroon scab. He wouldn’t bleed to death anyway. Swinging his injured leg over the side of the car he prepared to jump down to the mossy embankment. He had his good leg pointed down as he dropped down to the weedy ditch. A sharp stinging jolt traveled through his leg as he hobbled to the side of the road.
*******
The shadows were a reflection of it’s eyes, it’s demeanor of ancient embrace, it’s silhouette in awe of the hammock, it’s eternal end and it’s place of secret, in wrath by degrees of hunt. Up until now it had been sated with small deer, and last week a coyote, separated from it’s companion travelers. It had been tough, stringy and unsatisfying. This was the promise, it’s time of imprisonment would come to an end. The promise, it’s destiny to purvey the wants of a greater ascension, he would have the man, for his promise for the future of his need, in blood, in triumph in the dark caress that would bring the others from the ethereal prison that bound them to the dreadful primitive substance of exile and isolation; the man would be his and the promise would come on the heals of dark stars and bleeding passions of flame. It waited and watched as the man stepped into the road. The two lane pass stretched into the distant swamp. Trace looked both ways’ left then right. He realized the odds of another car courting the back ally trail was unlikely. There were patches of grass and cracked unused pavement for another thirty or so miles. He would head south. Remembering the route he knew there was a service station near the end of the secondary passage. Thirty miles on a bad leg he thought. He began limping toward the frayed indigo line of darkness opposite the bloated orange sun.
*******
The possum sat still, silent watching the man, smelling blood, his blood and something else, something dark waiting for the man or maybe the small scrabbling purchase it held on life. It was old and grown black with the despair of a hundred monsters; it had an eye for the hunt. The possum crept along the shaded wood following the man south. The possum would leave the security of it’s home, a hollow stump in the forest edge for the pilgrimage south. The possum followed the man and the glimmer of nightmares in desire, in wont of unbidden passion, of dreams in unleashed fury and freedom. A freedom of dark secret ambition in the abodes of man, in stealth and eternal hunt, it would peruse; it knew the others would come. The shadows and bent angles of egress birthing freedom from the captive alliance of the swamp. All in all the beast thought about it’s pain and how to slake it’s thirst with the blood of the man.
*******
Trace watched the sky go from a sapphire glow to pinpoints of starlight and a crescent moon giving only a small sliver of pale light. He was wearing whit tennis shoes and he quietly thanked god for Fridays; Friday was casual dress day at the office. He was wearing a gray t-shirt, blue jeans and the white tennis shoes. On any other day he would have been wearing patent leather loafers, black thin soled bad for walking long distances, and a three piece suit. He worked at mortgage Estates Inc., he was an estate distributor and an agent for the dearly departed. The long track to work had been worth it, his first year he had grossed Three hundred and fifty thousand and now he was earning over a million a year. The god’s had been very good to Trace Merchant.
Trace thought about the Dryer account as he limped forward. He had fudged the receipts, Eleanor Dryer had left Four million in bearer bonds behind. Trace had access to the safety deposit box they were carefully stored in. A key, a secret key to greener vistas; he had taken the bonds never mentioning them to his partners or Eleanor’s family. Four Mill free and clear. He wasn’t really greedy nevertheless he had taken advantage of the opportunity. He knew he had worked the option to the max, the grand plot and the key to a diamond bonus.
His eyes wandered to the tall pines on either side of the road, whispers of guilt, He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Hard crusted blood scratched his dry lips.
Trace hobbled along in the darkness for an hour or so. The enchanting trail marked by moss laden trees and scrabbling sounds that emanated by the woods set him on edge a cautious trepidation in a strange dream. He looked into the shadows ahead and the narrow line of concrete stretched forward to an eternity of crickets and croaking toads. He worried about snakes, alligators from the swampy prayers of ethereal smoke and hanging hammocks. Pausing, he moved to the side of the road, he would need a crutch to walk with, something to balance his aching hip and sprained knee. The ditch line was half full of swampy green water and cattails in bloom.
He moved to the edge of the water line and tried to jump to the opposite bank. He’d find a tree branch to support his aching sprain. His good leg propelled him about half way across the ditch as he landed knee deep in water and weed. Pin wheeling he fell backward to the edge of the ditch. His eyes squinted reflexively at the cool rush of water that soaked his legs and back. “Dammit!” he gasped. He pulled himself across the channel and into the grassy overgrowth. Laying there, soaked warmth from his body gluing his shirt to his back, he listened to the cascade of chirping insects and something a heavy crashing sound.
He thought of the black bears that were native to the area, huge paws and sharp crushing teeth. He was silent, controlling his exhalations as he lay in the secret of a drama told in sashes of evening tide dreams, maybe it’s a nightmare he thought as he pictured the bear and it’s hungry maw, the wild passage and the nighttime mists were surreal almost like a cloak of otherworldly illusion, maybe a dream he thought as well.
*******
He watched from a distance in the pine and gnarled oaken root. The man was moving slow, it would have plenty of time to take him, to make his substance his own in chance and fated fathers of darkness, darkness from distant vistas in the sky and the endless cycle of travelers in wont. It would wait for the right moment, the second the stars told their song of shadow and embracing desire for freedoms unbound, by the fetters of ancient prisons and the shaped lines of rebuke. It would wait.
*******
The possum crouched still near the man away from the hunter, away from the odor of decay and swamp gas silhouettes. She was in rare wonder of his journey, seeking the destiny of possums and man in instinct. She dug into the soft soil finding a mole cricket, she swallowed it in one gulp satisfying her hunger.
*******
Trace looked at the wan paper machet sliver of light the moon gave. He lay there damp, chilled in a humid brackish adornment. Gathering his will he climbed the weedy embankment to the line of trees. After searching for a few moments he found a branch. “Perfect.” he said aloud. The branch would act as a crutch. Trace followed the tree line opposite the ditch until he came to a yielding stretch, a pine tree declared the promise of the opposite bank as it weighed cradles of fallen leaves, pine needles in thick morass against the small stream. Trace used the fallen pine and it’s sprawl to cross the murky ditch.
Calm, casually compliant he sat down on the warm pavement of the two lane passage. He wondered, overtures of greed he thought in quiet devotions of conscious guilt. “What the hell is it to you? It’s only four friggen million.” he said to the rolling clouds overhead, to the darker enticement of night skies and wild swamp. Prickling heat coursed through his sprained leg as he changed position on the concrete. Reflex, it had been reflex and utility; he had proclaimed the shores of bearer bond worship at alters green, four million green, and here he sat soggy, wounded and crowned king shit by the way of a friggen possum, a shade of punishment made for a wayward bastard.
Trace rubbed his eyes and listened to the crashing sound moving closer from within the forest, closer to the edge of the ditch. It sounded heavy, maybe hungry, hunting for food, maybe an alligator or a bear, A panther on the yeowl.
*******
It moved slowly through the Lilly pads and brackish muck, belonging to the cognate flow of shadow and dark substance, closer to the man. It paused as it listened to the mans breath, warm distantly beseeching the call of towers in stone, the rustle of human existence. It moved closer, arguing force purpose and bond, the bond of pursuer and prey, for the will of the silhouettes waiting by patient shores, by the sufferance of prisons in rhythm with the ebony night horizons of elder pass, of ancient captive waiting; it moved closer in anticipation of a new way, the way of men, bent unto the wont it was destined to fulfill.It watched, closer now, near the edge of the ditch, hidden in secret by the fronds and cattail evanescence of its terrain, holding its exhalations it’s green moss laden back rippling in power, the power of ageless embrace. It opened its mouth prefacing it’s need for the mans blood; lichens and black soil fell from its awakening maw closer, closer to the second it would find liberation from the realms of damp earth to stony trespass along the child of humanity and its perseverance.
The man shimmered in auras of unseen remedy, first red then pale blue. Its eyes perceived those moments and the thirst it felt was staggering. It hummed in a low growl and the man moved to a standing position, seeing him, in fear, in horror of its presence, its terrible visage.
*******
Trace heard the crashing in the palm metto scrub and cattails move closer. Thoughts of wild wolves, bears and panthers on the hunt filled his mind and tempered his nerves to the point of fear. He turned, catching a glimpse of something in the shadow, huge, dark and growling in hungry instinct. Trace stood ready to run, bad leg to hell he thought. He watched the cattails separate and listened to the heavy rhythm of giant unbidden footfalls, animal, wicked smashing closer across the bank into view. The sliver of moon glow shone in vivid appeal to the terror of a thousand demons, a backwoods visage of hell lured by the smell of freedom and blood, nightmares wrought to heights of fiendish revolt, monsters by nameless horrible beyond, careening insanity and the core of secret existence. The creature exuded the cloying odor of swamp decay, moss moldy bread and molasses sweetness. It stood nearly two feet taller than traces six feet, and it was in a crouch hunched forward as it moved toward him yellow eyed and rippling in damp soils of ancient mystery. It screamed and the sound disturbed the sleeping thrush as they sang and flew upward in unison, sensing the beast and its desire.
Trace watched as sharp edged talons, spears of deadly grasp…..long he thought they looked like yellow ivory knives on it muscled hands. Its teeth ground together in a loud sandpapery dance back and forth, they were dirty moss covered in need in yearning wont for him.
Trace held his crutch like a spear in front warding off the dark countenance of the aged aberration. In a moment of insane revelation he saw the stack of bearer bonds in bloom, blowing in the wind, crisp and brittle like fallen leaves, an autumn death and the beast devouring him, his blood spraying across the stack of bearer bonds.
*******
The possum moved in an uncomplicated arc behind and around the beast, dashing to the front, near its enormous mud laden feet. Traces leg gave in that moment and a symphony of coincidence occurred. The beast stumbled a second later, tripping over the scrambling possum. Trace held his crutch like a sword as he lay on the warm gritty concrete. The creature tottered for an instant screaming and flailing clumsily then fell forward onto Trace, impaled by the crutch. Its shadow covered Trace in an assembly of moss and swamp silt. Trace expelled a mouthful of dirt and clawed at the moldering pile of moss that covered him in heaps and soggy piles. In an infantile effort he rolled out of the damp pile of decaying leaves, pine needles, moss and swamp mud. Gathering his will he overcame the storm, the tempest swollen by the reverie and worship of demons and legends in darkness. Once again he saw the lie, the sin in his tempered world of finance and quick cash. He discovered his spirit in that moment of contemplation. “Monsters and men.” he whispered as he hobbled away from the remains of the demon and the approach of sin. He realized he didn’t really need the cash, the experience heeded the birth of innocence, the basic awakening of what was possible in a world wrought with the weight of blind horizons and beggars in play.
The Bleeding Edge
Ron Koppelberger
The Bleeding Edge
Escaping from the written desire of a petty thief, by warrants and county jails, by stolen pencils and free meals at the Salvation Army and by the starved passions of a gambler in a losers palace, he saw the great vault shimmer in the down draft of the ceiling heater vent.
Pray had it all figured out, “A prayer for Pray.” he whispered out aloud. He’d crack the box, “YYYYYYYEEEEEEEHHHHHAAAAAWWWWW!” the top of the hill, the star at the top of the tree and the brass ring, only thing was his ring was gold, 21 carrot and as smooth as glass.
Pray moved down the hall as the heavy tool bag weighed taunt in the muscles of his wrist. “ Gonna break that witch, gonna break that witch!” he sang as he approached the sentries laser beam. The card had a bar code and a brail embossed number on it. He had paid 300 dollars for the dupe at crazy Al’s.
“It’ll work like a clock, tick-tock and yer in!” Al had exclaimed as he handed him the duplicate pass. Pray had put the original back into the bank managers wallet without capture or keep, no one had been the wiser. He had gone back to his tellers booth smiling and humming a tune from Oklahoma.
Pray swiped the card in the tele-max sentry and the crimson colored laser beams disappeared.
A breath, the space of a scream, the moment of decisive capture and wonting delirium came to a precise perfect conclusion as the giant iron cage descended around Pray; the hall went dim and the recessed lighting went dark violet. Pray stood there in shock as a high pitched hum filled the air around him.
Submissively, Pray fell to the floor. The endurance of a wilting rose, the pale horse in full gallop against ebony shadows and moments of winter sleep, Pray simply gave up. He had wagered his dream against the wall, the impossible garner, the harvest in evanescent rhythms of fate. He lay there, just barely touching the cool polished metal bars with the tips of his fingers. He sighed in resignation and closed his eyes. Moments later he died and when he awoke he was in a steamy aura of candent light, the blessed light he thought. The enchantments of another world, a parallel existence, he stood and looked around the mist laden dew of a neon cloak, a brilliant shine in the glow of ethereal passion. Was he dead? He must be he thought. The wings of a greater forward, a beginning for a safe cracker in Eden he thought. “Damn……..yeah!” he said out loud. The sound of his voice echoed in hollow reverberations around him, filling his ears with a cool crisp slice of sound. Rebirth he thought, I’m reborn into the final stretch. Black Beauty is in the lead and Flicka is a close second he thought, the friggin horse in race to the gate. He was home free. Stepping forward, he bumped into the clear bars of the nearly invisible cell. Had he died? He was still in the cage.
There were squawks from the end of the hall, he watched as a fluttering flock of crows moved down the hall toward the cage, “caw, caw,” came the first few in neon silhouette, crimson black, tiny eyes tilted upward as the patter of wings thumped and pounded the air around the cage.
He moved to the center of the cage as a thick roiling mist cloaked the floor with it’s damp tendrils, snaking in from all four sides and dancing in puffs of cool ether and mystery. The light went from violet neon to a dull indigo haze permeating the fog in small sips, tincturing the tips of his fingers with the glowing luster of black light. The crows cawed in unison then went silent. The sound of their wings shifting in the dark shadows betraying their presence to the soul ensnared by the great steel bars of a prison in consuming endeavor; endeavoring the ozone and the breath of an eternal darkness, bought by a petty thief for the price of a spirit, for the wont of a blueprint to ever after, for the pale ghost in dark corners and the second after death.
Pray fell to his knees and closed his eyes in worship. The Smokey arms of a dew laden mist and a newly moss laden floor padded his knees and smoothed over the wrinkles in his fifty-three year old features. His heart pounded rhythmically in his ears and fluttered like a moth in his chest.
His prayer was simple, spoken by the lost, the desperate, the inhabitants of countless disasters and near death survivors. “Dear god if only….I’ll change…..I’ll follow the narrow road…….!” he promised as the outer door near the end of the hall thumped open, bouncing against the rubber stopper mounted on the wall behind it. It was a thickly viscous shadow, large red eyes breathing gouts of blue flame and charcoal soot.
From his end the light flickered dark then dull indigo, on and off, on and off. The air was heavy with a cloying perfume, the essence of a thousand dandelions in fresh green cut, sappy, leaking the pungent milky lifeblood of a child’s dream.
The figure at the end of the hall paused and a swirling eddy of haze descended from the ceiling flittering in the moaning gasps of a hundred tortured souls. The sound hummed and labored the breath of a nightmare, a whisper of sinful fright, a measure of fear, in muffled currents of confessed desperation and desolate terror.
Pray tilted his eyes to the ceiling and shivered; so this is what I’ve come to he thought. The gaping maw of a bloody secret, a scarlet beast in perfect desires of human stew, the salivating greed of a precious peril, the bleeding edge of oblivion.
He remembered in that moment, the remnants of a distant transaction, the day the dreadlock crow had nodded it’s head in his direction.
The day had been uneventful, he counted his cash, fifties, hundreds and neat sheathes of quarters, all in the unchanging exchange between customer and teller. It was the stuff of his undying wont, wont for money, and he had dreamed of, and of, and of the safe and it’s contents. In the midst of his reverie a man had walked through the double glass doors across the lobby. The velvet ropes separated the few customers in the bank from the line of teller booths. The man stood behind Nate Johns and Gretta Burg. He was dressed in a black trench coat, dark ebony eyed with a full head of dreadlocks tied by gray yarn and blood red elastic.
Nate and Gretta made their transactions and the dreadlocks ended up at Pray’s window. He slid a piece of notebook paper toward Pray and glanced upward toward the video cameras, past them and to the sky beyond the distant horizon, eyes rolling with clouds of roiling smoke, billowing from his mouth in waves and tenebrous spider silken snare. He sighed and the whites of his eyes filled with blood from top to bottom, sliding in slick eyed magic. He opened his mouth wider and rows of razor sharp teeth glistened and glimmered like the pointed maw of a Great White. The note said,
“Azalea in the Scream!”
He remembered, the other tellers had seen nothing as the man’s mouth echoed a curing, causing “Caw, caw!” a black mamba with feathered exclamations of fate. No one saw and in the end, in the space of a few seconds he turned and spun on his heels, dreadlocks spinning in a circus fan about his head, he turned and left leaving the piece of paper and a hazy veil of delirium. He had called Mary Simms over to his cage explaining to her that he was feeling ill. He went to the employee lounge with the piece of paper clutched in his sweating fist.
“Azalea in the scream!”
The beast in the hall, the approaching ends of a frayed bloody edge, the bloom of a race from birth to old age and to moments in the afterlife belched and wavered in steamy coils of mist before him. The memory of the dreadlock crow fell in sync with the beast, the dreadful conclusion of his life, his essence, his bond with existence.He stiffened and slowly edged to the rear of the cage, unprepared, naive’ like an inexperienced toddler avoiding a scolding. Pray trailed his hands across his eyes wanting to rub away the vision of approaching hell, the great rambling demon in hunt. The beast pressed it’s face or what passed as a face, it was all misshapen and fleshy, against the clear bars opposite him. The bars separated with the tongue of a hissing black flame prefaced by screams and roars of rage.
Summoned by chance and the trifles of interlaced fortune, the decision to sin and the promise to fulfill the destiny of a sainted life, the promise to forgo the life of a petty thief for the wonts of the straight and narrow path, inspired Pray to fall to the moss covered floor. He cried as the beast opened it’s maw covering his mouth and pushing hot flame, fetid breath into his lungs.
Passing out in a dream, a nightmare descried by a nightmare, Pray dreamed within the dream. He saw the piece of notebook paper.
“Azalea in the scream!”
Tiny unfolding lines of light spread their warmth and daydream cloud across his features and he saw the Azaleas in bloom, the bursting blossoms done in violet, in alabaster crème and bright scarlet tears. The gentle rolling twilight in orange spears of flame touched his brow and illuminated the Azalea’s with somber light. The rare, bold bid for realms named safe, secure and in reveries of absolution, the stupor of a petty thief, the lyric answer to his prayers and screaming promise, in all he heard the scream the tenor of full born rage and screaming panic. The Azaleas wept blood as the veil disappeared from his eyes. She was screaming and blowing air into his mouth, filling his lungs he gasped and coughed choking on the wheezy inhalation of breath. Susan Lance, his girlfriend, a fellow teller at the bank, shook him and cradled him in her arms as she called his name , “Pray, Pray!”
He remembered the trench coat crow again, all dreadlocks and fire eyed want. He had hit him, hard, with the dull side of a claw toothed hammer. He had fallen behind the counter unconscious, dead, dead to the world and in hell. Susan had saved him.
His head hurt as he remembered the promise, the moment of decision and forgiveness. He looked up into Susan’s eyes and smiled as best he could. Some things were worth waking up to he thought as he hugged her.
***************
A Week Later
The alarm clock sang 6:00 A.M., he had to shake out the cobwebs and get going, his shift at the bank began in an hour. He glanced at the security card on the bedside table; it lay untouched next to his pain medication and a bottle of ibuprofen. Pray paused for a moment uncertain, wondering, wondering about Susan. What did she need from him, Jewelry, a house………and what, the good life? He pushed those thoughts aside for a moment and looked out the small apartment window. The rows of Azaleas wavered and swam in the cool autumn air. Turning away from the window he dressed, ran a comb through his thinning hair and put his red and white tie on. He picked his dad’s old tie clip and cufflinks. He looked good. The bag of tools lay in a leather satchel next to the dresser. He listened to the silent tick of the clock for a moment as he grabbed the bank managers identification card and slipped it into his breast pocket.
Outside the wind howled and an earsplitting scream filled the air near the Azalea bushes. Pray looked out the window again fear swelling in his bosom. The sky was blood red and the demon stood howling in the midst of the Azalea bushes, in the midst of a petty thief’s fate.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
The Dark Delerium
Ron Koppelberger
The Dark Delirium
Pray Stitch saw the blood of ash and sunshine in the arrival of his girlfriend and the book. She stood poised near the front entrance of the apartment, pressing the entry buzzer and shifting the aged book between her hands. Pray Buzzed her in as he opened the front door. The sound of children playing and loud music filled the apartment complex hall. Pray walked away from the door and to the small all weather radio he had perched on the living room coffee table. Turning it up a bit he heard a loud static voice, “…the rain will be here at around 10 P.M. this evening…possible hail and severe weather are forecast for the town of Curious Wine!” He clicked the radio off and went back to the door where his girlfriend stood.
“Hey Baby.” Cattail Morning said as she greeted him.
“Hello sweetheart, I see you got the book.” he said as he took it from her.
“Yeah and it wasn’t easy, I had to hide it under my shirt. Tom Claner was staring at me the whole time.” Tom was the Wine’s Librarian.
“Well you got it and that’s all that counts.” Pray said excitedly. Cattail brushed her hair to one side and blew Pray a kiss.
“Jus for you honey.” The book was ancient and stained with the elements of a time passed. “Are you gonna try the spell tonight Pray?” she asked nodding at the book in his hands.
“Yes…it’s the perfect time, the dark spot was visible to the naked eye last night Cattail!” he said referring to the large anomaly that had appeared in last nights sky. Cattail went to pray and took the book from him.
“First things first Pray.” she said as she kissed him on the lips.
He chuckled and said, “Is that the only thing on your mind Cattail?”
“That’s not the only thing on my mind Pray but it’s better than that damn old book!”
As the hour of 10 P.M. approached the darkness gathered it’s strength in the delirium of what might be called inspiration. It seeped across the landscape in unearthly tendrils of darkness, cold unwonted and forbidden to the world. It slid across curious Wine touching everything in it’s path with a mind numbing delirium, a kind of group knowledge that sees and hears what it wants. It spread it’s dark tentacles into the sleeping and waking minds of Curious Wines denizens, bringing forth an understanding of whispers and mirage and unbidden secret dreams. The delirium spread to everything and people started acting strange in response.
At 9:38 P.M. Mazy Hoper was sitting down to a bowl of chicken noodle soup, he always had the soup before bed, it helped him sleep and lately he had been having bad dreams, the soup helped. Dark spider webs of thought filled his mind as he took a sip of the chicken soup. What was this he thought as he slammed the bowl into the wall, “What the hell is this?” he screamed as he flapped his arms wildly and started stabbing himself in the eye with the spoon. Blood poured from the empty eye socket in his left eye as he continued to dig at the opening. “WHAT THE HELL IS THIIIIIIIISSSSSSSSSS?” he screamed again as the blackness poured into his body overwhelming him with delirium.
At 9:43 P.M. Art Tisklen was feeding the horses in his stable, they hadn’t eaten all day, he’d had things to do. He noticed that the horses were a bit nervous and something else, everything was off kilter. He had realized something was wrong in Curious Wine earlier today. Rob slickstrum the feed store owner said it was the coming storm, the bad weather they would have later in the evening. “Sometimes animals pick up on that kinda thing!” he had said, he knew that Art’s chickens had climbed the willows in the front yard and the roosters were crowing from the tops of the trees.
“Yeah I guess so.” Art had replied with a bit of doubt, “Mebe it’s the coming storm!” Art stood outside the stable staring at the willows and the approaching darkness that was worming it’s way into the farm. The roosters were throwing themselves out of the Willows and were hitting the ground with angry thuds. The seed of an idea black and thickly viscous filled Art’s mind for a moment as he went to one of the Willows and began climbing it. He reached the top moments later and the tendrils of ice said “Jump, Art jump!” in soft soothing whispers.
By 10:00 P.M. the darkness, cosmic and ethereal filled the town of Curious Wine with it’s will, it’s power and it found purchase knowing that the entire world would belong to the ancients, the shadow in wait. If it could’ve smiled it would have but it’s demeanor was cold and alien not allowing for human sentiment. It stole the consciousness of the denizens with the oppressive stain of dark delirium and all over town things happened, insane things. The cold logic grew and flourished as the incidents occurred and time nearly stood still for Curious Wine.
At 10:05 P.M. it was hailing golf ball sized hail and dark sleet like rain in the Wine. Pray Stitch and Cattail Morning were in the confines of Prays Mustang GTO. The hail was threatening to break the windows of the car as it smashed into the glass in great cascades. Pray started the car and Cattail screamed as the book they had brought with them began to glow with a bright candent aura. “What is it?” she yelled over the torrent of sound.
“I’m not sure…but it’s black and it wants everything, everything Cattail, you and me and everyone!” he shouted back at her.
“Let’s get out of here Pray!” she pleaded with him as he eased the car forward to the two lane blacktop highway leading out of town.
The book fell open to a picture of a dark cloud with thousands of tentacles reaching away from it, the caption read “The Darkness of Delirium!” “Do you think this is it?” she said pointing to the picture in the book.
“I’m not sure, does it tell how to stop it?” he asked.
“No…it just says the avatar of the universe will take it’s resting place.”
Pray said, “The town is gone Cattail, we can never come back!” they were to the outskirts of Curious Wine where the hail had stopped. He said, “Look at that Cattail!” They were looking at the sign near the side of the road that read Curious Wine, they were just beyond it. At the edge of the sign an inky blackness with what looked like tentacles waved around the sign and the hail continued on that side of the sign.
Pray and Cattail would always remember the sign and the darkness that threatened to swallow them whole, for now Curious Wine was the dark Delirium’s and the books magic yet unknown to the couple.
The Breach At Shadetree Orchard
Ron Koppelberger
The Breach at Shade Tree Orchard
The twilight presented the bloated pumpkin sun setting slowly into the frayed forest edge and a great glaring moon, full, wan and amber hued, haloed by harvest seasons and a cloudless indigo fringe.
Star Friday, Cadence Cross and Glenn Costa stood near the double glass doors of Sunder Feed and Farm Supply. They had bolted the doors and turned the bright sodium lights off in the parking lot. The expanse of cement stretched to the edge of the road and the woods behind the feed. Stars Camero was parked out front near the body of Paul Shirker. He had volunteered to get help and now he lay cold, bloody with his car keys still in hand near the front sidewalk next to the topsoil display.
A barking howl filled the dampened spaces between the isles of feed, filtering in from outside in easy currents of terrifying utterance. Star looked at Cadence and whispered, “There gonna try to get in at some point Cadence.” Cadence ran her fingers through the braided corn silk tresses that framed her face and said in shaking fear,
“They probably killed everyone in town jus like Paul.”
“They couldn’t have gotten everyone Cadence, we got away, some of the others had to of escaped as well.” Star said in her bravest voice. Glenn walked to the back of the feed. There was a tall pole barn shaped in a half circle attached to the back of the store. The corrugated metal ran from floor to ceiling like a tunnel and bales of hay, cat food, dog food, sow and pig feed, and horse feed lined the walls in the barn. A set of plastic swinging doors separated the front of the store where the shelves were lined with hardware and insecticides of all types, from the tin can that formed the feed area.
Glenn looked through the feed isles hoping for a weapon of some sort. Star stepped into the back of the store and said, “ How about these Glenn?” she held up the long blade of a machete for Glenn to inspect.
“I’d prefer my Winchester but that’ll do us jus fine.” Star handed Glenn one of the three machetes she had found in the hardware and tool isle.
Cadence took her machete reluctantly. “ I hate weapons Star, but I guess I don’t have any choice.” she said looking at the silver blade.
“Not really,” Glenn said matter of factly, “You can wait until those things break in and end up like Paul!”
“No thanks.” she said “I prefer the machete.”
Outside it became darker, the sun finally disappearing into the edge of the earth’s shadow. A maelstrom of silhouettes tall, wolf like and fast flittered near Paul’s body. They tore and ate and feasted. When Star looked out of the double glass doors she saw the sharp deadly maw of one of the creatures. Covered in scarlet, raving human flesh, the creature was part wolf, long snout and pointed incisors, part human with perfectly formed fingers. She watched as the creature slid it’s delicate hands across the glass smearing Paul’s lifeblood in great red smears. The creatures head tilted back and it screamed as if in pain, it was then that Star noticed the black painted fingernails and the shredded remnants of bobby socks on the wolf-thing.
Cadence stepped up behind Star and asked, “What the hell is it?” Glenn moved between Star and the glass doors with a large sheet of neon colored poster board.
“If they see us they’ll try to get in.” he said as he blocked their view with the cardboard sheet. “ Hand me that roll of tape!” he pointed to the roll of clear packing tape next to the cash register. Cadence handed the roll of tape to Glenn and stepped back as he fixed several pieces of the colored cardboard across the windows. When he finished he said, “ Help me move this desk in front of the door!” they all got behind the heavy oaken desk that served as the front counter and slid it to the front of the door. Outside something brushed up against the glass. They moved further into the store as screams and wild piercing howls filled the parking lot, the space between them and the door and the nocturnal terror. Cadence looked at Glenn and asked again, “What are they?”
Glenn thought for a moment before responding. “Last week I saw a caravan of military trucks and transports heading toward the old Shade Tree farm.” the Orchard had been in disrepair for as long as he could remember. The Orchard was full of dead orange trees, gray spears and gnarled dead citrus branches, trees by the hundreds filled the acres of Shade Tree Orchard. “They did something, they let something loose, a virus, some kind of curse that only the military guys know about! They’ve been up there for a week now doing god knows what.” he emphasized with a clenched fist. “We might be the only ones who aren’t infected by this thing Cadence!” Glenn said in shaky realization.
“Don’t say that Glenn!” Star said hoping for the best. “There have to be others like us, people hiding from these things.”
Cadence looked at both of them, “Did you see, it was part human, or it used to be human, there might be hundreds of them, maybe thousands.” Riverside’s population was a little over five thousand. Glenn clenched his jaw, “Dammit, they should’ve know better, they should have, the friggin army, they should’ve known!”
“Maybe it wasn’t the army.” Cadence offered “Maybe this is a punishment, with war and mankind’s hatred for each other, maybe it’s god’s punishment.”
“I don’t believe that Cadence, it has to be simpler than that.” Glenn said.
The delicate passing of seconds repeated the breath of silent serpents and tigers in wait; a pause, the howling screams had stopped for a brief moment.
“Do you hear that?” Star asked, “ I mean it’s quiet.” The temptation to look outside was overwhelming and Cadence ran to the glass doors and peeked behind the orange sheets of poster board. Her screams pierced the silence of the moment as she staggered away from the door. It had been a flash of convergent horror; the street light illuminated the deluge of wind washed horror. One of the creatures stood in a cascade of blood; it rained from above, from the sky, but only on her or it, like a shower. The wolf like snout dripped red gore, liquid crimson and the wind, blowing at the bobby socked wolf thing from the side, a small tempest, localized in the space where she stood; bright sprays of blood spattered in an ethereal mist, a cloudy haze to the creatures side. It was a scene from hell ; her eyes, wild ebony orbs filled with lusting hunger and madness. Cadence said hysterically, “ We’re gonna die, we’re never gonna get out of here!” Glenn grabbed her and pulled her close,
“We’ll get out of here Cadence, they can’t get to us here hon. Someone will find us.” Glenn said attempting to console her. Cadence cried, her tear streaked checks pressed against Glenn’s bosom. Her tears were warm, wet giving him a sense of communion. They had to make it he thought. They couldn’t die like Paul had, they couldn’t.
It was close to 10 P.M., Glenn found an all weather radio on one of the shelves. As he tore open the box he wondered, how far had it gone and how many were there? They had some kind of ethereal power, a magic or a darkness from hell. He still wondered how they had done it, the army, had they opened the door to hell? What was the breach and where had it come from? He took the twist tie off the cord to the radio and plugged it in. For a moment he thought all he’d find was the staticy hum of nothingness, then finally a voice, careful, controlled and fatherly. They gathered themselves, Cadence seeing a glimmer of hope with the radio and Star hesitantly expectant.
“ ……….find shelter immediately! Do not approach the infected, do not approach the creatures, do not approach the area of Shade Tree Orchard West to Riverside! This is just a temporary quarantine, we’ll have this under control by dawn.” the man on the radio promised.
Glenn turned off the radio and said, “They’ve quarantined Riverside.”
“I know, I heard him Glenn.” Star said a note of trepidation in her voice.
“Will they get here at dawn, will they really Glenn?” Cadence said angrily. “How are they gonna get past those things?”
“I don’t know Cadence, let’s jus wait it out and see what happens hon.” Glenn said reassuring her.
Outside the creatures raged and it rained blood in frothy mist and dark magic, the showers centering on each individual beast in the form of an ethereal tempest. The wind blew around them and great smears of the scarlet essence flittered and twirled around their fanged grins. They explored the boundaries of the feed, screaming, howling in torn cloths like ragged flags of terror, in wolf like grimaces, hunger, desire and ebony eyed passion fulfilled their need.
On the North end of Riverside Vern Pursey was battling mosquitoes. The new bug light he had bought was sizzling and popping as mosquitoes and other various flying insect life flittered across the blue neon light and the 120 volt wire. He was fascinated with the new light starring at it and watching the tiny sparks light up the night. Vern paused for a moment, his reverie disturbed. It had begun to rain. “Dammit, he said under his breath. Glancing down at his hands, he noticed the rain had streaked them in dark rivulets and beaded tendrils. “Whas this…………” he questioned as he rubbed the back of his hand. “Looks like blood.” he said to himself as he turned to look behind into the face of silent gaping madness. The creature howled and Vern staggered back in surprise. In the space of a breath he took in the creatures appearance; he saw a large, obese body clothed in a raggedy three piece suit and it was drenched in blood, dripping soggy, surreal in the blue black light of the bug zapper. Vern didn’t react as the sharp fanged mouth bit into his neck and tackled him to the ground. Several others appeared screaming in tempest clouds of blood.
As they devoured him, he took a moment to contemplate the creature in the suit. Slavering over the top of Vern it’s necktie dripped crimson into his eyes. The last thing he noticed was the city seal stitched into the bloody cloth. As his life ended he realized the creature was wearing Mayor Braggs cloths.
Closer to the southern end of Riverside Mel’s Truck stop was a giant conflagration as black oily smoke poured from the ruins of the gas pumps and convenience mart. One of the big trucks snorted and spit exhaust as it barreled into the flames. Inside the driver screamed and howled, blood obscuring his view as the truck crashed. It was raining blood inside the cab and as the creature crawled through the flames there was a great hiss as the front tires melted and blood mixed with the burning gasoline.
The Eastern line of town was a scattering of orange tree orchards and sorghum fields. Shade Tree Orchard was at the outer edge of the Commons. The old farmhouse and weedy lot was scattered with empty jeeps and the remnants of a bio hazard containment convoy. Inside, the farmhouse buzzed with the sound of high tension wires. From the front of the house bright crimson light poured in waves from the broken window panes. Someone had placed a “No Trespassing” sign on the heavy oaken front door and the body of a camo clad soldier lay draped across the front porch steps.
The interior of the house was a scattering of equipment, gages and a giant gold colored metronome and two or three dozen cages , big enough for a human being. The house smelled of garlic and roses and a thick roiling mist poured upward from the cellar. Deep within the confines of the cellar Sgt. Negee lay bleeding near the reflective panel that had been designed to allow the breach, the gateway between here and there. They had been fast, furious and hungry as well as contagious. Negee remembered they had come through screaming and howling. His checks were still moist with the blood that had poured from the breach, thick, viscous giving birth to monsters and demon wilds. Negee inhaled deeply, coughed and began crawling toward the basement steps.
West from Shade Tree Orchard Glenn, Star and Cadence sat near the back wall of the feed listening to the creatures pound on the corrugated metal walls in the back of the store. Hollow, thumping and shrieking gasps of frustration echoed hollowly throughout the feed. Suddenly, there was the sound of glass shattering near the front of the store and cadence screamed, “They’re coming through the front door Glenn!” Glenn grabbed a bale of hay and put it in front of the plastic double doors separating the front of the store from the back.
“Come on, help Cadence!” Star yelled as she threw a bale of hay toward Glenn. Glenn stacked the hay in front of the door as fast as he could. In the front they heard the sound of shelves being overturned and growls of determinant possession, the sound of spattering rain and wild tempests howling in delirious search.
They had the hay stacked to the top of the door when one of the creatures attempted to gain entrance. Furious hands and rivers of blood, dripping through the hay bales, amber and scarlet hued glistening, descrying an inhuman magic, an ethereal enemy fated by wombs of crazy breach.
A slender arm, bruised, once delicate, slick scarlet and purple, reached inward between the hay bales. The creature screamed and tore at the hay knocking down one of the bales to reveal a ghoulish grimace, wolf-like, all teeth and grinning a bloody need.
The wind and red rain poured through the opening and Glenn stumbled falling to the floor just as the hay pile tumbled down around him. The mystery of life and the probability that they would all die ran through Glenn’s mind as the creature climbed on top of him. He could hear Cadence screaming and……..what? Gunfire? A sharp report of automatic fire ……Pop, pop…….pop! The creature lay still, silent atop his bosom, the crimson shower and the wind abated as a camo clad figure pushed away the piles of hay and the body of the wolf-thing. “Come on!” he said to the three of them. “I don’t know how long I can hold them off.” Glenn stood on shaky legs, dripping the blood of a thousand nightmares. He read the name patch on the soldiers breast, it said “NEGGY”.
Neggy ushered them through and around the desk and broken glass doors into the waiting hummer. He gunned the engine and headed West Toward Rapid Zaine the next closest town.
He had stopped the gold metronome, it’s rhythm still, quietly waiting. The breach had closed but maybe it was too late. Negee looked to the open fields of sorghum before them, here and there were rain showers of blood, some distant some directly to the left and right of the two lane blacktop.
They followed the road to Rapid Zaine and in a haloed harvest moon, a breach in the dark shadows the future beckoned the wants of the survivors and the desires of the determined few, in hope and the need of a fated dream.
Solo Coffee
Ron Koppelberger
Solo Coffee
He had attended wild parties and the best people in the business had all watched as Dr. Joe Stern M.D. rose to the top with a flare and a finesse rarely seen. The ladies kept coming and eventually Curb had responded in a head over heels fall.
He had settled on Eleanor Biscun. She had been tall auburn and great in bed. He grimaced for a moment, and she had taken most of his money in the divorce. Eleanor, Eleanor if only I knew you he thought reflectively. Eleanor had been the end of his career as well. The publicity had all been bad and in the end they had accused him of spousal abuse. He thought again for a moment. He had been on the move, the fast track to stardom. He knew he had done the right thing in the end, after all she had taken that from him. No one had noticed her disappearance, her family knew she was fickle and prone to leave on extended trips to Morocco and St.Croix. They had never questioned it. The News blared insistently as the announcer mentioned the tainted lot numbers for the coffee. Standing he went to the living room and got a pencil. “……..Lot# 254987 and Lot# 34891 Fire Roast Solo Brand.” Curb wrote the two numbers down and returned to the kitchen. Finding the jar of Solo he looked warily at the label. The lot number was missing, the label was torn near the seem where he had removed a $1.00 coupon, he was a frugal shopper.
He put the jar on the table and stared at it, he had just opened it and the steaming cup was nearly empty. “Anthrax!” he said aloud to himself, “laced with Anthrax.” He ran to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Sticking his tongue out he noted the brownish hue the coffee had left on his tongue. “Great, “ he said to his reflection, “I’ll be doing the two step with death! Come on doc think, what to do.” He turned the faucet on the cold water and began scooping handfuls of water into his mouth. When he was finished he moved over to the toilet and took a deep inhalation, he could smell the cherry air freshener he had bought for the bathroom. He took another deep breath and stuck his finger down his throat making himself vomit, forget the Syrup of Ipecac his finger would do.
The toilet bowl swam a dark brown as the coffee came up. After he had finished he hit the plunger on the toilet three or four times and watched the tempest go down the drain. “Anthrax…..I could have Anthrax!” he said as panic welled up from within him. He wiped his mouth with a piece of tissue and went to the sink again, the water was still running and a cold steam had formed on the mirror near the bottom. He rinsed his mouth again and coughed as water went up his nose. The liquid burned as it poured back through his nostrils and he sneezed into his hand. Blood, was that blood he thought looking at the crimson smear on his palm. He ran to the tissue dispenser and grabbed a wad of the white paper. Holding it to his nose he thought about all of the news reports he had heard about Anthrax, envelopes and packages laced with the deadly toxin, never Coffee.
Curb stumbled out of the bathroom with the toilet paper to his bleeding nose, along the way he tripped over the bathroom rug and fell headfirst into the doorframe. Thump and he saw stars, he sat there for a minute waiting for his head to clear as a dull throb pounded in his bruised head. Touching the surface of his scalp carefully he noted the goose egg that had formed there. “Dammit!” he cursed aloud as blood dripped from his nose onto the tile floor.
Standing on wobbly legs he went back into the kitchen to get the jar of coffee. He grabbed it off from the counter and heaved it with all of his might. The glass jar sailed through the kitchen window with a loud crash and splintering of glass. Something popped in his arm and he screamed. He had pulled a tendon in his arm and the pain was a piercing ache. He groaned and dropped the toilet paper wad as he rubbed his shoulder. “I’ve got to get to the hospital!” he yelled at the broken window, “A friggin hospital,…….before I DIEEEEEEEEEEE!” The doctor had taken a vacation, Dr. Joe Stern was definitely not in control. His voice was a cloud in dark panic as it echoed against the nothingness of enlarging vortexes. There was a hissing sound coming from the kitchen window and Curb smelled the odor of garlic. He went to the window and looked out into the shady back yard. The coffee jar had hit the small tubing that fed into the gas pig and somehow it had come loose. Curb ran into the living room and looked around furiously for the portable phone. It was nowhere to be seen.
The television set was exclaiming the wonders of Sunder Lawn and Garden as he began to moan in great heaving gasps. The doorbell rang a second later and he leaped at the door to answer it. It was his neighbor Favor Lug.
He swung the door open and collapsed into Lug. Lug said, “What the hell is wrong Curb, what happened?” He had looked at curbs blood covered face and his dismayed appearance in scolding wonder. “ The AnTHRAAAAAAAAAXXXXXXXXXX!” Curb moaned.
“What the hell is……….” Favor trailed off as the house exploded with a loud booming burst of flame.
Both men flew into the air nearly to the center of the front yard and as miracles happen they were uninjured except for a few cuts and bruises.
The fire trucks were there for five hours before Curb awoke on Lugs living room sofa. He had dreamed and the dream was full of dark shadows cameras, stage lights, and blood.
“Lights, Camera, Action!” Someone shouted from the end of a long dark tunnel. Curb looked at himself, he was wearing a knee length lab coat with the name Dr. Joe Stern stitched into the left breast. “DR COFFEE., DR. COFFEE COME FILL MY CUP. I’M SO THIRSTY DR. COFFEE.” He saw the 10 Carrot diamond ring on his left hand and grinned. It sparkled and glowed with an evanescent light. Smoke swirled about his feet as he listened.
In the dream Eleanor had been calling him, “Dr, Dr. Joe Stern the anthrax is going to kill us all and…THAT WILL BE FRIGGEN EXPENSIVE BONE HEAD!” she screamed from across a set strewn with broken stage lights and great puddles of blood. She walked toward him in a cloud of gray smoke and sparks. The sparks were electrical cords connected to several stationary cameras and they were coiling and uncoiling. Eleanor moved closer her mouth moving and no sound coming from between her sure pouty lips. Suddenly the air caught fire and she slipped in the pool of spreading blood. She landed with a loud thump as her head split open and the cloud swallowed her up.
She screamed from behind the veil as the pool of blood became ankle deep. “YOU FRIGGEN BONE HEAD LOOK WHAT I’VE DONE!” she poked her head through the cloud and the split in her skull clearly showed the gray matter that resided there. “I”VE HURT MYSELF DR. JOE, I’VE HURT MYSELF, WE ARE ALL GONNA DIE FROM THE BUG TUG, THE BUG TUG, THE BUG TUGGGGGGGGGG!” He stood there and a flock of sparrows swooped across the dimly lit stage filling his vision with flittering black birds. The blood became waist deep and Eleanor was in the distance surrounded by a cloud of smoke, she was doing the backstroke and singing, “DR JOE, DR.JOE HOW WE DANCE WITH THE STARS AND THE GREAT BIG FRIGGEN CARS AND THE RINGS THAT MAKE US SING WITH PARTIES AND TRUFFLES AND CAVIAR JUST LIKE THAT GREAT BIG GOLD BAR…DR JOE YOU”LL REALLY GO FAR!” A vine sprouted from her head and wrapped around the edge of one of the cameras. She screamed, “SMILE FOR THE CAMERA JOE, SMILE FOR THE CAMERA DR. JOE!” the vine had elongated and was lifting the camera toward him in wavering ripples of ease. The blood rushed at his neck as it threatened to swallow him. “THE ANTHRAX SWEETIE, REMEMBER THE ANTHRAX FOR YOU AND ME TO SEE THE END OF THE WORLD IN TOW DR. JOE!”
Eleanor continued to swim in the rising tide as he struggled to breath the water nearly to his nose, something was holding him down. He reached down and grabbed at a thick knot around his ankle, the vine had wrapped around his leg and was pulling him under. Just before he went under he saw Eleanor dangling from the vine by the top of her head above the lake of blood, she was grinning viciously as the vine swayed back and forth, “WE ARE ALL GONNA DIE DOC, ALL GONNA DIE…” As he drown he felt himself pulled back, back, back.
He awoke to the sound of fire trucks and men yelling. His house, suddenly he remembered his house and the explosion. Deep down inside the actor in him was telling him everything was going to be alright, Dr. Joe says everything is going to be OK. He flashed back to the day he had met Eleanor, her bright red hair and the way she had smelled, like Lilacs in the summer, she had tasted good as he had his first kiss with her. You can never go home something called to him from the back of his mind, you can never go home. He cried for a few seconds and took a deep breath remembering acting 101 he focused and found his motivation. Got to move ahead he thought, got to move ahead.
The evening news was on and suddenly he remembered the coffee. “The Anthrax.” he whispered to himself. Lug was next-door at his house with the fire trucks and sweating firemen. Curb listened as the story came on again.
“The Anthrax scare that we reported on earlier has been called off. To the drinkers of Solo Coffee, The coffee was found to be untainted and the initial reports were false…….we are working in earnest to find the source of the rumor and reports that were given earlier this afternoon. Solo coffee is offering a free jar of Joe to every customer who had the Lot Numbers #254987 and #34891. In other news………”
Curb closed his eyes for a moment and sighed, remembering the dream. He had always been one to panic, thinking of his house and the disaster that had occurred he realized that he was lucky anyway. He could have died in the explosion. Curb sighed again and prayed briefly. He could use a cup of coffee, shaking his head and ignoring that notion he decided on tea instead.
Monday, October 22, 2012
New Books by Ron Koppelberger
Voodoo Hyacinth
Enchanting Stories From The Boneyard
Authored by Ron W KoppelbergerA book of frights, troubled diversions, reigning terror and whispering twilight. These are the things you dream of in the darkest hours of the night. These are the ghosts, the demons, the monsters you love to read about but fear in the farthest reaches of your mind. Come delve into the shadows for a brief moment, explore the dark corners of your mind with this frenzy of fear. Voodoo Hyacinth will bring you to the edge and beyond.Available at Createspace.com/4026131 for $7.99
Sundown Shadows
Horror Stories For The Brave
Authored by Ron W KoppelbergerHorror stories for the evening hours. Take a trip to unbidden shores......travel to lands in shadow and realms of the macabre, dance with ghosts and test the limits of your endurance, let the fear take hold and guide you through the mists, the smoke and the lands of the impossible. Let creatures inhabit your consciousness, strange demons and dreams of eternal life, let the frightening become substance, if only for the briefest of moments. This is what you can expect from Sundown. Available at Amazon.com/4021778 for $10.99
Strange Forest
Poetry and Blood
Authored by Ron W KoppelbergerThe dreams of a vagrant few, illusions in dawns promise and the wont of a solitary truth. Poetry that fills the spirit with wonder and curiosity, these are the moments we often cherish.....brought to life with the dreams of a generation and the aspirations of many, this is the poetry you need to read.
Available at Createspace.com/4000925 for $6.99
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Strange Forest
Strange Forest
The dreams of a vagrant few, illusions in dawns promise and the wont of a solitary truth. Poetry that fills the spirit with wonder and curiosity, these are the moments we often cherish.....brought to life with the dreams of a generation and the aspirations of many, this is the poetry you need to read.
Available at Amazon.com/4000925
The dreams of a vagrant few, illusions in dawns promise and the wont of a solitary truth. Poetry that fills the spirit with wonder and curiosity, these are the moments we often cherish.....brought to life with the dreams of a generation and the aspirations of many, this is the poetry you need to read.
Available at Amazon.com/4000925
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Thresholds And Countless Ravens
The realms of illusion and the songs of untold truth, fantasy, desire and pumpkin grins. All told the passion of midnight dreams and Carnival glass done in scarlet.
CreateSpace eStore: https://www.createspace.com/3992086
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Heartbeats and The Sublime
Heartbeats and the Sublime
Poetry for the lost. Worlds of gentle rain and bright sunshine, worlds full of shadow and light, these are the lines of careless abandon and the wont of dreamers. Come measure the heartbeats of lovers in a summer shower or the footfalls of a lonesome dreamer in the hours before sunup. These are the jewles of blissful broadcast, the moments we live for, the times we leave behind and so desperately desire, these are heartbeats and the sublime. $7.99 at Createspace.com/3983659.
Poetry for the lost. Worlds of gentle rain and bright sunshine, worlds full of shadow and light, these are the lines of careless abandon and the wont of dreamers. Come measure the heartbeats of lovers in a summer shower or the footfalls of a lonesome dreamer in the hours before sunup. These are the jewles of blissful broadcast, the moments we live for, the times we leave behind and so desperately desire, these are heartbeats and the sublime. $7.99 at Createspace.com/3983659.
Thresholds And Countless Ravens
The realms of illusion and the songs of untold truth, fantasy, desire and pumpkin grins. All told the passion of midnight dreams and Carnival glass done in scarlet.
CreateSpace eStore: https://www.createspace.com/3992086
Western Mystic
Ghosts and mysteries of the west, the desert and it's secrets. The future of a generation.....western mystery and poetry at it's very best. The love of spirits in commune with the sagebrush and cactus flowers, desert decrees of heat and wild dance......desire in cowboy duds...travels through the sands of time and beauty at it's most dangerous, These are the elements of Western Mystic. Available at Createspace.com/3970720
Sunday, August 12, 2012
Passionate Tempest, Available at Amazon.com
Passionate Tempest
Poetry Hastening Delicate Desires
Authored by Ron W Koppelberger Loves are lost and gained in the whisper of a moment. The union of soul and love, the divinity of what passion and torrents of romance bring, anew with the rebirth of nacent desires, in the whole of sesation and lovelorn consent , the veil of feeling and gentle kisses with the eager essence of asylum, These are the elements of Passionate Tempest......in moments of darkness, a sudden eye for the bidden affections of those who declare the need for Flaming passion and desire's emerging birth. Available at Createspace.com/3961006 for $7.99
Illusions In Shadow
Fiction Bound By Dreams
Authored by Ron W Koppelberger A book of flash fiction daring the momentum of a classic. A world of dreams and elusive spells of wonder combined to create a birth in the imagination of the reader. Shadows and light, the brilliance of the sun and the cool respite of the moon, strange asylums and whispering danger......what comes next? The answer is you, the reader, the explorer of distant horizons and magic drama. These are the elements of Illusion in Shadow. Available at Createspace.com/3953158 for $7.99
Passionate Tempest
Poetry Hastening Delicate Desires
Authored by Ron W Koppelberger Loves are lost and gained in the whisper of a moment. The union of soul and love, the divinity of what passion and torrents of romance bring, anew with the rebirth of nacent desires, in the whole of sesation and lovelorn consent , the veil of feeling and gentle kisses with the eager essence of asylum, These are the elements of Passionate Tempest......in moments of darkness, a sudden eye for the bidden affections of those who declare the need for Flaming passion and desire's emerging birth. Available at Createspace.com/3961006 for $7.99
Farthermost Dream
Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry
Authored by Ron W Koppelberger A book of Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry designed to take the reader to distant horizons. Explore the red sands of Mars, travel to the distant reaches of the universe. Go to the next Earth and find exotic adventure. Come imagine wolves and kings in worlds of fantasy. Take a trip to the rings of saturn through measures of passion for the far reaches of the galaxy. Rocket ships and twilight horizons, time travel and dark shadows, aliens and the settlers who make their way on new unexplored worlds, this is the essence of Farthermost Dream.Available at Createspace.com/3948018 for $7.99.
Passionate Tempest
Poetry Hastening Delicate Desires
Authored by Ron W Koppelberger Loves are lost and gained in the whisper of a moment. The union of soul and love, the divinity of what passion and torrents of romance bring, anew with the rebirth of nacent desires, in the whole of sesation and lovelorn consent , the veil of feeling and gentle kisses with the eager essence of asylum, These are the elements of Passionate Tempest......in moments of darkness, a sudden eye for the bidden affections of those who declare the need for Flaming passion and desire's emerging birth. Available at Createspace.com/3961006 for $7.99
*Twilight-Tide
Dark Poetry
Authored by Ron W Koppelberger A book of dark poetry for the late hours of the night. Pull the covers tight and light a candle. The world in an evening sky at the edge of twilight, this is poetry for the lost, the wandering, the denizen of late night haunt. Imagine flickering lights, full moons in orange spears of light, the lonely call of the wolf at night or a raven's caw, this is the substance of Twilight-Tide. $7.99 at Amazon.com.
Horror Rush
Horror Stories in Shadowy Light
Authored by Ron W Koppelberger A Book Of Horror fiction for the late hours of the night. Imagine the shadows in dreams of frightening contemplation, imagine a world of light and moonshine illusion, imagine fear at it's best. Pull up a chair and get the candles burning because Horror Rush will set you on edge and thrill you to the core of your soul. These stories were written with the horror enthusiast in mind. The darkness never looked so appealing. $7.99 at Amazon.com/Ron Koppelberger.A Butterfly Whispers
Surreal Poetry
Authored by Ron W KoppelbergerCover design or artwork by Ron W Koppelberger A book of waking dreams. A world of illusion and dreams, a world of whispers and gentle song is what this poetry encompases. The sun bidden by the twilights horizon and the edge of a long day waiting for the first breath of eternity. Dreams and surreal imagery fill this book with the hopes and promises of a new day. A Butterfly Whispers will take you to the place you want to be. $6.99 at Amazon.com/Ron Koppelberger.
Raven's Blood
Authored by Ron W Koppelberger A Book of dark and dreamlike poetry. Imagine a world of dreams. Imagine a world where shadow and light combine to create an image painted in whispers, in silent contemplation, in dreams of what is and what has been. Imagine a selection of dark poetry that stirs the soul and captures the innermost wont of our desires and aspirations. Raven's Blood is a collection of poetry created in hours of silent contemplation and wonder. Come imagine the world in half-lit splendor and often with just a touch of fear. $5.99 at amazon.com/Ron Koppelberger.The Light In Snake Fuss
Short Fiction
Authored by Ron W Koppelberger A book of dark and sometimes light short fiction. Written with a flair for the poetic and the mysterious. The world of illusion and the world of shadow sometimes merge to form a picture. Painted in hues of sunshine and moolight this collection will stir your soul and give you cause to wonder. The arcane and the new, the unbidden and the bidden this is a fresh collection of thoughts and stories from Ron Koppelberger. $6.99 at Amazon.com/Ron Koppelberger.Saffron Mirage
Surreal Flash Fiction
Authored by Ron W Koppelberger A Book of surreal Flash Fiction. A mixture of dreams for every occasion. Tales of adventure and horror and everyday existence all in one. Stories with a surreal slant and an eye for the unusual. A bright sky lit by the candent glow of the sun and the half-light of the moon. 50 stories for the curious and the wandering. $7.99 at Amazon.com/3939904All Books Available at The Kindle Store.
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