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As the flashfic challenge is over...
Aug. 27th, 2005 02:38 pm...I thought I'd post this on my lj.
Fabric Squares
Disclaimer: I don't own Atlantis or Carson. No copyright infringement meant, on the contrary, this is merely an expression of my love of the concepts and characters of said show.
Categories: Carson, gen.
The quilt had been finished his first year at college, but his mother had been working on it for years. There was the scrap of lace and satin from her wedding dress, ivory with age. The rough wool was from his father's favorite suit jacket, the one that had been ruined in an incident involving a forgotten pen and a washing machine. The neat square of white cotton came from a handkerchief, he knew, but Mum had never told him the story associated with it, just blushed when he asked. Brightly colored silks, sturdy cottons, a piece off of his first graduation robe, every patch was a memory of someone in his family, some special event. The back was solid, one long piece of tartan wool. When he had said he could only take one item from home, his mother had shoved this into his hands. Lifting the heavy fabric to his face he smelled home; a mix of tea, the scent of the air in his mother's garden, and the sachets of spice that she placed in her hope chest along with the linens.
Carson finished making his bed, and smoothed the quilt down over the top. Maybe this would make Atlantis seem like a home.
This is what happens when you work near plot bunnies for too long. They mistake you for an author and start biting.
Fabric Squares
Disclaimer: I don't own Atlantis or Carson. No copyright infringement meant, on the contrary, this is merely an expression of my love of the concepts and characters of said show.
Categories: Carson, gen.
The quilt had been finished his first year at college, but his mother had been working on it for years. There was the scrap of lace and satin from her wedding dress, ivory with age. The rough wool was from his father's favorite suit jacket, the one that had been ruined in an incident involving a forgotten pen and a washing machine. The neat square of white cotton came from a handkerchief, he knew, but Mum had never told him the story associated with it, just blushed when he asked. Brightly colored silks, sturdy cottons, a piece off of his first graduation robe, every patch was a memory of someone in his family, some special event. The back was solid, one long piece of tartan wool. When he had said he could only take one item from home, his mother had shoved this into his hands. Lifting the heavy fabric to his face he smelled home; a mix of tea, the scent of the air in his mother's garden, and the sachets of spice that she placed in her hope chest along with the linens.
Carson finished making his bed, and smoothed the quilt down over the top. Maybe this would make Atlantis seem like a home.
This is what happens when you work near plot bunnies for too long. They mistake you for an author and start biting.
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