Other stories for this prompt

Her home lay behind her. And the aurora ahead. It would be cooler in the north, as it was in the far south. She could wear a sweater again. Be invisible again. Her body unscrutinized.

She leaned down the slope into the first valley of the first range of mountains. She took her first step towards solitude.

Three valleys later, a plain spread before her. She saw a river, so many trees, and... smoke.

She crept to the edge of the clearing, peered towards the village. Perhaps she wasn't the most original, the cleverest, but perhaps also she would feel...

Pollution is an artist
and poison is a poet

Death is the brightest of colors
Noise is the sweetest song

Pollution won a grant
and poison won a fellowship

We're meeting for drinks downtown
to celebrate their well-deserved
recognition.