Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
This is the Six Sentence Story.
Each week Denise, our host, invites one and all to take up pens (or keyboards or even No. 2 pencils on yellow lined paper) and write a story of Six Sentences (and only Six Sentences) that involve the week’s prompt word.
From time to time, participants will offer a ‘Six’ in the form of poetry. (Did I mention that most of the writers ’round this here bloghop here have mad skills with the written words? Well, they do.) While I can appreciate poetry, its kinda like listening to the jazz guys from the ’50s and ’60s. The pleasure consists mostly of an appreciation of how they take a song that you know, twist it all around and yet you can still hear the song among all the notes.
So, for the sake of trying, here is my attempt at a haiku.
This week the secret word is ‘LATCH’
Latch
Days pass, endless fence
Pain hidden, shame out of view
Latch fails, past returns.
(Just to be on the safe side, not being a hunnert percent sure that the above qualifies as six (6) sentences, here’s a more traditional Six.)
Latch
Timmy tried not to smile, both pillows of the double bed at his back and behind his head, the covers flat and smooth on either side of the blanket ridge created by a five-year-old boy, opened over his lap, a book; large, old, and, though he would never admit it, kinda heavy on the tops of his legs, Gulliver’s Travels.
As his mother sat on the edge of the bed, Timmy said, “Maybe I can read the story myself, you know, since I’ll be six years old next week?”
His stomach, already on high alert, twisted when she didn’t say yes or no or anything, just had a look that wasn’t just surprise, (which he was secretly hoping for), it was surprise with something sad in it; after what seemed forever she said, “You’re absolutely correct, you do know how to read and its about time you learned the secrets of falling asleep with a book on top of the covers.”
The door to his bedroom was, like the rest of the old house, really olden and instead of a doorknob, it had a round-rough, black metal bar that was attached to the door and when you wanted it to stay closed, dropped it into a groove in a another black metal bracket that was on the door frame.
Seeing his mother standing in the doorway, holding the little hook-thing on the latch with her fingers, Timmy said, “But, mommy, how will you know what happens to Gulliver?”
The latch swung free, taking a couple of passes to come to rest and returning to the bed, his mother smiled, “Well, until I get copy for my own bed, you’ll just have to read it to both of us,” sat on the bed and watched her son grow with each carefully enunciated word.
