08-03-2016, 01:56 PM
stay close to me while the sky is falling
Beneath the pale light of a setting sun, she finds herself weakened at the knees as a trembling contraction pulsates heavily across the length of her body. She quivers beneath her own weight, and with a crumbling resolve, she tucks herself away within a blackberry-lined thicket (ignoring the superficial scratches that the thorns lay along her swollen, heaving sides) and collapses onto the dried brush. Agony ripples through her and her nostrils flare with each elongated breath. She muffles the wry sounds of anguish from her throat, urging herself into silence as she gives herself to the crippling pain while the heavy waves of oxytocin begin to flood through her throbbing veins and arteries.
Hours pass and soon, the sun dips below the horizon, leaving nothing but the blinding moonlight to drench the darkness with its light. With heavy, baited breath, Misra presses the bridge of her nose to the damp skin of her daughter, lips and tongue ridding her of the dreaded afterbirth. A deeply set instinct sets in, and she rises, urging her to rise with her. She is radiant and beautiful; feeble and weak but nonetheless unadulterated perfection. Her legs tremble beneath her, but with some encouragement in the form of gentle nudges, she cradles herself close to her exhausted mother's side, suckling from her at last.
Weary and worn, she observes her for a long moment as the soothing sounds of the nearby trickling creek and the trill of crickets emerge from the darkness. Her pelt, though still damp, is painted a deep copper - she is the daughter of Nymphetamine, there is no doubt. A pang of regret lingers within her aching chest as she touches her whiskered lips to the delicate girl's flank, inhaling her earthly scent. Her heart is heavy with loneliness, knowing that yet again, a child is born out from an impulsive need for physical touch and little else - but she is precious, in spite of it all. Gently, her voice breaks through the heavy barrier of thick heat and echoes against the dense foliage. She calls for him, but knows he may not answer - but only time could tell.
Hours pass and soon, the sun dips below the horizon, leaving nothing but the blinding moonlight to drench the darkness with its light. With heavy, baited breath, Misra presses the bridge of her nose to the damp skin of her daughter, lips and tongue ridding her of the dreaded afterbirth. A deeply set instinct sets in, and she rises, urging her to rise with her. She is radiant and beautiful; feeble and weak but nonetheless unadulterated perfection. Her legs tremble beneath her, but with some encouragement in the form of gentle nudges, she cradles herself close to her exhausted mother's side, suckling from her at last.
Weary and worn, she observes her for a long moment as the soothing sounds of the nearby trickling creek and the trill of crickets emerge from the darkness. Her pelt, though still damp, is painted a deep copper - she is the daughter of Nymphetamine, there is no doubt. A pang of regret lingers within her aching chest as she touches her whiskered lips to the delicate girl's flank, inhaling her earthly scent. Her heart is heavy with loneliness, knowing that yet again, a child is born out from an impulsive need for physical touch and little else - but she is precious, in spite of it all. Gently, her voice breaks through the heavy barrier of thick heat and echoes against the dense foliage. She calls for him, but knows he may not answer - but only time could tell.
Misra