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Creative Writing: Deprivation In America

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A buzz left the elevator as it traveled up the levels, moving slowly, almost as if it didn't want to enter the floor she was headed towards. Elizabeth stood in the middle of the box, wiping off the deep red color off of her lips, trying to get rid of the bitter and unpleasant taste that lingered from earlier. The small white handkerchief she held was now getting dirty and looked like a small child took a red crayon to it.

Why did she take this bloody American job? One moment she was flying high above the clouds with the WAFS helping her country and the next well she was helping the Americans deal with their issues by kissing them, couldn't they find their own girl from America that they could disrespect? She did try to like her job, but when the only reason you are kept around is you are bait, the person for the coffee run, or the one to file papers your job
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Her heels clicked against the floor as she reluctantly made her way towards her once organized desk, which was now covered in small, green folders that seemed to beg to be put away, but sadly the men in this office don't have the mental capacity to remember their alphabet for a minute to put papers away.

"Aye, doll face." She spun on her heels to face Andy a pompous prick of a man and the only thing bigger than his ego was how much she hated him. She turned, now facing the large and rather well-groomed man who had a small following of new agents who stared at the rare and almost mythical woman in the office almost like she was a unicorn. It couldn't be that hard to find her, she was either in the file room, behind her desk, or asking for lunch orders. Speaking of orders it was nearly lunch so she would soon be carrying around a piece of paper playing secretary instead of spy, what a waste of
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