Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

Christinasworld

Good thing I checked! The prompt word for this week’s Six Sentence Story is ‘Native’. For reasons that I am comfortable leaving un-investigated, I was certain that the prompt word was ‘Virtue’. So certain was I that I was well into my pre-warm-up word-jumble that goes on inside my head in the lead up to writing my week’s six. You can (and should) thank zoe (aka ivy) for this most Rorschachian of writing exercises.

Native.

“Wait a minute, you can’t go out there like that; you aren’t anywhere near ready, what the hell are you thinking?”

“…I didn’t think a little color would hurt,” the girl, her hands fluttering around her head like a pack of anorexic-bulimic piranhas, small pieces of sparkling jewelry and screaming color appearing and disappearing around the cranial temperate zone of eyes, mouth and ears, stood tentatively in the darkened cloakroom.

You said you wanted to leave our land, you said you knew that you could only live a happy life as a member of one of the two native tribes; those are your words not ours,” the man, as nondescript as a handful of dry oatmeal thrown from a plane crossing the Sahara Desert, stood at the half-open door.

“I know what I said, what I don’t know is why you insist on making this more difficult than it needs to be, I have every right to be happy,” the young girl, growing less beautiful while becoming increasingly attractive, tried to glare at the older man, her eyes, once as deep as the ocean and un-limited as the sky, now throwing off sparks like a 50 cent zippo.

The man stood in front of the young girl, his own worn, once expensive nondescript clothing in no way accentuating the feelings zip-locked in his words, “Just remember, even though you won’t see us anymore, we’ll always be here and you’ll always be welcomed back.”

Hey, who’s the new girl” the volume in the lunchroom dropped like a stone, “…I don’t know but I’m gonna find out“,  a pool of quiet followed the girl as she walked, lunch tray in hand, into the cavernous room, “I think you want that table, all the cheerleaders, you know, the hot girls, they sit there.

 

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