Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
Running a bit behind. Early Wednesday evening, for the ‘warm-up’. The occasion is, of course, zoe’s weekly Six Sentence Story bloghop. Every Thursday we go to uncharted, see the word, feel our stomach drop and, dutifully retire to our garrets. Unlike the unfortunate Mr. Chatterton in our lead photo, my window does not overlook mid-1800s London, but we do what we can.
So, don’t end up like young Mr Chatterton! Write a story of Six Sentence length and try to arrange for the appearance of this week’s prompt word, ‘Well’
You feel your eyes open; that you need the soft, up-wrinkling sensation of retracting eyelids to know they are open, makes the bottom of your stomach drop. Darkness takes on a quality of non-touching pressure on your face and you extend your arms away from your body; suddenly, like a spider skittering over the blankets as you read in bed, the thought forms, ‘provided you have a body’. The animal-instinct pushes blood to the extremities, but is immediately entangled by the feeling of liquefaction of leg muscles, and, from the very most bottommost lobe, your brain screams, ‘Become small, get low, freeze’. Your head moves from side to side, your body remains still, there is nothing that makes one side the opposite of ‘the other side’, when a hint of something that makes the blackness merely very dark, comes from ‘above’. A pale moon, at once off in the distance at an angle that confuses your feet, at the same time above you; it’s a lightness that is changing, but you can’t tell if it’s getting closer or, and you wish without words that you had quit while you were ahead, you’re moving away from it. A voice in your mind, both demon and savior parts the dark that smothers you, “Now be careful, the old farm wells are marked and boarded up, your father did the best he could, but you never know.”