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

Rhode Island College, Providence RI

This is the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Denise is the host and she invites all to join in the rhetorical fun (or maybe that should be ‘fun with rhetoric’ or, the Latin, ‘rhetoria humorosa‘)

Whatever. The only two rules are: the story must be exactly six sentences in length.

Secret Rule 8.3.p: ‘A six sentence story can be grounded in, [and] otherwise built on a song, poem or other form of artistic expression (op. cit. ‘What the Hell is he talking about. Vol. 1 Chap. 2 pp 2-3). [B]ut it still has to be, like, six sentences.’

Apropos of the rule permitting (nay, exhorting!) us to use any available stimuli or inspiration, this week is one of those Sixes. I just plugged in the song. Should be interesting.

(ed. ‘This did not turn out like I thought. Loved the koan too much. Couldn’t shed the ‘college tale’ take on the setup. oh well, as Marcel Proust was heard to say, “Il y a toujours l’invite de la semaine prochaine..“)

This week’s prompt word:

FACE

“I’m telling’ ya, just be yerself,” the two friends stood, one with a wedding cake stack of books under his arm and the other, car keys and a coke; from their vantage point on the stairs leading down into the Student Union, they could see the couches and chairs facing banks of windows overlooking the quad crowded with between-classes students.

“Easy for you to say, I’m a philosophy major and you’re in a band,” the taller of the two leaned on the handrail and stared, like a sea anemone glued to a rock in a glittering forest of minnows.

“Don’t worry about nothin, and follow my lead.” Scott slid down the banister and, once on the main floor, transformed his momentum into a noisy, hair-and-long-coat flapping roll, ending up against the nearest grouping of ink-stained, worn-armrest couches; the three occupants watched his approach, with a blend of curiosity and something akin to disgust.

Standing and pretending to brush wrinkles from his grey wool overcoat, Scott threw himself into a chair and said, “Hey, I’m trying to convince my friend here that there’s nothing to meeting girls;” one of the three coeds gathered her books to her chest like laundry and walked away, the remaining two laughed, “I’m Scott and Clark here was just telling me something cool from his philosophy class.”

Before the heat of self-consciousness could set fire to his shoulder-length hair, the tall boy bent his default harmless-grin into a look of determination and said,

“The face we had before our parents were born
Serves to remind those who seek enlightenment;
The world is the echo of an un-rung bell.”

A heaven-sent second before the silence could chase him back to the dormitory, the laughter of his friend and one of the two girls-without-names, replaced fear with curiosity and he sat in the remaining un-occupied chair.

music