Yesteryear Fiction

Misty Needs
By Ron Koppelberger


Accustomed to the passion of emerald eyed motes

In the reason of loves embrace and the smiles given as joy,

For the wont of a dreaming

Design, sheer by misty needs and the satisfaction of

A syrup in slow heartbeats and
                                      Melodies of ecstasy.


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I have been accepted in England, Australia, Canada and Thailand. I love to write and offer an experience to the reader. I am a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association.
*Website-SwampLit (RonnieWK.weebly.com)
* Website-Shadows at Night-Tide (Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com)
* Website-WolfFray.Blogspot.com

The Book in Shadow
By Ron Koppelberger


The characters in the book were an echo of eyes in stray fluttering fear. The forlorn grandeur of the seedlings and destiny in spring rebirth, covered by an array of moldering leaves conveyed the superstition that Black Ray worried about. The tempter of tides, an evasive game play fashioned by conflict lay within the pages of the sacred book. A secret asylum, harvested for the able reader, the purveyor of eternities.
He hummed, “HHHHHHUUUUUUUMMMMMMMMMMM.” in nervous fear. The ground had soaked Black's jeans from bottom to the tops of his knees. He sat in the small clearing disposed to the silken bond of forbidden knowledge and unbidden journeys. He recited the verse and waited. Flowers bloomed in symphony with the passing seconds as days revolved, twilight to day, day to twilight. Bone dust dry winds and cactus bloom assumed the season of spring as drifting sands stung his checks.
He read another verse and shallow chasms of thumping ocean tide filled the horizon and in ration of an unforgiving gibbering fear a colossus appeared in the sea swell. Giant, primordial, it was screaming in a haze of smoke and mist. It moved in slow motion, ancient, determined…….the book he thought, the damn book!
He read another verse and the distance filled with the silhouette of an unabiding fear, mammoth enormity, Black gasped with an excited intention. He was in command, “Be gone!” he yelled. The shrieking beast moved closer the surf swelled and roiled with it’s direction. The sun costumed the vision in cascades of brilliantly tinctured fear. His ideals, his customs, the life that he had built faded in a whitewash of transparent vision before his eyes. Comprehending nothing but the yowling mass of flesh and providence he waited for the clutch of death, for the beasts of ancient legend, for the monsters that ruled the desert sands of unlawful consciousness. He shivered and prayed in furious electric accomplice to the shadow that stretched across the landscape.
The book fluttered and a four sided square appeared before the demon, then it disappeared. In a degree of exchange the horizon became fragmented the solid again. The spring season of azure skies and striving seed wavered then became real again as the sun warmed Blacks shoulders. Where had the beast gone he asked himself, to what world to what country of shadow and magic.
Black stood and day by day and years later he concluded that he had chanced legend, fabled arrays of blood, in reflection he found fear and an attired cloak of fright. He mounted the stallion of denial in those later years and, for a while, the book would lay safe, encased in steal and secreted by tumblers and levers. This was little consolation to Black in his old age for he understood the day would arrive, and the world would war with the ancients for some time.


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I have been submitting my work for the past year and a half. I am thrilled by acceptance. I am always looking for an audience. I have published 420 poems, 239 short stories, and 63 pieces of art in over 110 periodicals, books and anthologies.
* Website-WolfFray.Blogspot.com

The Dark Wolf
By Ron Koppelberger



The distance between yesterday and today was a decade of sacred hours and anesthetic. The anesthetic was a satisfaction that the urges were encased by cement and iron and the hours spent in quiet contemplation of the illness, the malady, the bother of need and sanguine aching force.
Astor Scow sat solid in his tethered moment of captivity. He was enveloped by the bond of prison existence. He drank in the thoughtfulness of half-starved desires. Nevertheless, he yielded to the asylum of metal bars, the dissension from the row, the hungry certain caress of time passed. He sighed, the blood fresh in his mind, the carnage, the cringing seizure of a later vagabond occurrence; in violence and equally measured themes of sin he had killed. Asphalt and barbed wire ran the length of the yard. The croaking roar of a siren descrying its irritation in songs of freedom to Astor.
He had chewed the fat with divisions of death, sated slaked in blood and rage. He had killed, for need and desires of testimony to the wont that coursed through his arteries. He had killed for mad passions of power and efficient evolutions of unbroken transfer, the transfer of fountains and the spirit of necessity. He had killed in guise of eternal secret and picket fence fantasy, in flourishes of love and ever alert reverence, in reverence of the drive toward expediency, torn, engaged, unwearied by the push of wont. The distracted wholes of feeding wolves and nihilistic men he thought in a certain contemplation. He had killed the length and breadth of homeward bound berths in wolf rule and in faithful prayer.
The siren continued and the cell door slid open with a clanging of gears and steal sliders. Tentatively, Astor explored the exterior of the cell. The resonant whoop of prison clamber filled the halls and maze of cells. Astor, undisturbed and full of purpose, moved through the open gate near the end of the cell block. Fundamental transformations began to overwhelm his senses as he traveled through another gate, closer to the outside world of freedom and chance, the chance of a lifetime.
Darkness filled the exit near the visitors booth . No guards and a myriad of screaming inmates. Astor moved through the exit at a lope then a trotting caution then a galloping run, his paws fresh furred and clenching reflexively. Sanguine wolf sashays of freedom tinctured his escape. He saw the silhouette of another wolf for a moment, unbidden, near fields of saffron and wheat, near god’s touch. The vision faded and scorched pathways of scared earth lay before him, his destiny.
In the grace of a winter reckoning Astor looked to the arid desert sands and agreements of dusty cactus bloom as he found his purpose.


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I am aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. I have written 100 books of poetry over the past several years and 17 novels: I have been submitting my work for the past year and a half. I am thrilled by acceptance.
*Website-SwampLit (RonnieWK.weebly.com)
* Website-Shadows at Night-Tide (Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com)
* Website-WolfFray.Blogspot.com

Caravan
By Ron Koppelberger


The romance of western ways and satisfactions of desert bloom were strong attractions for Victor Tuck. A balanced recollection of tides and sunshine moted summer dustbowl, grass houses and wagon train exploration was the dreamy nuance in his consciousness. He had traveled from New York to Arizona, braving the winds and the heat of a sultry summer.
The polish on his shoes was still wet as he buffed and spat in tandem. Gnarled but still rippling with the baptism of strength, wiry tendons bulged in his aged hands. The expedition had been dauntless and they had ventured the promise of a new frontier. They couldn’t have foreseen the fate that would define a sovereign rush of destiny.
It had been an indigo night in a vast savanna of grass; the wagons were in a concentric circle of protective grace. The sound of wolves howling had filled the air and the women hid deep in the caravan wagons. Enticed by the echo of danger, Victor had stood guard by the fire, tending it with scraps of tumbleweed and scrub grass. Victor heard the grass rustle in a peculiar fashion as he raised his Winchester. The thought of being scalped minded his fear. The rustling continued for a few more moments then all was silent. Leaning back against an arch of dead oak, he closed his eyes. Emma was fast asleep in the confines of one of the wagons and he was thankful for that. The flittering flames traced vagrant shadows of spectral quandary across his eyelids. A strange restless unease overwhelmed him for a moment and then a deep dark drizzle of fog beguiled him.
He heard the screams of men in panicked frenzy and the sound of gunfire. The topsoil was worn and wet beneath his palms. He remembered looking at his hands with concern, they were bloody and slick. He watched the maelstrom of wolves, imposing lodgers in a ridiculous circle of travelers. Victor sighed and dismissed the vision of carnage.
Dusky twilight yield glowed an orange shimmering ember eyed flame in Victor's ancient eyes. He existed in the reflection of a sanguine beast. Undressing, he waited for the change, the change that would bring dark divisions of man and wolf, human and beast. The wagon train had been there in his mind, a memory of ancient loss and willful gain, the gain of the wolf and the loss of his mortality. He waited for the moon and its lunacy, the sun and it’s salvation.


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I am aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. I have written 98 books of poetry over the past several years and 17 novels: I have been submitting my work for the past year and a half. I am thrilled by acceptance. I am always looking for an audience. I have published 358 poems, 202 short stories, and 38 pieces of art in over 93 periodicals, books and anthologies. I have been published in The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Freshly Baked Fiction and Necrology Shorts. Also I recently won the People’s Choice Award for poetry In The Storyteller for a poem titled Secret Sash. I have been accepted in England, Australia, Canada and Thailand. I love to write and offer an experience to the reader. I am a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association. I hope you enjoy my work. (My art is viewable at face book, will806095@bellsouth.net)

Scathless
By Ron Koppelberger

Midnight Willow
By Ron Koppelberger


The uncontrollable buzz of June bugs and crickets in song, sung sure and in rhythm with the firelight embers. The outline of the Willow wept in shadow and moonlit silhouette. Crem Harridan sat in the unfurled comfort of an aluminum and plastic yard lounger; the fire burned at a low ebb near his outstretched feet. Crem sipped at the blue and red can of beer with a slow contemplative breed of order. He lay there unpretending forethought before the flame.
He had found the passion of the egg. He had believed it to be an Ostridge egg. It was, or had been, the size of a large grapefruit. “An authentic Ostridge egg!” Wade Specter had said to Crem in excited exhalations of cigar smoke. “A gosh darn feast of feathered fare Crem!” he had exclaimed. Crem had begrudgingly bought the egg from Wade for ten
dollars and a beer.
The Willow swayed in the cool summer breeze and the scent of sulfur permeated the air. An Ostridge egg he thought; it hadn’t been an Ostridge egg.
Crems ex-wife had left in a sudden fit of rage nearly two months earlier. “Yer good fer absolutely nothing Crem, yer a lazy drunk and yer lousy in bed!” Mince Zither Fry March Harridan had screamed in his half conscious face. He had laughed and thrown an empty beer can at her. “Sonofabitch!” She had screamed in a furious rage. The argument ended with Mince tearing across their yard with the old Ford F-150 they had bought in the first year of their marriage. She had left deep ruts in the yard and a broken cement bird bath behind. He grimaced as he remembered the scene. If he had been in possession of the egg then things might have turned out differently.
The egg lay broken at the base of the Willow tree. There had been a snap and a crackling sound as fissures formed on the surface of the egg. He had considered sobriety for a brief moment as the egg ruptured in crackling expressions of birth. Untangling itself from the bits of broken shell it flew eagerly in warm currents of spell. It gracefully filled the close trembling shadow Crem cast over the taboo.
A likeness to the beauty of a mischievous question in vengeance swore an oath borne of miracles and impossibilities before Crems eyes. The winged magic of a fairy, maybe it’s a fairy he thought. It had the wings of a moth and the eyes of a tiger, scarlet and amber hued, Flittering, all teeth and a widows peak near its bulging forehead.
He lay there thinking about the Fairy and the shattered egg. His anger, his fury had turned it into a bright flame of rage as he thought about Mince and the Ford F-150.
It had sped off and he had honestly felt good for a second. He wondered what Mince would think about the fairy. Crem tilted the beer can toward his mouth and swallowed as he dreamed about his new friend.


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I have been submitting poetry and short stories for the past several years. I began writing when I was ten years old when my grandparents gave me my first typewriter. I love to entertain the reader and give the gift of insight.

Bristles and Terror
By Ron Koppelberger


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.


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I am aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. I have written 93 books of poetry over the past several years and 16 novels. I hope you enjoy my work.

The Creed of Divine Shadows
Ron Koppelberger


The gesture blocked the sun and it’s warmth, a silhouette against the wooden post, dark and gamboling mystery. The favor of cool shadows against the sky, against the pale tan reflection of wood in the burning light of a brilliant sun, wavered and presented a shadow. His hand flittered in butterfly movements and rapid mime. The shadow danced and reshaped itself against the smooth wooden surface of the fence as his fingers bent. The shadow became an alligator, they folded and the darkness became a grinning monster, yet again and a pumpkin at the pinnacle of Halloween. He grinned and shaped both of his hands in an elaborate configuration; the sun burned the skin a pale pink on the backside of his hands, itchy and tender, it was hot unlike the shadows in haloed compliance with his movements. In creepy crawly waves of ambiance, in sure shades of gray and black, the sun seared and bleached the outline of his hands and gave rise to the imaginings of shadow beasts and the star.
A small star appeared against the rough hewn surface of the wooden fence, pointed and in triple horned reverie. The star became two, then three, then four pentagrams in arching circles of revolution. Five, then six spinning in conjured exponential array, until a thousand stars rotated and swirled before him. He screamed as he tried to close the gateway to oblivion, shadow puppets gone to the darkest depths of desolation. He screamed again as he shook his hands and was slowly pulled into the circle, flayed by terror he gasped and whispered, “Plllllleeeeeeeaaaaaaassssssseeee, pleaseeeeeeeeeeeee.” as he disappeared into the wood.
The silhouettes in dancing temptations of secret knowledge and dark abyss’ diminished and his cries became muffled then silent. The shadows became light and the dance of the stars slowed to clear sunny rays of brilliance. In the twilight tide shores of love, life and lessons in err, the stars twinkled in the indigo heavens and the world revolved in mysterious turn.


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I have been writing since I was a child and nothing thrills me more than seeing my work in print where it will be read and considered, in fear, joy or laughter. The best a writer can aim for is to spark the imagination of those he is writing to.

The Gifted Giant
By Ron Koppelberger


Rebel wings and the legendary wake of a haunting renown, a vulnerable size, a vivid persuasion in giant claim, by tantalizing heights of resonant wind, the breath of a fantastic argument, in tattered burlap and tarp. He weighs the wonder of a gifted giant, in flittering eyes of emerald glow and corn silk ringlets of sunshine harvest, he stands by stature and virtue of a small mountain and a gentle upward glance. He carries the riches of a burden in sated berth, by the footfalls of a giant and the gift of daring dust, mother earth in his clutch. By the hands of a tall gasp and a great grasping magic, he shapes the soils between worn palms and nimble fingers, by the evolution of whispering dirt and stone columns of exclamation. The fantasy in pause in sway and swans of ebony burnish, he descries the gift of creation by giant sighs and giant dreams of contrite deliverance. By divine earthen wills and made from clay, sand and stone fruit, the drama of the giant building a destiny through the wont of grit and soils, in what’s begat by the hopes of a secret shadow, invisible secrets and asylums in silhouette. He fashions the curve of a beauty in velvet and coy desire, for man, for love, for the desolate abandon of a lonely moment and an unforgiving separation between man and giant. The shape of a sculpted bliss in long legs and sweet smiles, in azure eyes and sweet song, the earth made whole by the caste of a woman, full circle by the wilds and the wonts of a blessing shaped by the soul of a giant, the gift of life borne by giant hands and the call for companion spirit, built by giant arms of embracing affection and the illusion of a twilight fire, by giant hands made female and given the essence of light, by giant hands the gift of love.


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I love to write and entertain the reader with a bit of insight or with a view that may not have been apparent. If I can touch the reader with a long forgotton memory or a moment of wonder then I have done my job.

The Breath of a Lover
Ron Koppelberger

Off on a Tangent
By Ron Koppelberger


He layed his hands on the wax edged emblem; he was an experimenter, a dabbler in the embrace of desires unbidden. A unique taboo in beguiling splendor, the image on the emblem, the seal, the divine construction of lines and wax lions in crimson exclamation, cried tears of wont, wont for the confession. He fingered the wax seal on the envelope, embossed with the crowned image of a lion, the envelope promised a secret.
“ Sepulchers and crypts of knowledge, by thrones of sage passage, I need the secret, I need the secret, “ he whispered in quiet, ponderous conclusion.
The sky reposed in great spears of frayed orange twilight and the flames of a distant vista called the dream forward to moments in decision, in indecision.
“ Shall I break the seal, shall I crumble the wax to bits of surrendered compulsion? “ he spoke aloud; and what? what lay within the embrace of locked doors and designed secret? He thought in curious abandon.
The sly whine of the man’s German Sheppard disturbed his moment of resolve. “ What boy? “ he said to the nuzzling dog. The Sheppard wagged and rolled his eyes excitedly. “You hungry boy?” he teased enthusiastically.
Moments later, the letter forgotten, the man followed the bouncing dog into the kitchen. The plastic food dish sat near the corner of the sink waiting to be filled with dry kernels of nourishment. The man paused for a moment, whispering, sibilant and ethereal, the air hummed and the sound of bones being ground to dust, grating, crunching, abrasive, filled the air and the space between the kitchen and the living room where the letter, the seal waited.
The man shook and in mortal confusion and moaned reflexively. “WHAT,” he shouted through the noise, “WHAT?” expelling a breath in fearful gasping gulps he covered his eyes and shivered. The dog barked at the empty space between the arched entrance to the kitchen and the living room. The air filled by rapid measure of shadow, silhouettes in ashen gray and a great enormous shape yawning in maw and hungry wont; the man screamed and the need, the starving darkness of the seal called in degrees of clandestined shadow.
“NOOOOOOOOOO!” he screamed against the din. Unlimited, concealed and besieging the character of life, by the abortion in suffering boundary, the dark silhouette desired, desired the frayed gift of human existence and lives won in Eden, the paradise sure, by the hand of human spirit. It desired in blood drenching cascades of famine and pale horse gallop, it desired.
The man stumbled into the living room and grabbed the envelope, stuffing it back into the gilded teak box it had been delivered in. The lid closed with a clap of silent consent and the clamor ceased. The dog continued to bark at the empty space where the shadow had been.
All it would take is a tangent, a curious tangent explored by the dark edges of consigned fate, he thought. The dog yapped and growled. “I know your hungry boy and by god so am I.” he said matter-of-factly.


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I have been writing fiction and poetry since I was nine years old. I love to see my writing in print and nothing makes me happier than giving the gift of a long forgotton moment or a shiver to the reader.