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Challenge 16- Weekly Quick Fic 5
Title: Her Mother's Stories
Prompt: Alternate history, isolated island
Bonus? Y
Word Count: 257
Rating: K+
Original/Fandom: original
Pairings (if any) none
Warnings (Non-Con/Dub-Con etc): none
Summary: She knew her mother's stories by heart, and they all said that they were the only ones left.
Her mother had always told her that they were the only ones left. At night and during the long winters with no light, she told the stories over and over again, of how the world had died in a vicious, but short war. There had been an island, and two great countries had fought over it, and destroyed the world.
They had been so far north though, and so far away from everywhere else, that they had managed to survive.
The world that had once been filled with people and plants and animals and color and life, had been destroyed, leaving only the island and poison behind.
She had never questioned her mother’s stories. There had been no reason to. She had never seen anyone not from her island, had never been allowed to leave, and everyone else agreed with her mother’s stories.
The island was all that there was left. There was no one else.
The island had been a port in the world that was and had always been dominated by its lighthouse. Its light still burned on, more out of habit than any hope that someone may have survived. Sometimes, remnants from the world before would wash up on shore, but they were always small. A doll, a piece of jewelry, a shoe. Nothing big, nothing important, just a tragic reminder. Never a ship.
One night, she is in the lighthouse. It is spring, and her mother’s stories are still ringing in her ears as she watches the ship sail up to the island.
Prompt: Alternate history, isolated island
Bonus? Y
Word Count: 257
Rating: K+
Original/Fandom: original
Pairings (if any) none
Warnings (Non-Con/Dub-Con etc): none
Summary: She knew her mother's stories by heart, and they all said that they were the only ones left.
Her mother had always told her that they were the only ones left. At night and during the long winters with no light, she told the stories over and over again, of how the world had died in a vicious, but short war. There had been an island, and two great countries had fought over it, and destroyed the world.
They had been so far north though, and so far away from everywhere else, that they had managed to survive.
The world that had once been filled with people and plants and animals and color and life, had been destroyed, leaving only the island and poison behind.
She had never questioned her mother’s stories. There had been no reason to. She had never seen anyone not from her island, had never been allowed to leave, and everyone else agreed with her mother’s stories.
The island was all that there was left. There was no one else.
The island had been a port in the world that was and had always been dominated by its lighthouse. Its light still burned on, more out of habit than any hope that someone may have survived. Sometimes, remnants from the world before would wash up on shore, but they were always small. A doll, a piece of jewelry, a shoe. Nothing big, nothing important, just a tragic reminder. Never a ship.
One night, she is in the lighthouse. It is spring, and her mother’s stories are still ringing in her ears as she watches the ship sail up to the island.