She dipped her raven locks in the river that flowed to the East. Go East enough, and you’ll find a small town along a dirty road called La Valley De L’ Amphibian. Here the wooden shoes always worn by l’enfants were painted different colors based on the season; during Winter they would be painted white and black, while during the fall, they would be painted the different color of decaying leaves during the chilly weather. Adeline always wore painted wooden shoes, and a white colored cotton cap.
Her long black pigtails, the length of the gravel on the grain, would often be the object of ridicule among other women. “Oh look, there she goes to walk to the lake again.” And other phrases of this nature. But her only sin was eaten slightly stale strawberries, largely because her family could not afford much more, and les pommes would be considerably more expensive. Her mother had chopped down the last la pomme tree they had, and shipped it off to the local shoe maker, to make for sabots for the different seasons. Despite what you may think, this town was named after the spirit of the frog of the lake. In times past, this frog would often grant wishes to the local l’enfants.
Adeline’s chest had originally been smaller, but had grown to the level of a large A Cup. On off seasons she would wear overalls and no tee shirt, being the object of aghast stares by elderly onlookers, who’d prefer a lady to wear corsets and knitted caps. Instead she based her looks on her own desires, but this would not stop other farmers from gently playing with her long black hair. One morning a little boy came and took a small kitchen knife, and when she wasn’t looking cut off a small lock of her hair. She had enough hair that she would, if the boy had not told her some weeks later, not have noticed its absence.
She finally noticed when she finally braided her hair for the coming Funeral procession. Her one clump was slightly longer than the other. She carefully hid this by snipping off the other end with a straight razor, and made the rest of the morning consuming the freshly brewed coffee. Some years in the future, we may consume different national blends, but at this point was she was satisfied the nature of a weaker cup.
In the shower, she thought of curly blond haired beauties, with a nice round booty, and pinch her bean under the flow of warm water for the occasion. And thus wondered what would make a naval bean, leaning forward to wash the back of her Raven locks.
She wore the same old unpainted clogs without socks, with slight tears in her underwear, that had not yet made its way into under overalls, so she was polite for the occasion.
But only to herself.
Adeline slapped her mother on the face, when she lectured her wearing overalls. To her mother, ladies should wear only long flowing white dresses, and tap dance to bad caviar and jazz music. But Adeline was never one for any kind of instruments not harmonics, preferring to stay behind to tend to her aquatic fishes in her backyard fountain.
Bad a few week ago, her grandmother had died, and they were left without a viable heir. So she was left to be the one to tend to most duties, only taking a break for Beef Burgundy around nine o’clock sharp. She hopped in front of the piano, tap danced in her wooden shoes, singing “grand-mere est l’mort, grand-mere est l’mort” to the chagrin of her most closely associating members of her famille.
Her mother grabbed her by the wrist, and paddled her bottle, and that was that. So at home. So at home Adeline slipped borax into their famille l’soupe, and that was that.
So that was that for Adeline, as her neck was placed inside of a wooden loop to hold her into place. The razor’s edge judge above her neck looming, the sound of a drum roll. I falls down like classical music, Beethoven’s ninth sympathy. Her head falls into the basket, as the angular razor slipped through her thin neck. And the blood sprayed into her face. Abruptly, her body was tossed into the wicker coffin frame.
But in actuality it was just another life for Adeline to expand, and she could relive everything all over again. She never developed the idea that anything could be permanent, so she would often poison and killer her mother just see how to stir the pot.
This isn’t a story of obligatory sex scenes, under the flow of shower heads. But it is a story of hover cars and guillotine guns. Adeline decided in one lifetime not to poison her mother, and there would be others that she could poison at a later date.
But now she relaxes in the mobile home.
She exposes her A cups, and masturbates.
Adeline could do different things with her A cups, from messaging them in her Japanese futon, or tease them while watching the flow of pornographic videos just down the road from the nineteenth century, where Baguettes were largely manufactured by machine rather than by hand, except for the occasional mom and pop’s bakery. But generally two thousand and eighteen was largely different from 1871, and she was not quite used to the modern life. She was unused to all the girls that adored her shapely form.
Or l’hommes giving her cat calls in the bus.
She dreads over evening after sunset.
Her life on the autobus. She hid her face inside of her cell phone, preferring to text the few famille who she still had contact with, who had not sold out to the local blacksmith. Then she arrives at home again from the bakery, unlocks her doors, closes, and locks it.
And finally ... reveals her chest.
It was time for Amphibian style showers. But for now she was hungry, and heated up some taquitos in the microwave. She preferred the texture of beef and corn, instead of chicken. She would eat dinner without her shirt on, except under the accompaniment of guests. But generally would spend time writing poetry, while she wasn’t messaging her bean.
She wanted to have Thai food again.
But wasn’t sure if she would like bean curd. Instead the Tofu she had was largely an object of the ordinary, mostly resolved through dark spice blends of Latin and Asian influence. She called this Latasian.
She loved Latasian cuisine.
And other times not.
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