Bitter Beer Face, rough sex, and a bit of recuperation: how Kalen spent the Passover holiday.

"Broadly unworthy", pa told Kalen, after she hurt her little ankle jigging around at the gold mine: pa might have held more sympathy had he been there, how it was a 160 foot deep air shaft and she darn near fell forward snapping off the entirety of her delicate little foot.

"Unworthy", that f*cker, full of enough piss and vinegar for his familiars, a regular little dose of Apple Cider Vinegar, aged just for them, the product of his years, the jaded jagged little spikenids, a kind of emotional sickle-cell, or something, a little bit of cyanide in the pudding or what-have-you; he could pride himself that he kept them real, kept starch in their sails and Gadsen flags, but he couldn't quite convince anyone it was done out of love.

Kalen had Bitter Beer Face for days after, and rocked and contorted, something meningitis or a raw dental nerve, or something, some kind of something inside--her ankle sat regular, its only saving grace, tendrils, sharp sheepnuts of pain rising up her lovely little calf like a lovers touch during rough sex.

Weren't we all?  In the final analysis, didn't we all fall from space at approximately the same weight, the distinction in mass being not so different, or indifferent, if you prefer?

"Lost in her mad thoughts" said her brother, Clyde, and from within, in the side room, she would yell in retort, "my poor foot!!".  Clyde had seen her fidgeting, you see, and thought there was a touch of madness to his sister's hurt, and he mighta been right, had there been nary a jot of extra room within for that, but was there?

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