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

Wednesday night and I need to type by monitor light, as the curtains on the windows (in the room I use for an office) are always open, it’s 9:33 pm and Summer time. So, like 5 minutes ago I looked up and saw the window coated with tiny-motion, flying things with too many appendages. I had the desk light on and it must have been every neon, bar/nightclub sign in the world casting an invitation, like expensive perfume, into the path of every passing bug. Two words: ewww  (no, not for the imagery of the neon temptation, although I must admit that the lure, allure and fantasy of the real thing, on a late city night is better imagined, than actually experienced). So, anyway, I turned off the light which solved the problem in two ways, one rather characteristic of the human condition: a) the bugs no longer were tempted to dash themselves on the transparent glass reefs of my house and 2) I can’t see them anymore, so out of sight, out of mind.

But this is about zoe’s weekly challenge to write a story employing six and only six sentences, the Six Sentence Story bloghop. I may be taking liberties the rules this week by trying to combine writing tasks. I’m working on ‘Almira’ (and editing ‘Blogdominion’) so time is not my friend. I thought I’d grab a scene from as upcoming Chapter in Almira and write it as this week’s  Six Sentence Story, which btw, has ‘puff’ as the prompt word.

Frederick Prendergast felt the flickering warmth of the fireplace on his back as he sat at the head of the ornately-carved dining table on a cold snowy Sunday evening in December.

Grace Byrne stood, half in and half out of the kitchen, the swinging butler’s door providing her with as much of a sense of security as she’d found since arriving from Ireland to serve as Nanny in the Prendergast household, the brighter lights from within the kitchen created a somewhat stark contrast to her face, half-bathed in the warm rose hue washing up from the candles on the table, like rising flood waters.

“The twins are staying over in Boston tonight, with their mother, as nanny you are without responsibilities until sometime tomorrow,” Frederick’s voice was that of every young man’s, (or at least some young men), a powerful mix of hope, silky with insinuation and yet, barbed with the unspoken invitation for her willing complicity, his desire urgent enough to offer a darkly-bright invitation in seemingly harmless words, yet not yet strong enough to speak openly about what he desired.

The kitchen provided temporary refuge for the girl, one place in the mansion where her role and her duties were clearly defined, daylight-bright and re-assuring, the dining room, with changing light from the fireplace tempting her eyes to see what she felt rather than what she knew to be right.

“Cream puff, Mr Prendergast? Each one with a crust light enough to bite into, small but filled with a delightful surprise, I made them myself,”  Grace Byrne waved wistfully to a little girl running through meadows in a far away country and stepped out of the kitchen, the door swinging shut on it’s own, leaving only the dim candle light to kindle the darkness that smoldered between the 18 year old girl, alone in a new world and the vainly insatiable man who smiled and leaned back in his chair.