The caravan plodded helter-skelter through the snow; as the Sahara, a groomless bride, donned an icy-silk goan, desolately white, so unbefitting.
"All this ice!" he exclaimed, his two humps like mounds of frost-kissed sand, "it's messing with my head!"
"The sun's up," reassured his companion dromedary, "it might do you some good."
"That faint spot soaking in a frozen soup? Not the Sun I cherish." He reminisced about the bliss of simple joys he missed: cud-chewing, rasping sand, the scorching heat and especially 'calf-making.'
In their wake, the human train trudged along, ina cacophony of labored footfalls and grunts.
YOU ARE READING
Ice (R)Age
FantasyA camel out of place, a world out of time; settings inverted, roles reversed in 100 words, no more no less.
