Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
Late this week. No, really. It’s 9:15 pm Wednesday. I haven’t gotten my ‘word appetizer’ written down here yet! Best not delay. I can’t remember the last Thursday morning that I had to face a blank page.
Sorry! For the new(er) Readers, Thursday is Six Sentence Story day. Six Sentence Story is a bloghop that zoe hosts every week, in which she provides a ‘prompt word’ and invites all to write a story using, employing or otherwise involving the week’s word. Oh, and the story needs to be six, (no more and no less) sentences long. It’s fun and good practice.
So this week the word is ‘star’.
Star put her bare feet up on the dashboard of the very expensive car, (a Porsche 911 Carrera GTS, but she knew better say anything), as the yellow convertible flew down the Pacific Coast Highway at 90 mph. No longer concerned with her future, at least not any element of it more distant than, say 3 hours, the girl slouched sideways and let her long blonde hair wave to the beach bums, surfer dudes and other saltwater lowlifes staring at the car, now slowly cruising past the beach in Malibu. The sun was hot, the breeze was coy and the smell of the salt air, seaweed and body lotion was intoxicating. Star, having decided that closed eyes might enhance the variety of her options, felt the car come to a halt, the tiny crunching sound of car tires on a sea shell-paved parking lot announced her last chance to find a way to escape the driver of the car.
“End of the line, girl,” the driver’s accent, a confusing mix of Central European guttural aggressiveness and 18-22 year-old lazy charm, made her wonder what possessed her to stick her thumb, (and scantily dressed body) out on the highway entrance ramp only hours after freeing herself from the luxury condominium that held her for 2 nights and a day.
‘All things considered, this is still better than doing nothing,’ she thought, as the frothy roar of the surf tried and failed to mask the shouts of the approaching men.
