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

Six Sentences= Story

Denise: source of weekly prompt word.

Shape the story ’round the word.

This week’s prompt:

Brush

 

The sudden cacophony subsided and harmonized into a liquid clattering of countless rounded stones tumbling over each other in a vain chase after a receding wave, hissing foam vainly calling them back.

He felt in the midst of a limitless crowd, every bus station and airline terminal ever built to shape the passing of men and women, despite it being a soundless place, he realized he could see people listening; countless nods felt only by the pull of a collar’s edge, frowns measured in hair widths, and, on occasion, a smile that narrowed eyes as if to contain the joy and relief.

Discomfit grew at the subtle shift in the mosaic of heads and faces, signs of currents moving the multitude and he felt a hand brush through his hair; a memory of lying in a narrow bed in the fever-yellow glow of a lamp, the touch on his forehead that both soothed the skin and banished the shadows lurking beyond the damply twisted sheets; the smell of a quiet perfume oriented his body to one side and he began to move.

The relief from being in motion dimmed as he encountered static blocks of people and an urge to act replaced the serenity; he felt a hand brush down the side his face, trailing a scent of excitement, this perfume more basic and somehow familiar stirred a tension within, muscles found in each other a common purpose and though he could not see the hand, felt the person at his right side and moved forward.

Interlacing connections among the multitude implied the approach of a duel terminus that projected both discord and peace; he felt something brush against his leg above his knee and felt his right hand was lifted by a low, soft-on-the-surface-shape and he splayed his fingers around shapes that were flexible and responsive, his insight acknowledged by the assuring touch of a tongue on the back of his hand; he knew his destination.

Smiling, looking around briefly for an eternity, he stepped through the door.