Short Story
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                 A Wolf Embracing The Day

 Christian Forge had traveled from loves embrace to breaths of dry
desolation, desert sands to mushroom strewn forests in bloom, from cinder
block abodes to straw and stick foundations.  He had loved, laughed and sang
praises to heaven as well as cursing the demons that lay just beyond the
twilight horizon.

 Christian disturbed the ease of calm harbors and gentle asylum, preferring
the danger in adventure and exploration.  The shack was buried by the palm
fronds and briar scrub surrounding it.  He had managed the tangle of weeds

 And the soft squish of swampy morass for the undressed wont of expectation,
a secret will, a mistress in fanged trust, overwhelming, never sated with the
human condition.  

 He had entered the tumble with a cautious desire.  The herbs and juju the
swamp witch had arranged on the patch of dry dirt floor had enticed his
passions.  He had touched the wolf-like figurine and flinched,  a sharp edge
tore his fingertip and the soil drank in his blood, hungry, sanguine and in
need, in magic allure.  Homeward bound, he thought as he devoured the
sacred meal of herbs and wolf-thyme.  Just a touch of crimson, coppery, salty
and sleek as the tear drizzled into the mystic brew.  He made a face at the
taste, bitter in test, the blood a flavored liquor, a foothold on what was human.

 Soon after,  he collapsed and dreamed of wild freedoms and carnal delights.  
The sleep of wolfs and babes.  Near evening-tide he awoke to the rhythm of
his breath, his even forceful exhalations in wolf bred, magnified sense.  His
paws flexed and he growled, the evidence of his rebuke lay in tattered

 Torn clothing and vesture.  He was refined in the enveloping allure of wolf
suspiration and he wanted, in tense posture. He wanted the hunt;  a whip-o-will
sounded and the keenness of his soul elevated him to heights of unbridled
desire.  From human to wolf, from the certain sustenance of civil

 Union to primal forests and the grace of wily need.  Christian would know the
will of wolves because he was on the heal of evolution,  The balance between
man and wolf.
A Wolf Embracing The Day, Auspices in Thuggery
and Chewing Foil By Ron Koppelberger
                         Auspices in Thuggery

 The discourteous strength of thoughtless show and vulgar claim to the
breed was a science of thuggery to Rouge Unholy.  He disciplined the suave
arrival of tearing, towering violence in creeds of thrilling sensation and tumult
for the act of aggression.  Rouge proposed nonetheless, to the
uncommunicative realm of Vampire lore, in cachets of rose colored bloom,  he
was a design of force and passion.  He had made his plea to the brand to the
doctrine of eternal sunsets and thirsty desire.  Rouge transfixed a negotiated
balance between exquisite evil and the need for consul.  Rouge saw unsown
seed in the vampire as he spoke,  

 “The pittance of a new raiment, an allay in ash and blood for the soul of your
secret conference.”  The Vampire bothered a chaste look and seized Rouge
by the arm.

 “Tantalize me no more by the will of your accusation.”  he whispered in
perfumed breaths.  Rouge hastened to amend his proposal to the Vampire.  
“The very child of humanity is in subscription to the bond of mortal ghost,  
give me your gift.”  he spoke in dreamy anticipation of the evil he could allay
himself to with the immortal pact.  The Vampire tapped his finger against
Rouge’s scalp as he trailed his hairline.  

 “The yield of bedlam is the slandered by which you live and in graces of
great mystery and modesty the rack and ruin of your spirit have confessed a
tithe to our gain, nevertheless the marriage is to ought.”  The Vampire
paused and considered Rouge Unholy for a moment,  he was clever and to
that end he knew better than to invite his courtesy to seasons of desolation.
                         Chewing Foil

 She tangled the bit of string around her index finger,  “Foil,”  she whispered
“Foil.”  She was predisposed to sanguine delights,  a dollop of crimson for a
dollars worth of rouge she thought.  She had been in a slow molasses sleep,  
the lyric ascension of hangdog elements filled her twilight temper with
nightmares and the promise of tinfoil.

 She reserved the expectation of blood for her evening tide triplet,  
symphonies of scarlet and fuzzy decrees of sated triplet,  blood,  blood,
blood.  Unfortunately she needed the temper of foil,  chewing in electric
passions of repugnant surrender.  Sprayed by the baptisms of blood denied,
a thirst unquenched,  a dry bone dust desert.

 The vampire chewed the foil as she existed in a nimbus of acquiescent
accident.  A measure of blood for a touch of tinfoil.  She thanked the angels
of abstinence for her tinfoil and willed the world to revolve in dry gulps of
evermore mercy, mercy for the average bond between man and sustenance,
between curses and gods blessings, between demons and angels,  between
heaven and hell, night and day, sunshine and complete desolation.  

 In resolute suffering she thought tinfoil.  The gospels of flavor and tinfoil,
gnawing potluck temperance and the will to span the gulf between human and
vampire,  in knowledge of tinfoil, in ascending jawbone chaw and chewing
considerations of necessity.  Her salvation and sway, the rhythms of tinfoil.