Ron is aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. He has written 102 books of poetry over the past several years and 18 novels: He has been submitting his work for the past year and a half. He is thrilled by acceptance. He is always looking for an audience. He has published 536 poems, 370 short stories and 86 pieces of art in over 162 periodicals, books and anthologies. He has been accepted in England, Australia, Canada, Japan and Thailand. He loves to write and offer an experience to the reader. He is a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association and The Dark Fiction Guild. His art is viewable on Facebook under email@example.com, you just click on profile and look under photo albums. He hopes you enjoy His work.
Website- Ronnie.Weebly.com (Swamplit)
Website- E-zine Ethrealsouls.blogspot.com
Website- E-zine Fathermostdream.blogspot.com
Whiskey ice and shots of silvery thirst, all in all the dream was in drunken silent caress, a thirsty request for beads of sweating frost, filled to the brim Jim. He saw more inspiring seasons and moments in revolving mirrors of rain, sweet rain, clean air and sober harvest yet all the drink cried, “Deliver me unto the dry tongue, the parched lips of deserts alone, of desolate abandon, deliver me in gulps and swallows of silk!”
He worried the thought for a few seconds and minutes unto days before he found the melody of dry ground, a foothold purchased in long drunks and tattered seams, bought by the pain in sleeping illusions of peace, borne of loud puking heaves and convulsing sweats.
He found the bone dust, the sand, the warmth, the sun, the hot winds of what one owns in the midst of chaos and cure. He owned dry drunks and days between the longing and that, in value, was the treasure he had sought for years. Through it all he had his vision, an endless horizon of dry wind and blue heaven, this is how he survived the drinks enchantment.
Where was the image of illusory flurry, arrogant and revolving near the melody of formerly complaining patients, the flurry of cotton dander and rainbow suns, the flurry that prevented the nightmares from crowding the image of opiate bliss in hospital delirium.
The blockers wore white starched uniforms and Pity William Kind along with the other patients wore green, puke green. The exotic looking woman standing next to Pity was a blocker; send me some good vibes baby he thought. A psy dream pervaded his senses for a moment; he saw soil, mounds of dirt and garbage then the words in bold red lettering above the piles of garbage, “YOUR FILTHY PITY, YOUR COVERED IN FILTH!” The words pushed into his consciousness, she pushed at him, “FILTHY PITY!” He had made the mistake of looking toward the hospital exit. He saw the neon sign flashing his escape, “THIS WAY OUT!” The living common was filled with other patients and all were oblivious to the exit sign. She had pushed her psy and blocked, he had been thinking, thinking What he thought? There were piles of garbage and dirt. The exotic looking blocker turned from him for a moment and he saw that she was really rather plain, not very exotic in appearance, his eyes became slightly glassy and fogged.
The door, he moved toward the door, “EXIT TO FREEDOM!” it said above the door. Pity shuffled through the doorway and grinned as the sun shone in waves and a gentle rain sang on the other side of the doorway. He chanced to look back, the exotic woman who wasn’t really exotic was staring at him her brow creased as she pulled at him with her mind, “GARBAGE!” he heard faintly as he walked away from the hospital and into the light.
The assets were agreeable and the inner longing he was avenging claimed his conscious perceptions with lilac and vanilla flesh, sweet lips and tender throbbing neckline, in bursting ardor and the thirsty dreams of a vampire.
She spun and sang, she danced in pirouettes and gentle swirls as he applauded and cheered her performance. When she had finished he hurried to the stage and handed her a single blood red rose, a touch of drama for the masquerade he thought, sweet homage to my feasting desire.
She disappeared for a moment and the lights dimmed. Romantic he thought as he was the entire audience. She returned to the stage moments later with a small basket and a bottle of cognac. She sat down gently and opened the wicker basket. The vampire disguising his impatience smiled and said, “ Tis a loves feast, well worth the performance darling!”
She replied, “Indeed grand vampire, if I am to console your bloodlust I must be carnivorous as you are!” After saying this to the vampire she took a small sip of the cognac and pulled a large cobra from the basket. Holding the tail she lifted it above her head and milked its venom, each drop landing in her upturned mouth. The vampire blushed and made an excuse leaving her in the dim lights of the stage.
She was an once too much and he didn’t care for snake venom, his ancestry denied the ballerina her vengeance as she was toxic to anyone’s touch.
Iron Crosspoint acknowledged Crisp with a brash expression of trust. Crisp had firmly accepted Irons dedicated resolve. They would breach the veil, forgoing the murmur of immortal deserts and encroaching shades of evil.
Iron delivered the appropriate phrase and slashed the palm of his hand. A well of bright scarlet announced the advent of mortal conclusions. Crisp winced as Iron handed him the hilt of the duel edged blade.
“Yer next!” Iron said pointing to Crisps palm. Crisp closed his eyes and inhaled as he held his breath. With a violent slash his palm was laid open, crimson springs of coppery baptism flowed in rivulets and beaded confluence with the ritual.
Iron held his hand over the bone fragments that were scattered in the shape of a cross, Crisp did the same. The sun shone saffron gold amidst the bones; tiny puffs of dust arose from the arid ground as the blood spattered in gentle rhythm, a rhythm of passion and heartbeats, fury and anger and vengeance. The conviction of bond and infamy wore the lined faces of their determination. They paused in red ribboned whispers of release. The bones rearranged the disarray and a creature of purpose was borne. The anatomy of an enchanting allure in the embers of spirit, in tender devotion to the cause that drove them both. A shadow, a silhouette in shape, in symmetries of divinity and purpose, the legend lay bare in wrath and wonting songs of legend.
It arose from the desert sands and dust in the order of the brotherhood and the task at hand. Growling it flexed its sinew, its breath the incense of a thousand dreams and understanding purpose. The two men stepped back a few paces as the creature considered them. Crisp troubled the bleeding wound on his palm with a complaining grip, hands clasped he remembered the silence of the moment. An empty space filled with cascades of blood, dripping to the dry skeleton of the creature.
A bit of saliva fell to the desolate soil as the beast snapped its muzzle in fussy fanged hunger. Iron reclaimed the moment as he approached the creature.
“EEEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!” it cooed. Touching its fur covered paw he intoned a Latin phrase. It moved forward and Iron saw the flames in its eyes. Fields in ash, burning, burning. In staid sober certainty Iron imagined his enemies falling, one by one.
“Burning saffron seas!” he muttered as they began moving westward toward their fate and the vengeance they would exact in fire.
Rationed by burdens of reflection and the omission of pure recollection the secret was a tangled cleaving taboo, a dawn of rare breed, a velocity of ragged union. The sun he thought, the sun. Thrilled in spears of glory and hope, the sun. The embracing alliance and divinity of the fates called in perfect harmony.
He flexed his chapped hands, seeing, seeing the long nails and the growth of fur covering his hands, his paws, his body. Contracted by the skeletons of misery and the faith of crowns that spoke of allure, allure to the darkest realms of shadow and to the wont of seas in saffron gold. Ancient old gardens of naked passion and angels in flight.
He saw the circle of bloodied stones in a dream and the gathering of men. A fracture in the gloss of humanity, the aberration, men in delirium unsatisfied with the gift of wheat, of saffron and light, men of doubtless conviction, nevertheless hell and sin following. He saw the revelation of his purpose. He saw them in his dreams and nightmares, in evening twilight hunts and the glow of the full moon. They waited for the third coming of Eden, their calling, the advent of their damnation.
The stones, guarded by endless waves of wheat, the garden, the blessing, the spell of patience. The men would open the seal and the old garden would burn, and the lycanthrope would sense the wont of mortals in trespass. The stones, the palace of blood and dust, waiting for the blood rush of sacrifice. They would spill blood there, in the circle of rock and granite and the wolf would scream, scream for the angels to champion the secret place and the garden.
The men would destroy the saffron conclave, in their gathering of destruction, hate and greed……unto the advent of the last, the conflict between good and evil, war and eternal blessings.
Falling to his hands, changing he ran toward the endless eternal wheat. Perhaps a wolf can peruse the world he thought, perhaps.