Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
This is the Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.
Hosted by Denise
This is a Tales from the Six Sentence Café & Bistro Six.
This week’s prompt word:
EXCHANGE
The tall, thin man smiled.
The final whisk of the broom in his right hand convinced the pile of dust, lipstick-tagged cigarette butts, crumpled cocktail napkins (smeary blue tears of rejected phone numbers, staining the ridges) and thin, if not superfluous, drink stirrers, to get into blue dustpan, without leaving even the slightest of residue lines on the floor. He remained still, the shape of his cleaning tools-of-choice somehow brought to mind Alice in Wonderland, with it’s improbable confluence of shapes and materials. The shape of the dustpan, at the floor-end of a vertical handle, wasn’t merely a half-completed box missing one side, there was a graceful ramp to ease the transition of material into captivity.
The man tipped the dustpan, with the practiced care of Five Star restaurant’s Head Sommelier into the white plastic container, taking care to not hit the sides of the plastic bag, lest the turbulence undo his efforts; the open space in front of the small stage was as empty as empty as a third grade classroom in July.
Preferring to exchange impersonal illumination of the overhead lights for the dim uncertainty neon, whispering from behind the bar, the man felt grateful for the other Proprietors (and Tom), who, completing the heavy work following the Annual SSB&S SOC Prose-off, left him to work alone; the dawn soon to tap soundlessly on the tall rectangles of glass and iron separating the outer wall’s brick support columns which bordered the sidewalk outside the Six Sentence Café & Bistro.
*
About clarkscottroger
Even though souls are grateful they are left alone at times, trust me, they never are.
It is only a matter of acute synchronous resonance that results in moving the tuning dial of the cosmic LF radio; the static then is exchanged with a music never heard before and, yeah, often not understood even by the listener.
In this moment, in the accompanied solitude opens the flood gates for the painful truth to emerge; painful both in terms of ache and in light of understanding.
Sacred is the space and time such moments reside.
And as with everything truly sacred, even if it is not asked explicitly, reciprocity exists.
What can one do then…nothing fancy is required, never does…small things, simple gestures of true intentions…simple as unlocking the screen of the mobile phone and dial the number of a loved person; one who even if is aware she/he is loved, before the battle waiting over the cliff, will gain strength, resolve, warmth …just by hearing, feeling the words : Hey my brother, hey my sister…I love you.
(And that my friend is No3…tank’s empty!)
Dude! This is a Six Sentence Story that should be linked to the ‘hop.
(If you have any reservations about doing that, thinking that it might be too observational or sochaic… lemme know, I’d be happy to post this bad boy right up there.)
Again you humble me my good friend…so much that I am reduced to nothing.
And that is a very good thing.
If I am not being ungrateful, I would strongly prefer these words to remain in your house.
This is where they were intended to be. Not by chance.
Set them outside and they will decay into something they are not.
You are not only wise, you are generous too.
(No wonder why…)
Thank you Clark.
got it
A nod to the Divine, much like ironing shirts on a hot summer morning.
Thank you.
Dude, that’s some mindful sweeping up. And I liked the exchange of lighting, the dim uncertainty of neon. Cool stuff here.
thankee, Miz Avry.
That notion of simple actions as expressed meditation has always been fascinating and attractive.
*sigh* I am but a fly on the wall of the Six Sentence Café and Bistro, uninvited guest privy to the Zen of the tall thin man.
Excellent Six.
thanks nothing like dawn with a broom in one’s hand