Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
‘No! Wait! This is the Wakefield Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story. You’re in the right…. well, at the correct address.’
It’s just that, as if we didn’t have an issue with the chrono-demographics already, the photo this week is a way-out-of-time cultural reference. I won’t describe or otherwise identify those in the photo, simply because if you don’t recognize the characters, you won’t care. No matter if I wrote an entire post on who and when and why. (Most of the time, the young demonstrate their fealty to the preceding generation with gestures of curiosity about the past. Their interest is, for the most part, confined to the person telling the tale of their youth, not the actual period in history. When you get right down to it, any era or period in history that we have not actually lived in, is just that, a ‘period in history’, no different from the Pleistocene Era, the Age of Enlightenment, the Roaring 20s or the Summer of Love.)
In any event, Denise is the host of the Six Sentence Story and each (and every) week she posts a prompt word and invites one and all to write a story that is Six (and only six) Sentences in length.
This week the word is:
SHED
“Plot and narrative be damned! Nouns and verbs and objects are all that are necessary,” his reflection in the computer screen smiled like an invitation embossed on the finest vellum cardstock; the part of his brain he referred to as the ‘medulla metaphora’ begin to stir as if willing itself into dominance, very much like…. .
Staring at the ellipsis, he faltered, sat back in his chair and watched it writhe on the end of his last sentence, like an exotic dancer in a strip club at ten o’clock on a weekday morning, a tantalizing trail to nowhere. Glancing at the crumpled telegram that sat like a paper boulder next to his coffee, he saw only the words, ‘shorten’ ‘UP’ and the laconic initials, alone at the bottom of the page, like children standing precariously in their parents shoes, PB.
Sensing the approaching deadline, the would-be writer felt the pressure grow, as dependent clauses and compound sentences grew like barnacles on his mind, a siren call of filigree and nonessential adornment.
‘Get thee behind me,’ having shed the excess verbiage with the fervor of a man in a life raft full of bowling balls, he realized he’d reached number Six.
(staying with and clearly ignoring my own advice, …remember this song?!*)
About clarkscottroger
Love it!
thought you’d get a kick out of it
“tantalizing trail to nowhere” Yes! I have wasted time chasing those trails.
this internet is surely grandest of all bazaars when it comes to the curious and the odd, no?
Great picture, great song and great Six.
thank you
Medulla metaphora, huh? Fantastic part of the brain that the muse tickles with a feather, such a light touch that it may or may not send the entire Rube Goldberg mechanism rippling. Anyway, loved the story. But I didn’t get the PB. Bosses initials?
actually a fellow Sixer…
Ah. UP.
Indeed
Heeheehee! Yes, this is the writing proce….squirrel!
lol
Enjoyable, fun SSS!
Yo, PB! You be famous :)
Well that was fun. A well packed six.
Thankee, Miz Avery
“Compound sentences grew like barnacles on his mind” is such a wonderful oceanic line to envision. Great SSS.
Thanks, Pat
And it even had the classic bowling ball line! Hahaha! That was my favorite! Come to think of it there is no classic bowling ball line is there?
shhh
(Remember what Archimedes said, “Provide me with an unlimited supply of quotation marks and I will libraries with my wisdom.” Which reminds me of an old saying….)
lol There surely must be at least bowling-related jokes hold on, let me check…. jeez louise! there aren’t! Not a one that (in 10 minutes of gogooglereading) not one that wasn’t a) stupid or 2) unfunny and/or mean
yow!