Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
The prompt word is ‘Fault’ for this week’s Six Sentence Story.
New Readers? The Six Sentence Story bloghop is zoe’s weekly dare: ‘Hey! you know the word, ‘Fault’? Never mind what definition, the word, do you know it? Fine. You know how to make up a story? Well, me and my little dog dare you to write a story that involves that word and do it in six and only six sentences. What?!? Fault! Weren’t you listening?! (“Keep your eye on this one Joule. Yeah, ‘ARR’ to you too.“).
It’s challenging and fun, you should join us this week. And you can write anything you’d like. For example, some people are writing serial stories, every Thursday a six sentence installment. Others write amazing set pieces, mood and humor all wrapped up in little six sentence bundles. This week, I’m going to pre-borrow from the next Chapter of ‘Home and Heart’ for a scene to form my Six around. (New Readers: If you’re like me and are constantly trying to improve ‘the skills’, taking a large scene and making it fit into Six Sentences is, like, totally good practice.)
Sister Catherine looked at the woman who sat in the empty classroom and said, “Thank you for coming in today, Roanne, I’m very concerned about your daughter, Patrice.”
Roanne Avila sat and felt her days as a pupil at St. Dominique’s whisper from the wood and metal of the desk, looked up, her cautious movements forgotten in the memories that grew in her mind, let the wave of an obviously new hairstyle fall to the side of her face; the nun tensed as she saw the smudge of reddish orange at the corner of her former pupil’s eye, an un-noticed stutter in the application of make-up.
Sister Catherine, (though very few would have the suicidal daring to ask, grew up in an orphanage with the unlikely name, ‘the Miami Children Center’, only in part unusual for being in Ohio), knew the palette of abuse, the colors of shame and secret pain, stepped around her desk and crouched next to the young woman, who tried to turn her head away.
“Roanne, look at me,” her tone, while not one of a person only hoping to be obeyed, held a barely noticeable tremor of concern, as she reached with thin, graceful fingers, a plain gold band her sole touch of color and held the younger woman’s chin, far more gently than the wire-rimmed glasses and bleached white wimple framing her face would ever suggest, and turned the woman’s head slightly.
“My husband Roger works so hard at the casino providing for me and the kids, he really is a good man, I shouldn’t complain so much, it’s my fault that he hit me,” the young woman’s voice held more emotions than a single sentence should be able to contain.
Sister Catherine’s touch became stronger yet more gentle, as if holding a child against a sudden onslaught of cold wind, and with eyes that blazed with the un-definable power of a childless mother, said in a whispered shout, “You must never say that, you are entitled to live your life without being hurt by another just because they want someone else to feel as bad as they do.”