Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

Hey, you know how some of the more successful and popular blogs will, on occasion, have guest writers? And how these guests writers are, like, the perfect fit and, somehow, hard as it might be to believe, increase the readership tenfold?

Well, this is the Wakefield Doctrine. So, if we’re going to do something proven to be popular with the readers of the successful blogs, well, we’ll do it differently, naturally.

I’m getting ahead of myself.

This is the Six Sentence Story. Hosted by Denise each week, readers and writers are invited to write a story based on/using/employing or otherwise referencing the week’s prompt word. Six sentence no more and no less. We gets a word and we writes a story. Pretty simple, isn’t it?

I did mention how this is the Wakefield Doctrine, right? Well, this week, my Six is drawn the on-going tale of one, Starr Diamond; a young woman of mystery, intrigue and rare skills. What I’ve done is invited one of our group to write a Six using my Six as the starting context. Anything, as long as the prompt word is invoked. (I did this once before, back in December with Denise writing the alt-view Six that was based on the prompt word ‘ripped’. That Six was also drawn from the fictional world of Starr Diamond.)

In any event, the person, a writer I respect for having mad wordage skills was kind enough to say that they would try to fit this impromptu task (kinda last-minute, ya know) into their week. I will leave it at that, try and find the echo among the Sixes.

This week the prompt word is:

Single

The girl leaving through the side door of the cathedral stood out like a Lamborghini in the handicap parking at the local Walmart; with the grace of a dancer leaving a mid-day tryst, she descended the broad staircase of St Agnes & James’ on a tangent that would put her two cars in front of the hearse at the curbside.

The double bronze doors of the church opened and three nuns bracketing a lone woman, her bent frame less dependent on the others for physical support than being guided through a world suddenly changed, walked out ahead of the mourners that filled the crowded interior. One of the nuns, a very large black woman who radiated an intensity of focus usually associated with a bird of prey at the edge of her aerie, briefly touched the arm of the young nun to her right and, with a nod as commanding as it was subtle, directed her attention to a limousine on the opposite side of the Philadelphia street.

Billy Seaford, a recent hire at McClennan’s Funeral Home, leaned over to Harold Grace and whispered, “Jeez, look, the guy holding the door for the nuns, he totally looks like Mr.Tiny in that Vampire’s Assistant movie,” staring all the while at a very bald man in a white suit, wearing the most peculiar purple-tinted glasses.

Starr Diamond, having reached the sidewalk two car lengths distant, noted the focus of the two nuns’s attention, watched as the passenger side window of the limo descended. Seeing the hint of blonde hair and diamonds stirring in the car’s interior, the young woman, determining the best single course of action, turned and walked up the sidewalk away from the growing crowd; her long hair, at least the part not restrained by the baseball cap that shaded her face, swung like the tail of a lioness who’d reached the conclusion that the small grove of trees into which the wounded gazelle fled, changed the odds into not a good bet.