the Wakefield Doctrine

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

This is a post for the Six Sentence Story bloghop, hosted by Denise and participated in by many a writer.

Rules are simplest: Prompt word (plus) six sentences (equals) story. (Secret Rule 7.4 reminds us to: Read and comment on as many of the other Sixes as you can. Speaking only for myself, one-third of the reason for my participation is to get the response from ‘real’ readers. Even better, getting a response from a peer. Ya know?)

Hey! This may, (or may not), be the first of any number of scenes from our newest serial story, ‘the Hobbomock Chronicles‘. (God knows if I can keep track anymore. I may have written a six about this very house sometime in the last few years. In any event, given that the new serial is comprised of three inter-twining narratives (based in current day, 1965 and 1665), good luck finding the source Six. lol)

In any event, what follows is from the core story, which begins with a real estate broker being transported, (by unknown agencies), from Present Day to 1965. He is very much working to remain calm in the face of traumatic change. (If you follow the link to the serial and enjoy what you read, be sure to click on ‘Follow’ and you’ll receive each weekly installment automatically.

This week’s prompt word:

Vacation

“If you’re sure you’re alright, lets join the others,” Allyson pushed open the butler’s door just enough to flood the kitchen with the sounds of a house full of people gathered for no other reason than it was a warm August day; the wind off the ocean was light and the sky was a summer-washed blue.

Reminding himself that being addressed as ‘Michael’, by an attractive young woman, wasn’t the worst thing to happen since re-gaining consciousness on the cellar floor, at least that could be the other person’s mistake; no explanation whatsoever could account for the fact that he occupied the body of a man one-third his age.

The real estate broker’s smile of confident reassurance stuttered, as the calendar on the wall acquired the irresistible gravity of a spontaneous black hole; the top consisted of a photo of a twelve meter yacht, however, the lower-half demanded his attention like a barber with a straight-edge razor: 1965 in solid block letters daring him to deny it.

Allyson was halfway through the doorway, her attention on the people in the living room; like the survivor of a tornado strike stepping from the pile of rubble that was supposed to be his home, ‘Michael’ took her hand, allowing her to pull him further into a world he could not explain.

The living room consisted of both the familiar and things that shouldn’t be: banks of cigarette smoke eddied like a fog over coffee tables full of highball glasses and overflowing ashtrays; men with razor-cut hair, pressed chinos, and boat shoes without socks, stood in half-moon groups in front of women sitting on wicker couches, dresses as delicate and distinctive as the salt-and-iodine scent of the ocean; greetings, like leis, were casually tossed in their direction, “How’s the vacation been so far?”, “Allyson, what do you think of the new hospital?”

The real estate broker’s confidence gave way, pre-human reflex squeezed the hand he still held; despite the promises of childhood, his guardian angel was as real as the Wind Song that whispered behind her ear and the sunburn-pressure of her fingers on his forearm, it was the world around him that was as unreal.

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

This is the Six Sentence Story.

Denise is the host of this bloghop;

Where stories appear, each week, identifiable by the fact that all, every one, contains six and only six periods.

This week’s prompt word:

dyNamiC

 

Slowing barely enough to complete the punchline to his joke, the life of the party moved to a new location, halfway between the bar and the buffet; like a singularity grazing a galaxy, the number of people surrounding him was now greater by an inverse ratio of the number of small groups dotting the reception hall.

Standing next to a table full of half-empty glasses, chairs turned outwards, like oyster shells after an extra large wave, the man pulled a single-serving of laughter tighter around his shoulders, inured to childhood admonitions about sharing and said, “How does he do that?”

With the seamless interjection of a master ventriloquist, the old man, his eyes on the exit and his back to crowd, said, “Easy enough,” after the pause of a lecturer squaring the corners a prepared speech, continued, “Easier than you think.”

Without bothering to turn around, because, really, what does sight have to do with thought, the younger man said, “You’re saying it’s possible for a person like me,” a slight hesitation, which had the curious effect of implying that finding another person like the speaker would be futile, was followed by a decrease in volume, embarrassed at the boldness of his unspoken assertion, “…could become as outgoing as that fellow who stopped by to tell a joke; which, I’ll admit, was actually quite funny?”

“Yes, with the caveat that you spend more time considering the dynamic of his relationship with the crowd surrounding him and less time trying to imagine yourself at the center of a group of people who would rather be lead than be alone;” at that moment, a series outbursts of laughter, both convivial and scandalized, flew around the far end of the room, like a flock of homing pigeons on an amphetamine jag.

“The man you are so jealous of is no different than a lion waking from a deep sleep to find himself surrounded by a herd of antelope, which is his next meal is as relevant as what he will be doing tomorrow or the day after, you see…” Turning, the old man smiled, somewhat sadly, at the back of the quiet man, now three-quarters-of-the-way to joining the laughing crowd.

 

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