Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
This is, of course, my pre-writing writing. I find it immensely helpful to get some words in the Post prior to writing a Six Sentence Story. There is something about words already being ‘on the page’, or perhaps, it would be better to say, ‘it’s good, when deadline time arrives (tomorrow morning), not to have to stare at a plain, white, empty page. So, I come here the evening or perhaps the afternoon of the day before zoe calls for Six Sentence Stories, which she does every Thursday. Each week there is a new prompt word around which we are asked to write a story of six and only six sentences.
It’s fun. You should try it. Now. This week. As in …’today’.
This week’s prompt: ‘Bread’
Claire Griswold brushed at the wave of blond hair projecting beyond the hood of her coat, now a crystalized shield from the blowing snow, and ran across the street. The young woman realized, only as she leapt over the slush-clogged gutter, that, hidden under the white innocence of the freshly fallen snow, the concrete sidewalk was glazed with ice. Deciding that, if her fate was to meet Death on the streets of a small New England town with the improbable name of South Egremont, upright was preferable to supine, smiled defiantly as the plate-glass front of the bakery rushed towards her.
Deprived of any other constructive course of action, Claire concentrated on reading the lettering on the rapidly approaching glass storefront which, like the ice field of an arctic bay with it’s cold-dark blue interrupted by patches of cold-white ice from broken glaciers, had patches of snow obscuring the gilt-painted lettering, ‘..sh bread and past..’ the only intelligible message. Out of nowhere, an encircling grip established itself around her waist, as her feet and her head, still in the grips of Newton and therefore determined to continue on to the building, bent slightly over and under the arm that held her mostly in place.
Claire felt, as much heard, in a woolen semaphore, a strong voice penetrating her ice-crowned hood, pressing up against still-warm ears, ‘gotcha!‘