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.

Following is the next installment in the (serialized) ‘backstory’ of Sybil Trainor, the newest character from the Six Sentence Café & Bistro oeuvre. (For you Readers what like the sense of story continuity, previously on ‘a Sybil Trainor Six’.)

This week’s prompt word is:

PASTE

“You ain’t from around here, are you,” the bar stool holding Sybil turned a half revolution to her right, the voice was from a man wearing a stained and slightly wrinkled work-shirt with the casual pride of physician’s scrubs; his beard, just the wrong side of comfortable removed all doubt to his intentions or standards for social interaction.

“I’d guess it was either my perfume or the lack of double negatives,” Sybil noted the tightening of eyebrows, a bull disturbed in a quiet pasture; Steve, according to the red embroidery on his shirt, stopped her rotation with his knee, hand on his beer bottle moving to her hip.

The mute negotiations of fox-hole prayers and last call in bars that advertise ‘Ladies drink half-price’ concluded with Sybil standing first, the man’s jawed tightened, forced to react even as the young woman whispered,

“So, Steve, I spotted a motel just outside the Murphysboro city limits that looked like it catered to the impromptu honeymoon trade,” his country-boy smile, more a torch dropped in an abyss than a lighting of a shared candle, now pasted on his face, “But left my car at the commuter parking up at the interstate, so give me the keys to your truck.”

 

 

Standing at the foot of the bed, open blouse more vestment than daywear, Sybil smiled down at the man struggling weakly, arms and legs reduced to twitches of impotent panic; “You remember, back in the day, the mainstream media was beside itself with girls getting slipped a roofie and all sorts of unpleasantness ensuing?”

Steve, motor control limited to widening his eyes like a rabbit to the wolf, a blue flush growing as hypoxia tightened it’s grip,

“Not that it matters, but your next of kin will find the keys to your truck right there in the ignition just as fine as can be, probably help with the funeral expenses; been fun, gotta run, if you see him down there, tell Uncle Fred hi for me.”

After a brief ride from a cautiously amused trucker, Sybil Trainor started her car, tuned in the closest thing to a college radio station and pulled onto Highway 13; her journey towards a new life resuming by way of the path of Great Tri-State tornado; Radcliffe could wait a few extra days as college freshman-to-be continued to back-burn the remnants of childhood.

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