Nocturne
By Ron Koppelberger
The concord of jumping jacks and panting suspirations filled the darkness of the bedroom like an inflicted illusion tempered to the strident nocturnal eternity of another night in a shroud. The blackout had come on the eve of an illusory dream. He dreamed and in blinding fear of the darkness. He shivered by silhouette of shadow, fearing for his life.
The flashlight had burned out hours earlier, and the tiny wax angel had fluttered for exactly one hour and twenty-six minutes before sputtering to a pinpoint of orange light. One, two, three, four a demon desire at your front door, five, six, seven, eight, don’t forget to lock your front gate, a monster for your mines and a beast in double time. He hummed and sang as he did a series of jumping jacks, sit-ups and pushups in the deep dark confines of the bedroom. Chambers of shadowy hell he thought, convened of a suggested seizure, velvet thorns of silhouette and terror. He blinked the sweat from his eyes and screamed in terror, “YYYYYYIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEE!” Spittle flew from his mouth and his eyes bulged like blazon orbs of secret fiendish vision. He gasped and listened. Whispers, whispers of ghoulish purpose. “YYYYYIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE!” he screamed again. Venerated in eternal restless death , the creeping rudiments of wild psalms in forbidding benediction to the wicked professor, the evil amore’ of charcoal killers in bloodlust fervency and sated narratives in black.
His arms flailed and he pinwheeled onto the couch, screaming like a wounded dog. “YIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEooooooowowowowowo!” he lay shivering in a fumbling clumsy lump as he hugged the cushions. Shielding his eyes he whimpered. Suddenly the front door rattled as commissioners of possible Boogey beasts knocked. “Hey, you ok in there?” the muffled voice questioned. Employed by terrors he ran to the door and threw it open. Dead vacuous eyes of fire glared at him in winged demonic sashay. Framed by the knotted pine doorframe the demon sunk it’s claws in a miasma of rank bouquet into the tender flesh of his shoulders. “YYYYYIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE!”he screamed as the neighbors wife grabbed his shoulders, shaking him gently. Collapsing in a heap at her feet he died. Later when the light shone through their secret, they would discover the bodies of his wife and two teenage sons in one of the bedrooms.
After killing them he had apparently gone insane, yet in retrospect they had no explanation for the claw marks and burns covering all of their bodies.
- - -
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)
By Ron Koppelberger
The concord of jumping jacks and panting suspirations filled the darkness of the bedroom like an inflicted illusion tempered to the strident nocturnal eternity of another night in a shroud. The blackout had come on the eve of an illusory dream. He dreamed and in blinding fear of the darkness. He shivered by silhouette of shadow, fearing for his life.
The flashlight had burned out hours earlier, and the tiny wax angel had fluttered for exactly one hour and twenty-six minutes before sputtering to a pinpoint of orange light. One, two, three, four a demon desire at your front door, five, six, seven, eight, don’t forget to lock your front gate, a monster for your mines and a beast in double time. He hummed and sang as he did a series of jumping jacks, sit-ups and pushups in the deep dark confines of the bedroom. Chambers of shadowy hell he thought, convened of a suggested seizure, velvet thorns of silhouette and terror. He blinked the sweat from his eyes and screamed in terror, “YYYYYYIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEE!” Spittle flew from his mouth and his eyes bulged like blazon orbs of secret fiendish vision. He gasped and listened. Whispers, whispers of ghoulish purpose. “YYYYYIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE!” he screamed again. Venerated in eternal restless death , the creeping rudiments of wild psalms in forbidding benediction to the wicked professor, the evil amore’ of charcoal killers in bloodlust fervency and sated narratives in black.
His arms flailed and he pinwheeled onto the couch, screaming like a wounded dog. “YIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEooooooowowowowowo!” he lay shivering in a fumbling clumsy lump as he hugged the cushions. Shielding his eyes he whimpered. Suddenly the front door rattled as commissioners of possible Boogey beasts knocked. “Hey, you ok in there?” the muffled voice questioned. Employed by terrors he ran to the door and threw it open. Dead vacuous eyes of fire glared at him in winged demonic sashay. Framed by the knotted pine doorframe the demon sunk it’s claws in a miasma of rank bouquet into the tender flesh of his shoulders. “YYYYYIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE!”he screamed as the neighbors wife grabbed his shoulders, shaking him gently. Collapsing in a heap at her feet he died. Later when the light shone through their secret, they would discover the bodies of his wife and two teenage sons in one of the bedrooms.
After killing them he had apparently gone insane, yet in retrospect they had no explanation for the claw marks and burns covering all of their bodies.
- - -
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)
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