Bearclaw Valley 'Cause you might enjoy some madness for a while

third born more like born the literal day after at 1 am

... make no mistake.

on a scale of 0 to patrick bateman, andrelia was a soft—6.5.

the cricket tournament that assaulted her mother’s bladder was a pretense for unremorseful and maladjusted tendencies to come moreso than another colic baby (or a kidney stone, jeez). and, maybe she deserved some karmic retribution for that.

but this was just weak!

she was pulling a competitive backstroke to keep away from the limelight that invited the breath of life, the way she latched inside the carceral womb pretty much communicated andrelia was less than married to the idea, m’kay? it would take dr. pol and one of metal chains he used for turbulent calving to tow her out (if it wasn’t for flushing of the birth canal that her marginally autonomous muscles could withstand).

a willful contraction—a putty knife to a barnacle—though it’s like being squeezed through the eye of a needle! her nasal sense is adulterated with baby's rheum and the general detritus of childbirth--yeah, this was definitely weaker than weak.

the amniotic sac was the last thing apropos to uterine serenity she would ever feel; ameline has released cthulhu on the world and born with the cutest disassociated scowl to boot. at least there was the reverential breath of awe that baptized her--a definitive win for all the daughters that looked like their fathers.

there was something ineffable about the phosphene images of ursine deities behind the bruingirl’s eyelids, they are as terrible as they are bright and definitely harmless, but she wouldn’t decipher the eagerness in her bones from the curse in the laden palm of bearclaw or her affinity for malevolence. andrelia gives a nice mooning to anyone who happened to be present at the advent of her glorious birth and got to suckling.

that’s what a girl’s teen years were for, anyways.