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

Tonight is Wednesday evening. That means it’s time to start to pull together some words and images and such and write a story that is six sentences in length.

…because, the name of the bloghop that Denise hosts each Thursday is, ‘Six Sentence Story‘. And it simply wouldn’t do to write a story of seventeen sentences or in six words (unless it was on par with the famous ‘For sale: baby’s shoes, never worn’) (Ayieee! I should have one sixth of the talent behind that arrangement of words).

The prompt word this week:

Polish

“Why you rubbing that stupid cross; ain’t gonna pick no lock or shiv no guard with that thing anyhow, old man.”

Billy Tulane, his prison stripes so new they didn’t have a stitch that wasn’t put there by some Polish girl up north in Chicago, stepped out on the covered porch of Camp 8 and stared at the rain. An idle day was always the hardest part of being in Parchman Farm, especially for Billy, a twenty-three year old vagrant from Clarksdale, the natural impatience of youth made it torture most sublime.

“Don’t be asking the old man why,” the cageboss, Roscoe Williams, didn’t bother lifting the hat that covered most of his sweat-shiny face, his voice more commanding for it’s lack of urgency.

“Taint no cross, it’s my spirit and I polish it so someday, I’ll walk down Guard Row an it’ll shine so, they won’t even see me,” the old man tipped the coke crate on edge and leaned against the wall, “come that day, boy, I’ll walk out over them cotton rows and find my way home.”

“Ain’t nobody here leavin Sunflower County less’n the judge, the warden and I tell ’em so,”  boss Roscoe always had the last word and down the row of idle men, heads moved slightly and the horizon on the far edge of the endless cotton fields faded into the rainy mist.