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

Way early start on the ‘warm-up’ section of this week’s Six Sentence Story. That it helps to write something/anything on this page prior to having to write words on this page, is not in question. If there is, (a question), it would be, ‘What is the shelf-life of story ideas?’ I am loath to start writing a Six, knowing that there is not enough time (or pressure) to complete it into publishable form, were I to attempt to write it now, on this Wednesday morning. (I just laughed at myself. I am one of those people who, prior to becoming hooked by the blogging bug, was of the opinion that the whole internet/blogging thing was nothing more than a can of spray paint and a virtual bridge abutment …in a nicely middle class neighborhood (“For a great recipe for brownies call….” Bloggers Rule!”  “OMG the breakfast I had this morning was so good, it was…”). Not exactly thug, but certainly sharing the desperate passion of the under-appreciated.)

Well, that certainly sets an uplifting tone for this week’s Six. zoe, in her finite wisdom, has deemed that the word we must create a story of six (and only six) sentence around, over, under, sideways, down… ( lol )  with the prompt word:

Master.

The mist that swaddled the commercial fishing port, like pristine cotton under an engagement ring, burned off as the men began their work, the morning air was tinted with the cloying perfume of diesel exhaust and Dunkin Donuts coffee; with the fleet out, the pier felt spacious, in contrast to when, upon their return, the narrow planked corridor would be hemmed in by the great, steel trawlers, secured to the pilings like clockwork dragons.

“Every guild follows the same time-honored tradition of handing down, from one generation to the next, the skills and techniques refined by those who practice their craft,” Sven Sorenson, like the dim silhouette of a priest in a confessional, spoke through a curtain of cigarette smoke, his hands never ceased their movement, a lifetime of practice made the necessity of watching what he was doing laughably un-necessary.

“I’ve worked hard, done everything you’ve told me to do,” the young man spoke as he rolled the barrel of strung bait down the dock and returned with an empty one just in time to be under the twine-strung-skates as Sven let it drop from his hands, “it’s been five years I’ve stood with you, learning to string bait, yet my friends from high school have all advanced in their trades; Billy Framingham is now a master carpenter and, even Scotty Gauss, who started in his apprenticeship a full year after I did, he now can call himself a master electrician!”

Sven stared, out beyond the granite-block sea wall that protected the harbor, towards the open ocean and tried to remember the simple joy of youth, the need to be in motion, to push against the world, and turning slightly, looked at the young man who came to him with un-scarred hands and the dream of joining his guild, and wondered if there was ever a time he’d looked so guileless.

“You are correct Stephen, the time has come, the traditions of our guild require that, once the master has taught his apprentice all he knows of the craft of baiting and adjudges him worthy, must promote him from Apprentice, so from this day forward you may proudly proclaim…”

Interrupting with the guileless exuberance that takes perspective as the price of enthusiasm, the young man threw up his arms and shouted at boat full of tourists, just passing by the working docks, on their cruise of the fishing port, “Today I am a …!!!!”*

* note: this Six Sentence Story, through the right of this-is-fun-as-a-writing-exercise-too, is my effort to re-tell a timeless joke. Well, timeless among a certain gender. It was one of a pantheon of what adult referred to as off-color and boys called ‘wicked funny’, jokes meant to welcome it’s…. members into adulthood…. as soon as we could be convinced to give up adolescence, of course.