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

So here we are again. Wednesday sliding towards Thursday, like the seemingly stable shore of a small, woodland stream; plenty of time left before having to publish this week’s Six Sentence Story, right?

Maybe.

This is Denise’s bloghop, the Six Sentence Story. Each week she provides a prompt word and charges us with writing a story that involves this word and is of a length no more, (nor no less), than six sentences.

This week I’m heading to Crisfield, Delaware. Gonna stop in an catch up with some people I know who live in a convent on the shores of the Chesapeake Bay.

Knee

The dark rectangle blocking the view of Chesapeake Bay told me she was surely in deep thought, or, if my flash-prayer was answered, dozing; I channelled whatever ninja DNA might be lurking under my habit and slipped towards the single chair facing the Mother Superior’s desk, when I heard,

“You are, what, three-quarters the way through your novitiate, Sister Margaret?”.

Sister Bernadine has talents not possessed by the average middle-aged woman, nun or non-nun; more than once I’ve watched her transform an auditorium full of child-noisy grade school pupils into a state remarkably similar to sea anemones embraced by the gently waving tide; she is also capable of cloaking her strength in velvet, her words as personal as if she were standing behind you, whispering into your ear; I almost resisted the impulse to turn and look.

When I turned back, she was facing me, elbows resting on the desk, her face the glowing brown of a recently fallen chestnut, her eyes smiling, “I won’t insult you with advice to be careful, I will remind you that the people you’re going up against will do anything to defeat you and, unlike the Sunday football games our sister Cletus so enjoys watching, there are no referees or ruling body to restrain them from doing anything to defeat you.”

With the slightest of nods, she turned back to the window and I stood up to leave; before I reached the door I said, “I hear Sister Cletus talk about the controversy in the NFL over what some quarterbacks are doing before the games starts, if Cyrus St. Loreto cheats too obviously, I seriously doubt anyone will criticize me for taking a knee.”

My left hand was still on door handle when Sister Bernadine burst into laughter, it was the un-restrained celebration of her surprise at my joke and enjoyment of the humor, the sound of her laughter poured out into the corridor around me, like the hugs and high-fives of teammates after crossing home plate with the winning run.

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