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

A new name on the masthead of the Six Sentence Story bloghop. Denise, writer of girlieontheedge takes the helm (wait for it*) from the able (but very busy hands) of zoe (aka ivy) at Uncharted.

(On a more personal note, It was during zoe’s tenure that I got involved with this ‘hop. And, in no way a coincidence, my efforts at ‘this writing thing’ advanced by leaps and bounds. zoe has that rare gift of encouraging others to realize their potential, well beyond what the person may imagine is possible. I will always be grateful to zoe for that…. and her little dog too! Thanks, z)

Hey! Remember last week’s pre-writing musing about maybe I should try to write a Six in other genres? Well, in case anyone thought I lacked self-confidence (justified or not), lets give it another shot.

This week’s prompt word:

CURTAIN

Doctor Thaddeus Throckmorton, backlit by the roaring hearth in the overly large, but under-furnished great room of Edgarton mansion, took refuge from the pleading eyes of the man and his wife by polishing his spectacles, as if, by doing so, he might regain a view of the modern world, a world he was certain of when he left his office in London.

“Our daughter Daphne, always a healthy and happy child, has barely stirred from her bed since,” glancing briefly at her husband, as if confiding a terrible secret, Caliphony Edgarton continued, “she attended the party given in honor of the Viscount’s return from abroad.”

Her iron will, only recently surrendered to the siege of whispered rumour, lay as helpless as the linen handkerchief that she twisted impotently, as if attacking a threat she was certain was padding low through the gardens and lawns of the Edgarton estate.

Up the broad staircase through double-locked doors, their only child lay on her bed, awaiting the sun’s return from beyond the seemingly endless night; the wavering candlelight birthed shadows across the curtains. Suddenly the wind howled and battered the stone mansion, and the pleats and folds were drawn outwards through the french doors.

Daphne stirred in her sleep, a blush rose from her chest, laying claim to the delicate features of her face, make-up applied with a skill and passion beyond her eighteen years; the billowing of the curtains slowed and took the shape of a man.

*arrhh! Joules!