Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
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.“
About clarkscottroger
In never sat at the hot table!!
yeah, me neither
Your descriptions delight me. The fingernails anorexic-bulimic pirhanas, the oatmeal in the desert, and throwing off sparks like a 50 cent Zippo. Fantastic. And she wished him a Happy Thanksgiving, as bland as her mom’s mashed potatoes.
lol.. have a good T-Giving
AWW the pains of trying to fit in when you are young. Thank God for holidays like Thanksgiving when the only requirement to fit in is to eat, and maybe watch the parade :)
if we didn’t have rogers, would we have parades? lol
I too am delighted by your descriptions, as Val so adroitly stated :)
Very nice 6!
You paint such amazing scenes with your word play! I could envision the action and interaction clearly, and gather in all the emotions and thoughts both were leaving unsaid. Long, long ago I remember being in a very similar situation once, although it did not lead to the popular table, but rather one far outside the realm of everyday oatmeal.
The scene is right in front of me, i was always at the not-hot table, watching the others who got to go there.
Yes, the scenes were vivid and the use of similes unrestrained exactly what we have come to expect from you to entertain us!
…and on St. Tiger’s Day too! The hot table indeed!
Hahaha auto correct!!!!
lol