Outside a girl skipped down the street. She wore a polka dotted dress up high around her waist. The summer air stuck to her like maple syrup on a waffle. Her hair was done in pony tails making her seem slightly younger than the sixteen years she had spent on Earth. All across the street girls came out from their red brick houses, and skipped. It was that way that summer. A strange occurrence, but one doesn’t question what the youth does. No one understands them anyway.
As the girls skipped it would become increasingly clear that some of them strained under the weight of clothes and hair accoutrements. They persisted in this activity regardless, less concerned for their health then the precise movements and form they sought to perfect. One of the young ladies, a girl from Charlotte, North Carolina held tight to a southern drawl as she sung a song none of the other girls recognized. By the end of the summer they all knew the words. 

“‘Cause I don’t want to throw rice

I want to throw rocks at her

She took the only love I had

No, I don’t want to throw rice

I want to throw rocks at her”

The song was written by a famous singer of old times. Dolly Parton. It really had no place in the current world, but somehow it intertwined with the girls skipping, became some sort of anthem and meant more to them then the skipping itself. It was a strange summer after all. The girl from Charlotte, North Carolina, would marry later that year, a young prince or vice counsel or some such was the one to court her. He asked her to throw rice at the wedding, a family and ancient tradition. She obliged, but kept a small rock in the seam of her wedding dress as a precaution. That is how the story goes at least.