Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
This is the Six Sentence Story.
Each week, our host, Denise, provides a ‘prompt word’ and requests that we, all of us, write a story using this word.
The only requirement: the story must be six sentences in length. Once the story is written, the next step is to return to her site and link your post (into the blue rectangle, that’s subtly labeled: ‘Click to view and add your links’). Pretty simple, isn’t it?
That way everyone gets to read everyone else’s Six Sentence Story, ya know?
This week the word is,
Constant
“Cah…Constant….. Constantin, Constantin Szarbo, Cyrus St. Loreto’s personal angel of death, to what do I owe the honor,” slurred words firmed as Rafael Valdes rose from the granite bench and crossed the concrete moat that separated those seeking rest in the shade of Brickell Park from those very-much-not-at-rest driving by the small green patch among the concrete and steel towers of Miami’s financial district.
The once-young former priest felt his imagination pulled from its stupor by the sight of shadows, one preceding him, the other lagging behind; being late morning, the sun’s unrelenting light reflecting from the glass sides of surrounding skyscrapers created an alien sky of multiple suns, each blasting the earth in hues ranging from bronze to gold, like the view from a planet too near the center of the galaxy, it was beautiful-bordering-on-hellish.
The black-on-black Aston Martin DB11 waiting at the curb appeared even darker for all the surrounding light and caused the stream of traffic (both mechanical and biological) to bend around it, a black hole denying observers even the hope of seeing within, much less identifying it’s occupant.
(In this stream): …a man with depleted white hair like the sullen scribblings on a grade school blackboard paused in front of the church adjacent to the park, his face showed the struggle to deny some part of his day; a young street-vendor with his cart of quick meals and ethnic snacks, approached from a narrow side street, looked towards the small park and faltered; an attractive woman, her tailored suit awkwardly new, hastened her pace with a frown of determination every bit a talisman drawn from childhood nightmares.
Rafael Valdes’ right hand rose to his throat, frayed collar serving to highlight, like the pale skin on the fourth finger of a recent widower, the missing clerical collar, “Tell your boss Cyrus that I’ll do what I want and… ” like a backyard voodoo priest’s curse, the last mouthful of gin reached up into his speech centers, words stumbled, slurred, then recovered, “not even his buddy the Archbishop is gonna to keep me from exposing the sins of those who hide in their stained glass castles.”
The black car’s passenger-side window, like a lunar eclipse on a dark night, rose from the door, covered the impossibly dark space within and the very expensive automobile re-joined the passing stream of traffic.
