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Fic: Chimera
Jan. 17th, 2014 08:17 pmTitle: Chimera
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
brightly_lit
World: Tricycle Man
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,200
Genre: gen, slice of life
Summary: Orphaned at 12, Lisa nonetheless has every reason to believe the apocalypse was only an improvement in her life.
Chimera:
1 an imaginary monster compounded of incongruous parts
2 an illusion or fabrication of the mind; especially: an unrealizable dream
Lisa dragged her wagon toward market beside the Chanel Channel, so called because somebody had somehow programmed it to give off perpetual scent. Fortunately, it smelled a lot better than Chanel, more like flowers ... which was nice, because you hardly smelled flowers anymore, since the apocalypse.
Her wagon held only a few hand-knit sweaters and some sheep’s milk, but she knew the sweaters would fetch a high enough price that the wagon would be full on her way home. Clothes, like food, were one of the things that you couldn’t create out of rubble or dirt. Well, you could, but your body couldn’t process the food, and the clothes didn’t breathe or bend right, like a sheet of plastic with armholes. So her sweaters were always one of the hottest-selling commodities at the market.
It sucked, being orphaned at twelve, not knowing how you would make your way in this strange, decimated world, but it could have sucked a lot worse, and at least she wasn’t the only one. Everyone was orphaned, in a way--bereft of family, friends, the homes they knew. All they could do was help each other through it and try to figure out what the hell happened.
( Read more... )
Author:
brightly_litWorld: Tricycle Man
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,200
Genre: gen, slice of life
Summary: Orphaned at 12, Lisa nonetheless has every reason to believe the apocalypse was only an improvement in her life.
Chimera:
1 an imaginary monster compounded of incongruous parts
2 an illusion or fabrication of the mind; especially: an unrealizable dream
Lisa dragged her wagon toward market beside the Chanel Channel, so called because somebody had somehow programmed it to give off perpetual scent. Fortunately, it smelled a lot better than Chanel, more like flowers ... which was nice, because you hardly smelled flowers anymore, since the apocalypse.
Her wagon held only a few hand-knit sweaters and some sheep’s milk, but she knew the sweaters would fetch a high enough price that the wagon would be full on her way home. Clothes, like food, were one of the things that you couldn’t create out of rubble or dirt. Well, you could, but your body couldn’t process the food, and the clothes didn’t breathe or bend right, like a sheet of plastic with armholes. So her sweaters were always one of the hottest-selling commodities at the market.
It sucked, being orphaned at twelve, not knowing how you would make your way in this strange, decimated world, but it could have sucked a lot worse, and at least she wasn’t the only one. Everyone was orphaned, in a way--bereft of family, friends, the homes they knew. All they could do was help each other through it and try to figure out what the hell happened.
( Read more... )