Surreal Dreams Two,Surreal Dreams, Horror Express all available at Amazon.com/Ron Koppelberger

Amazon.com/Ron Koppelberger

Slob

Ron Koppelberger

SLOB

The possibility spoke of mongrel revolutions. A greasy shadow covered his wild growth of stubble. Consummated in the pasta and quickening stain of spilled bear, his recliner creaked as he moved his bulk. Chaperoned by the conventions of numerous pizza boxes and garlic butter stained foils his living space screamed for a maid, a loving touch.
The beige walls were stained with oily fingerprints and the remnants of smashed flies. He wiggled his toes in the remains of a half eaten bag of potato chips and belched. Empty beer bottles and soda cans littered the folding chair next to his recliner and the stain of dried vomit, milk and chunky chocolate covered the front of his shirt. He sipped a soda can and yelled, “ Six points booger men!” the doors were all locked and the dust caked windows were nailed shut, “Can’t get me booger men!” he whispered as a bubble of spit formed on his lower lip.
“Booger Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeecccchhhhhhhhh!” he screamed to the trash strewn apartment. The doorbell sounded an electric chiming promise, a promise of fresh supreme, absolutely supreme pizza and cold liters of frosty cola. He stood and shuffled through piles of wrappers, bags and food wrappers. Strangers, strangers and booger men he thought, “Booooooogggeerrrrrrrrr.”
He pressed his eye to the keyhole and peered out. The smiling face of a pizza delivery boy grinned back at him. Fumbling with the latch and deadbolt he unlocked the door and yanked it open. Terror and gibbering horror greeted him in screams of bound resonance. He stumbled, “Boooooooooooogggggggeeeeeeerrrrrrrrr, Booooooooooo…………..” he gasped as he passed gas uncontrollably.
The head of the delivery boy bounced among the plastic sacks and cardboard assortments of trash in a scarlet spray. “BBBBBBBOOOOOOOGGGGGEEEERRRRRRRR!” he gasped in breaths of hot suspiring fear. A fetid blast of air whooshed at him ruffling his hair and filling him with dread. The thing, a gelatinous mass of flesh and glistening Vaseline shimmer slid the pizza box into his shaking hands. “YIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, Booooooooooggggggggeeeeeeerrrrr!” he screamed as he waited to die. The beast grabbed the door and swung it closed as it left. Peeking in through the closing crack in the door the creature growled “Booger indeed, booger indeed my man!”
Passing out he would wake later to cold pizza and warm cola. He shifted in his recliner and through a gulp of pizza whispered, “ooooggggerrrrr men.”

Out And In

Ron Koppelberger

Out and In

The enticement was living and breathing beast in tandem between courage and the dominion of sin. He was in the flesh of the moment, the conception of apples for loincloths and thorns. Theodore Scullion was absorbed by his unsullied temptation, growling uninterrupted by sentiment or guilt, he thought of his desire instead.
He would unlock the secret realms of gold, gold and diamond gemstone, piles of crisp one hundred dollar bills stacked in perfect union and quiet whispering arrangements of fortune.
Theodore looked at the enormous wall safe and dreamed of divine pastures. He had scored small before now but this deal would suit him for life, hookers, hooch, and a flurry of Cadillac limousines; Theodore’s mouth watered for fresh truffles and filet mignon. In wicked compulsion he touched the door handle of the walk in safe. It was a cool platinum gloss. The suggestion of incandescent brilliance contrived the action. Theodore ventured a forceful yank at the safe door.
He had gotten the job as a security guard on a whim and a prayer for futures unbidden. Leo dens worth was a billionaire and an adventurer, Theodore knew he wouldn’t be back for months. He planned his attack and here he was pulling open the safe door just as easy as pie.
The whoosh of the door heightened his schoolboy desire at the simplest level; he stood back in shock as the door swung open. A deluge of ice and snow poured out onto the polished marble floor. Theodore’s shoes crunched and slipped against the white powdery snow. The cool air frosted the tip of his nose in a biting exclamation of the impossible. He stumbled over his ambition as he stared at the revelation the premium in ice and rare encounter. An array of masks hung on the cold metal walls of the safe and the cloying perfume of a ripe melon drifted out into the room. Apprehensively he covered his ears as an uproar of fire and brimstone ministry filled the air, inarticulate except for the persuasive warning, “……..out and out, the sleep of unwrought consolation beholden unto yer soul, beholden unto yer soul………” Theodore caught the door handle and sealed the safe with a frigid whoosh of relief.
His fantastic ambition unraveled as he wandered into the living room and collapsed into the comfort of an easy chair the gateway to hell sealed for now. He sniffed the air for a moment and the veil of reality lifted. The sun shown double and the moon cried blood over the frosted landscape. In an instant of understanding he knew the penance, the cost of his trespass, hell he thought, “Who would’ve figured, who would have figured?” In a flash he was frozen to the core and shorn from the world only to be absorbed by the darkest realms of desolation and sorrow.
The safe remained closed and Leo Den’s secret was safe for a while and in quiet silence the gate anticipated the arrival of another, bidden by the promise of easy lies and wonted passionate sin.
Theodore begged hell to advance the sin of life but the plea went unanswered as the flames of perdition melted the ice and seared him to the center of agonies unbidden.

Primitive Appeal

Ron Koppelberger

Primitive Appeal

The asphalt was hot against his hands, hot, aching, searing. When he pulled his hands away a chorus of befuddling, repentant exclamations poured from his grimacing lips, “ Oh Jesus, Jesus God!!” he gasped. The palms of his hands were inflamed and the skin near the tips of his fingers was burned. “ Jesus God almighty!!!” he whispered as he gently brushed the loose bits of gravel away.
The salesclerk had said the shoes were a perfect primitive temptation.
“ Tha ladies love the primitive look.” she had exclaimed. “ oooooooooohhhhhhhhhhoooooo, haw nice. He looked down at his burned hands and the crazy stitch of the leather and fur; He dreamed in that moment, he saw lions and tigers on the hunt and in quandary with the suns heat and the morning chill. He saw horseflies as big as quarters and dime sized mosquitoes. “ Ahhhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaahhhhhhhaaaaaaa.” he sighed at ease with the dream.
The fine spray of intimate incense blossomed before him like some grand unfurling cloak of sanctity. Rose blush and attar, perfumed in excellent attire, fine-spun gold hewn tundra’s and the love of nightfall baptisms, “ Wild man, wild,” he shook his head and the fog abated for a moment. “ Wild man, those are friggen wild.” The attractive teenage girl smiled slyly and winked. In that moment he forgot the trip to the hot asphalt and the badly fitting shoes became the temptation of primitive desire. He smiled back and said, “Thanks.”
Later that evening he would reflect on the primitive appeal of the shoes and the phone number of the young woman. Once again he thought of tigers, wolves and lions. “ Primitive appeal indeed.” he whispered in quiet reverie.

Live and let Live

Ron Koppelberger

Live and let live

The shrewd haul, the weatherproof asylum, the carefully exalted argument for universal gold. He saw evergreen nuance in the hundred dollar bill, it was perfection, a generous dollop of amazing art. He had spent a year perfecting the silver plates, a year of diligent dreaming in vagabond tatters. The counterfeit bill was perfect and the paper was in whitewashed unity with the fresh ink. From one dollar to a hundred. He had bleached five hundred one dollar bills and reprinted them with the silver plates.
He felt prosperous as he surveyed the clothesline full of money. “Ahhhhhhhaaaa!!!” the smell of drying ink, he sighed in quiet admiration. He inhaled the scent with profound measures of intoxicating glee. Benny Worthy was his partner in crime, he had supplied the ink and enough inspiration for both of them.
The oaken varnished veneer of the door rattled on its hinges. “Open up it’s Benny!” he went to the door and unlocked it, cautiously leaving the chained portion secure. Peeking into the hall he saw Bennies unmistakable figure impatiently shifting from one foot to the other. “Come on, open up!” he groaned. He opened the door to bennies betrayal and the end of their relationship. Benny pointed the 38 revolver in his direction. “Here…” he tossed a knapsack to the ink stained floor and said. “…put the plates and the money in the bag Hank!”
Hank filled the bag with the hundred dollar bills tossing in the silver plates last. “Thanks Hank…..” he chuckled. “Thanks Hank……for the memories.” he sang. Benny turned his back to Hank and walked toward the door. Hank had the semi auto 22 rifle in his hands a moment later. He aimed at the center of Bennies back and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened, the gun had jammed. “Live and let live.” Benny chanted as he left the room. Hank sighed realizing he had no choice.
A single hundred dollar bill lay crumpled, unnoticed against the floorboard. Smiling he realized that would buy him an unsurpassable drunk.

The Natural World

Ron Koppelberger

The Natural World

The outrage of feeble dreams and ancient forerunners in portent, awe inspiring Slug Worthy thought. A magnificent, spontaneous style he thought; morose yet brilliantly perfect he considered. A concocted allegiance of puzzling stones and bone dust elementals in desire, he thought in deepening interest.
The photograph of Stonehenge lay before him in lurid gray granite and twilight horned moon backdrop. A portrait in the natural environs of an unabiding desire, a stolid proof one might touch, roughhewn in obelisk concentric, Stonehenge the purveyor of the impossible and all within the conveyance of a most natural conclusion. It was a mystery in the natural world, dark bidden horizons in time, in breaths of old taboo and modern dreams.
He considered one of the boulders laying atop the pillars. Slug saw himself in grandiose poise, perched atop, screaming to the heaven’s in wild rebuke to the natural world, to taxes, to bidden beasts of burden. He thought of screaming in revolt to the tall sky line edged in skyscraper stain and littered by the human debris of modern existence. He thought of screaming and a gulping gasp, a gorge of anger filled his throat.
“Stonehenge,” he said aloud “…come to me in stars and alliances of ancient wonder, vanguard of the shadows and asylum for the pilgrim….ohhhhhhhh Stonehenge!.” Slug caressed the glossy photograph and sighed. The natural world upset the ballest of dreams and dusty mists in legacy of what lay ahead, the myth of forever. “ Ohhhhhhh Stonehenge, “ he exclaimed in passion and tears, “…..what secret unbidden, what desire untold by the wishes of primitive wont and wild desire. Ohhhhhh great circle of gray and twilight, what compassion do you dare me, what compassion for the graces of my quest, my journey to the nights fray?” he questioned with flailing arms and tears, tears of need and lost lives in rendition of old times and the youth of a new world.
Slugs tears ran in rivers and eventually the picture became blurry and damp, paper and dimples of moisture. Slug somewhat overwhelmed by the illusion and his delirium passed out and slept for nearly two days. When he awoke he sighed deeply and thoughtfully; looking at the bottle of Irish whiskey he vowed the oath of reborn will. The picture of Stonehenge lay bare and stained, long forgotten in disregard to Slugs consciousness.
The desires of city streets and shopping malls called to him and somewhere, cuddled away, nuzzling his old desires, the warm cascade of whiskey tumblers and rhy thirsts awaited like a sleeping tiger.

The Reunion

　
　
　
　
　

Ron Koppelberger

The Reunion

Stone gabble was impatient in his concerns for the reunion, his snazzy labors of sealed admiration. He had fashioned a proof, a swift conspiracy of perfection, in fancy welcome ,in impressions of grandeur.
“Believe my success, believe my success, my patient pinnacle dear cousin, dearest wayward priest.” he whispered quietly to himself as much as the expectation of his cousins arrival. He went on “ Believe my success.” to the Rembrandt and Persian tapestries adorning his walls, “ Believe in my judgment, my tempered fortune, my good luck, my riches and my poise, believe.” he repeated.
Liberty Demitasse was his fifth cousin removed. His crest and admitted notable, his wealth rumored to be the birth of a grand ascendancy. Stone was determined to impress his cousin and the prospect of the reunion was an obsession. The wherefores of Liberty he thought. His kinship to liberty was unfettered by the usual bother of brothers in success; Stone, starry with flowing desires of pride, with esteem for what might be the advent of portfolios and profit, lordship and furrowed business squawk, waited in suffering patience for the outline of futures in fast track; a mantle in union he thought, in cologne, in tonic, in wishes deepest desire, the union of what will be a privilege unshaken.
Stone paused for a breath as the front door rattled in its frame. In custom he straightened his lapel and primed the escapade a la Stone. The door opened in revelation and utter disappointment. A beggar in burlap, a slave in sweaty rags and torn remains; he held his hand toward Stone in greeting.
“ Filthy tramp, sour lunatic dog, begone!” he exclaimed as he heaved the heavy oaken door shut with a solid rebuke. The beggar considered the lineage of stews and solitary wisdom, the turn in curves of fate. Liberty gave agreement, the lace and surrender of freedom, in oasis’s of prominent station and gilded excesses. The necessary salves of wounded burden and direct conviction were the evidence of ancient paths. In his triumph unto the grand brilliance of freedom Liberty Demitasse had arrived and his arrival was an acceptance of freedom, true freedom.

Dreams In Frayed Cotten And Straw

Dreams in Frayed Cotton and Straw

Ron Koppelberger

　

The harmony of gossip in black, in blood and bidden assassins breath bore his title and even so dreams and nightmares haunted him in slow easy demonstrations of fear. He was Sable Warden keeper of the sentence, the purveyor of the gallows, the hangman’s knot and the edge of a triple bladed sword. He was the mask, the crimson spray and the dull thud of heedless punishment, he was the magistrates executioner and the lever was truly heavy.
Sable sighed and rolled amongst the cotton sheets and straw padding. He was caught by the half-light of a terrific phantasm, a sleep chartered by the wont of a decision, a choice given him in the moment of death.
He dreamed of starlight and dark suns at night, he dreamed of red smoke and flame, the better part of a battle wrought for the sake of the kill. With quiet stealth he saw the figure of a man in dark havens of silk, he was levitating and laughing. Sable knew and his knowledge bought the drama. The figure floated closer and he raised his triple edge. The hilt of the sword was solid silver with triple wolfs heads at the base. In the smokey light the wolfs eyes glittered, the eyes were blood red rubies, the blade the sharpest in the township.
Sable swung at the floating specter and screamed with a furious anger. The man laughed as the blade ripped through his mid-section tearing him in half and dropping him to the ground in a spray of blood and viscera.
Sable grunted in his sleep and shivered; in the dream he wore his executioners hood and silver tinged vestments of leather. He saw the sky as the twilight shone its light on the figure of the man. There was a twinkle of metal around the dead mans neck. Sable wiped tears of blood from the corners of his eyes and uncovered the flash of metal. It was a necklace hewn in gold and slick with the mans blood. The design was unfamiliar to him, stars, half moons and emerald slivers of stone. Sable grabbed the chain yanking it free, the spoils of battle he thought.
The sky bled bright orange and red and in the distance wolfs howled at the approaching blood moon. As the shadows closed in around him he moaned and rolled in the cotton sheets, sleep laden and borne by what was due he dreamed of crimson seas and the wont of an untrod path, the path of an unconscious passage, in dreams of love, loves lost and the end of his humanity. The blade lay next to him in darkness and he continued on dreaming of yet another battle. Sable swung his sword and the flesh was always pliant, the blade unforgiving as he sliced the head from a slender figure in union with the fight. Wooooosh, a moment, a breath of mere seconds as the head toppled revealing a woman’s face, it lay, face upturned, bleeding on his leather boots.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” he screamed recognizing his wife’s face. The sheets tangled about his feet and he dreamed of a scarlet sash binding his ankles and a small child, a boy towing him through mud and ash and the embers of countless fires. Sable kicked and screamed as he was pulled along, he was helpless in the child’s undoubting sway. The bed creaked and shook as he screamed in fear and convulsive thrall.
In the dream, the source of his unconscious hell he kicked screamed and fought the child pulling him, dragging him toward unbidden ends, toward an executioners fear.
Haze filled the air for a moment then thousands of leaves, dry, crumbling, flittering and fluttering like a million moths, they fell down around them and buried them absolutely. The tugging ceased and suddenly the child was gone.
He stood amongst the pile of decaying leaves brushing the heap away from his face. He moved forward. Ripples moved beneath the thick blanket, fast scurrying toward him in circles, and the sound of children at play, singing. The sky flashed a brilliant fire red and the leaves disappeared only to be replaced by mist and a sparkling dew that covered a long sloping hill of grass.
The castle stood in the distance and in the front a large pole with long tethers attached at the top. A group of children circled the pole each holding a tether. “We all fall down…….” they sang. They were expressionless as they fell to the ground in silent play. Sable moved to the edge of the circle, the children had dark half moons beneath their eyes and were covered in leaking bloody sores. He thought, the harrow has passed.
He groaned and tried to awaken without success. Daring fate he moved closer to the castle and the arched entrance. Bitter acorns lay in wooden bowls on either side of the gate, pausing he removed a handful and placed them into his pants pocket.
A shadow appeared near the stone entrance. Tall in black shawls and silver blades covered in scarlet. The figure yelled like a wild banshee, “YIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE!” the figure grimaced and swung his knife blade at Sables neck. Sable stepped back and swung the triple edge of his sword. The air parted as did the flesh of the banshee. Blood and a thick viscous spray of ash filled the air and stained his sword. The figure fell to the grassy ground and an awareness stole over Sable.
In his dream he remembered, he remembered the gallows, the knots, the fare of a blood thirsty throng. He remembered the face of the aggressor, hung months earlier. He touched his cheek, hesitant, cold covered by the executioners hood. Sable groaned again remembering his wife and son, the reason he had become what he desired in hate.
Near the end of his dream he cried and a single tear tempered his blade, then he awoke.
The sky was dark outside and the sound of cicadas’ filled the space between his ears. He looked at the blade next to his bed and the black hood he had worn since their deaths, his wife and son.
Reaching into his pocket Sable pulled out a handful of pealed acorns. He whispered, “let it be at an end.” as he chewed the bitter acorns. Leaving the castle keep he moved on toward what he wonted, life, rebirth and new days bought by the hope that he could regain what had been lost.

Aria In Shadow

Ron Koppelberger

Aria In Shadow

The embryo grew in news and the tramp near the edge of Promise Nod looked to the name of Aria, the violent summoner of arid winds and fiery desire, a witch of reputation in promise.
He faced the front shingle on the ancient cottage door, all gray with scarlet lettering, “Aria The Steeple” it read. Humbled by the shame of poverty and the passion he felt for Aria, he stood waiting for her acceptance. A father to be he thought, a child in due by the fates and by the wont of a black witch.
Polly Dray knocked on the rough hewn oaken surface of the witches door. A rapt gift of practiced patience stole his haggard face in waves of anticipation. They had met by the Western Glenn, she in dark eyed attire, a rare mix of magic and satin ease and he in suffering regret, a pale faced clumsiness prefaced by the rags of misfortune.
She had come to him in a dream.
“Bidden by the wont of child, a dark need for the birth of an apprentice.” she had whispered in his sleep. She led him to the edge of a glass pond, silent, secret and in clandestined shadows. They had given the sky a moment to remember; twilight, scarlet desires in fervent passion, they had followed the crimson heart of ecstasy , of bliss borne from the grip of wedlock, in sin, darkness and fire, bought by the unbidden features of broken taboos and uncommon affections. They had created from rags and silk, a bond by blood and the cleaver eye of a witch, Aria the violent and Polly broken in spirit, he only aware of the moment, the due he needed to climb the delicate petals of stature and life.
A turn for the better he thought as he stood waiting for the door to open; the arms of an angel he thought of the witch, my sweet Aria blessed by the gods and her husband to be.
A few moments later the door swung open unfurling darkness and the trappings of his illusion. In naive currents of desire he thought, her rouge is bright and her lips sweetly shimmering in scarlet whispers of song.
Aria stood before him, covered in blood, apron smeared scarlet by her bloody handprints. His look of cloudy delirium became a look of surprise and dismay, yet he had known, with a surety he had been aware. She crossed the gulf of Polly’s shock and pulled him close.
“Sweet man, tis just a moment before twilight and the silhouette of night-tide saints, calm yer fear and cool yer dismay!” she hugged him close and the vapors were sweet as well as coppery with the violence of the witches passion. She kissed him gently in convincing measures of bond.
The sound of night thrush filled the wild around the cottage as the moon cast its light across the small clapboard house, the breath of drama told in a grim distraction.
Hear ye!” she said in his ear quietly.
“See ye!” she nibbled his ear breathing warm summer winds and daisies into his accepting consciousness.
Aria led him into her asylum. The door closed shutting out the evening sky and the path he had traversed to be with her. He saw soft shades of amber light and the odor of baking bread filled the air. He was enchanted not seeing the body of the man, rended and broken, dismembered and slashed in crimson, splashes of death. He didn’t see the cold edge of the blade laying near the corpse nor the smile in darkness, in secret cankers and charcoal soot.
Aria patted her stomach and grinned wider. “Our baby dear Polly, we’ll raise her to be a queen, a princess in power, to avenge your rags and my prison, to become the pasture for our devoted moment of vengeance dear Polly.”
The table the body was laying on dripped pattering tears of blood against the burnished oaken floor, pooling in a savagely satiating aura of red. Aria stepped back sliding in the sticky mess, nearly falling and for an instant he saw her, ancient, bleak and candent by the fires of hell, in her moment of weakness. His eyes became clear for a moment, just the briefest of admittance and a sleepless gathering of strength crept into his countenance. By dust and roses he thought, what wore the witch, his sweet Aria what wore her.
Pulling him close again she sang in his ear.
“Like sacred storms and the rain of tangled dreams, give me my cleaving affection in dire confection.” Polly listened and wavered from his insights, perhaps she was an angel in dark airs of passion. She touched his eyes and sent him a vision. Sunshine and spring flowers in bloom, children playing and sparrows flittering black then white, black then white, white and black. He opened his eyes then, seeing her for what she was, dark, evil and angry; nevertheless she loved him and he was frayed, burned by the struggle and she was carrying his child in her womb.
Sprays of sparrow song and dandelion bloom anticipated the birth of Arias baby. Polly saw darkness and the same expectation in Aria’s eyes.
She sweat blood and smoke, fire and wrath. He looked to the midday sky and thought, it had been nine months brewing, stirring in the mists of fate. Happenstance was discreetly convincing the wind and the tempest currents. Polly wrestled and wondered for his child, for the troth of a darkness borne in ecstasy and wont. He wondered and his contemplation secreted the wisdom of one who was enchanted by the notion of flowers, azure heaven and god, guiltless deliverance. He struggled for nine long months finally deciding. She’ll be my daughter named beauty and love, balanced by my devotion. Polly thought again and to the edge of the darkest horizon. He would end the witches life after his childs birth. For the winter to come and times of hunger, he would steal the child and the breath of the witch, the steeple, the killer of innocence, for the promise of his soul and his daughter. He would take her the moment his sweet salvation was borne into the world.
Aria lay in wait for the hint of her achievement, her daughter, in spasms and convulsions of birth, in revolt, in revolutions tide she screamed and fought the pains of child birth. In an instant the child was borne, into the light and shadow of Polly and Aria, crying new wanting the things of the world and her mother lay in reverie, in asylums of warmth, candent and in the way of sacred angels, her father strong with resolve.
She dreamed and cried and thrashed at the world, tiny tears sliding across her ruddy checks in infant passion.
Polly drifted between the realms of shifting day and a suffering night, he best a twilight thought. She’ll be away from the witch if only I can manage he said through a sudden and overwhelming lethargy. Polly’s eyes widened and Aria laughed in salt and flame, loud, hysterical and wild. She laughed and convulsed in rhythm with the childs tears, her daughters power.
The baby touched her check and Aria screamed as a bright sun appeared there smoldering her flesh and burning her to ash. Polly touched the child, his daughter borne of a dark witch and a vagabond and his hand came away shriveled, old by degrees of time as the future spun ahead.
Brick and mortar replaced the forest glenn and the sound of airplanes, cars and scurrying footfalls, the footfalls of countless people filled the air. Polly saw his daughter for a final moment before he crumbled to dust. She was laying on a city sidewalk, the concrete jungle of Promises future. Passerby glanced apprehensively down at her, looking for her mother and wondering why a baby was laying in the middle of the busy crowd. Her writhing newness was the birth of an era a time in passing seconds and days of fast evolution.
She waited for her parents in the shadow of a brilliant light. A swan and a black and white sparrow, of the suffering witch and the desire of a tattered castoff.
On her way to work the woman, kind in expression reached down and took the baby to her bosom, away from the hard surface of the concrete sidewalk. She noticed the pile of rags laying next to the child thinking of a homeless mother or father.
The woman smiled and sang.
“Hush little baby, go to sleep.” The baby grinned and cooed bound by the promise of an era given to the romance of a secret future.

***

Twenty Years Later

She was twenty years old now, no longer that innocent babe. Cloaks of light engaged her wherever she went, nonetheless. She stood on the top floor of her new penthouse apartment and sighed as her husband whispered into her ear.
“It’s great isn’t it hon?” he said as he kissed her ear.
“It’s just beautiful Shaver, just beautiful.” The sound of music and singing, tribal dark and wild drifted up from the glossy burnished cedar floor. “Must be a party downstairs.” she commented to Shaver.
“Must be honey, maybe we’ll go down and introduce ourselves.” he offered casually. She looked at him for a moment wondering.
The city skyline was gorgeous she thought in clouds of distraction. She stared over the rail to the balcony below. There were people milling about the patio and they were laughing as they ate crackers and pate’ The sky grew dark for an instant as she heard the name. Aria, the woman on the patio was starring up at her and smiling.
“Come on Aria, the band’s great!” she looked away and went back into the apartment.
For a moment the woman, Aria had looked old ancient and familiar. Shacking her head she walked back into the penthouse. She could hear her husband talking to someone on the phone in whispers.
“Hey honey, we got an invite for the party.” he said excitedly. She remained silent thinking about the child she was carrying.
“Great honey!” she called back as she prepared herself for the party. “That’s great.”