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The Woe in Balloons of Advancing Age

Surely the approval of his family affirmed the storm, the torrent of tide and time. He was three hundred and twenty-seven years old and the shelter of myth was deeply entrenched in his dreamy, dauntless eyes. Scarlet reflections of confident measure, the spell was genuine and the irises were a portent of bidden and unbidden blood.

The eligible maiden was chaste and in sound bloom, flourishing in whispers of wild rumor and scarlet passage. He postured and declared the alignment of the balloons and his pledge, his promise of betrothal and sovereign duty. A king evermore and a queen chosen by lot, she was naive and youthful nonetheless; he would live to see her grow old and seasoned. He had laid five loves to rest and the dye of eternity bore its burden on his heart. The woe in balloons of destiny, they would flutter and float toward heaven, alabaster, ivory and cream colored, like angels in flight. He brooded and bothered a moment then signaled for the balloons. They drifted upward forever and in sunshine blessings of harvest. The harvest of notion and symptom, the brilliance of the moment pointed toward the new queen and the kiss of an ancient king.

The harvest of saffron skies and eternal wheat bloom argued the age of plenty and the ebony keep of smoked glass shimmered with the bustle of a new marriage.

Story by:

Ron Koppelberger

submitted at 11:16am

26 April 2011