the Wakefield Doctrine

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

This is the Wakefield Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Denise is the host.

You know what one of the things I like about this bloghop? The practice it tricks me into putting into my writing. More than that, the occasional prompting/encouragement of the other participants to trying a little harder. Case-in-point: Miz Av’ry, a week or so ago, when we first introduced the character of Sybil, in a comment wrote:

Why did she so hate the midwest? Why is she so angry? What are her goals and ambitions with all this attitude? Will she be shown as vulnerable, will she learn something from the SSC&B cast of characters, or does she have something to teach them?

This Six is a continuation of the backstory and history of Sybil Trainor (previously in Sybil Trainor)

[While I don’t disagree with ceayr on everything…lol, he mentioned improving skills. And, surely that is an available, if not utilized, element of this here bloghop here]

This week’s prompt word is:

SURPRISE

“I suppose putting off your schedule by a couple of hours is too much to ask,” Sybil’s father stood at the end of the drive, it’s loose stone and gravel seemed to gather itself into a tighter surface, as if self-conscious at the seemingly endless expanse of KS-47, uniformed with lines of painted color, presenting an almost martial bearing that would brook no casual un-paved driveway.

His words were aimed at the open driver’s side window, delivered from more than a car door’s arc; like a person, pressured into returning to confession, maintaining a buffer between confessor and supplicant, as if physical distance had any effect on a relationship.

“Your friends were planning a surprise going-away-to-school party, you wouldn’t want to disappoint your friends,” a lifetime of stubborn hope to find a girl who wanted to be her daughter, finally ran out, the interrogative lilt unable to transform an accusation into an invitation; Jessica Trainor stood at the end of the driveway, bound by her husband and his ties to the land, as much a permanent feature as the mailbox or the nearest fence post that strove endlessly to impose a sense of human scale to the endless prairie.

Had there been a neutral, but interested, observer, say, the driver of an east-bound FedEx truck, they might, mention how rigidly the man, held onto his wife’s wrist, the difference between date-rape and consensual relations, the distinction sometimes difficult to ascertain, by a moving observer.

Stepping down on the gas, the ‘make-them-non-consequential pedal’, Sybil smiled at the ‘incredibly shrinking family’ in her rearview mirror, and felt as happy as she figured she could be at the moment, the qualification as to time and duration always a variable.

Doing a quick review of the route she’d decided on to get her to Cambridge MA: ‘two-or-three ninety-degree-turns and then upslope to the Northeast’, Sybil Trainor felt as free as she could remember feeling.

 

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

 

This is the Wakefield Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Denise is the host.

Previously (in our serial story )   to which Nick has added

Betcha you’re right up to speed in our story thus far.

This week’s prompt word is:

SURPRISE

“All done in the kitchen, Tom will be pleasantly surprised when he gets back from his culinary safari.”

The tall, thin man stepped towards the woman at the bar, the double swinging doors whispering shut behind him, like a modern-day CS Lewis wardrobe, restoring the appearance of uninterrupted rows of liquor bottles standing in prismatic defiance of the half-dark Bistro; a sash of white linen aproned his waist, a nod of respect for the vest and trousers of the Dege & Skinner suit; the woman sat on the customer-side of the bar, jotting on a yellow, top-spiral notepad with a chewed-cap Bic.

“Thank you, cher,” Mimi smiled at the cup of tea and, on a china bread-plate precisely at two o’clock from the saucer, two Hostess Cupcakes, “if your work as the pro tem manager of our little Bistro becomes a chore, you could make out like a bandit in the household management business; I have friends in the business.”

From behind her, where the chaotic prism of light from the bar washed against the reefs of lacquer-and-wood tables, came the sound of laughter, in the key of three; one basso and confident, another soprano and affectionately-challenging and the third, seemingly the most minor, a contralto that deferred to the other two in a manner that reminded Mimi of her trip to Botswana and the sight of a pride’s dominant lioness in the branches of an acacia tree looking asleep.

“They like her,” the man frowned;

“And you do not,” not a question, rather an invitation to share, “the Gate Keeper and the Bar Tender, bless their hearts, are not nearly as scarred and jaded as you”.

“Nor as perceptive and wise as you, M”, the tall, thin man shrugged into his suit-coat,

“So, do you really think I could get work as a gentleman’s gentleman?”

 

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

This is the Wakefield Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise each Thursday (link in becomes available Wednesday at 6 pm ET) if you have jones for writing or a hankerin’ for reading short, little stories, this is surely the place to be!

This week’s prompt word:

KNOT

“I don’t fuckin’ care if you’re closed, any more than I give a shit it’s Christmas Eve, I just spent twenty-three minutes in the creepiest empty hallway on the planet,” in a voice both intimate and devoid of emotion, like the rote deceptions an obstinate child might rehearse while sitting alone in a time-out, Sybil Trainor stared at one more man in her way, “So tell me where I can find the Sophomore and I’ll leave you people be”.

The tall, thin man compressed his lips, not so much in sympathy as empathy, much the self-reassessment observed in infants and puppies when first encountering a mirror and being forced to come to grips with the true story of the Garden of Eden: ‘I am’ becoming ‘We might be’. The cold calm in his eyes obscured by the light to his back, in something between a sigh and an assurance, “While I cannot, in all honesty say I know where your friend is at the moment, I assure you that I will know when he returns and, at that point in time I will be in a position to facilitate your reunion.”

In alien benediction, the soft yellow light from the office bathed both the man and the girl, who now wore: bell-bottom jeans that were a patchwork of deliberate, if unnecessary mending; an intricately-knotted macramé belt and an off the shoulder peasant blouse, the perfect framing of the face of a girl fluent in non-verbal intercourse.

The sound of voices to their left drew Sybil’s attention and she turned away from the man without the slightest hesitancy and walked towards the long bar, behind which liquor bottles, neon letters and mirrored reflections created a 2D representation of the nearly empty café; gliding along the reef of barstools, Sybil felt her anger pulse into life at the sound of confident familiarity, but then, her anger was never, ever, too far away.

A voice, at once sure without need to convince, anchored the form of a woman on a stool, and Mimi smiled, “Tonight, strangers are friends-by-default, shair, jess tell that rahdoht voice in your head to leave your heart alone.”

 

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