This is a one off free-writing exercise from a writing group I'm attending, posted here because...well, why not?
Stephanie was looking for a way out of the sunshine daydream, but she hadn't had much luck.
All the alleys had dead ends and all the people plastic faces. Her parents were no help at all; they frowned beneath their smiles and suggested that at the very least she consider community college. The teachers at her school seemed, successively, lost, bemused, confused, dyspeptic, and disturbed. She didn't have any "real friends," but her peers were all bouncy hair and prom lust, and all they gave her were turned lips and turned heads, the backs of beehive hairdos and cruel gossip in the locker room.
It was in the back of the library that she found her portal or at least a sign pointing in her direction. It was an old book, someone's discarded anthropology text, slathered in suspicious stains, and tattooed with homespun graffiti. It muttered in an out of date and ostentatious voice about seized days and hopeless wars, and something about standing on your own while standing for something else. It was adrift with faded photos and vague colorless descriptions of places beyond her experience or expecation. It spoke from a culture that would have been as alien as whipped cream sauges to the Mattel brand happy village of her suburban childhood.
But, though it shone a thin light on the previously hidden topography of her secret wishes, it didn't give her a compass or a map. And she didn't know who in her life she could ask for help. She was aiming now, but still in the dark.
No one in her circle, no one in her life, knew how to samurai.