the Wakefield Doctrine

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

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

Hosted each week by Denise, the rules are simple, the stories are always a surprise.

(Not that it will provide a ‘Oh, I get what this is about...’ context to this Six, (lol) But, what the heck… Previously in our story

The prompt word:

SILK

Sybil Trainor couldn’t sleep.

The time was three-oh-three in the morning and the other two people in her shared dorm room were asleep.

Lying on her back on the left side of her bed, wearing a Harvard Crimson sweatshirt and a mis-matched pair of Bomba socks, she fought a growing resentment towards both of them.

Her sleepwear benefactor, currently a hedgerow of blankets, random muscle-twitches and wheezing that would put an old bulldog to shame was a now-unlikely arm’s length to her right, while her roommate, Mai, had sarcophagus’d herself in blankets and pillows, a retinue of childhood stuffed-animals an ineffectual buffer against the sonic enthusiasm of Sybil’s return shortly after midnight.

The sweatshirt she wore, very much not her normal silk nightwear, with ‘Truth’ in Latin on the chest, amused her, but not as much as imagining how it would embellish her transient spouse’s tales of conquest upon his return to his fraternity; earlier in the morning than he might expect, the thought bringing a smile with just a glint of the feral.

Despite the sense of energy and power simmering in the two young, albeit non-conscious, students, Sybil Trainor could not fall asleep; there was something just outside of her mind’s reach, neither a threat nor an opportunity, more a sense of familiarity.

https://youtu.be/QmSXIOlN6mY

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 each week by Denise, the rules are simple, the stories are always a surprise.

The prompt word:

SILK

Every road has a direction.

You would not be held in lesser regard for maintaining that this should be obvious and, in fact, the defining characteristic of roads and trails, paths, ambitions and all transitions between A-and-B. Many of us discover, (or are lead to accept, willingly or otherwise), that knowing the direction our life is an essential insight, at least to those hoping to make the most of time we all have been given.

Unlike roads and trails, paths and… ok, maybe not ambitions, but definitely that portion of existence spent getting from A and B, the gift of free will, while seemingly an indispensable tool in establishing direction, is not a guarantee of a happy life.

While many roads are of stone and gravel, rough and uneven, their hinderance to passage can be a gift of incalculable value; to be aware of progress is to be able to alter it.

A way, (a path, trail or, even, ambition) that is silky soft, all too often lacks this quality; the rougher the road, the greater the opportunity to learn as we move forward through life.

*

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 each week by Denise, the rules are simple, the stories are always a surprise.

This Six is a direct continuation of one published several weeks ago. I had the experience last week of realizing how important it is to these ‘continuation Sixes’ that the Reader know the ‘previously on’ context. (Thanks out to Mz Avry and Ford for my getting a link into comments that made all the difference to Readers on the most recent [a Café Six]) Gonna try something different. Rather than a link, here is the ending of the previous installment):

“…Stepping through the glass ‘n brass door, the warm-Italian-cuisine/cigarettes-and-hormone scented atmosphere embracing me, I was brought up short by a woman, her back to the door as a twist in my stomach promised more misery, unless it decided on bliss instead; she was not one the interchangeable temps Lou hired to cover for the extended absence of the hostess who worked for Lou for as long as anyone remembers.

Diane Tierney turned with the grace and force of the changing of the season, her eyes taking inventory, her lips smiling in approval, “Ian, it’s March not February, you made it through the winter,” again a barely noticeable smile, “everything will get better”.

This week’s prompt word:

SILK

“Diane! It’s good to see you.”

The date on my birth certificate qualifies me to enter into a legal and binding contract, I hold title to real estate, a lease on my downtown office, I carry a license for a concealed weapon, earned a couple of graduate-level degrees and the best I managed was ‘Its good to see you’; from a corner of a nearly-sealed off room in my mind came the sounds of acne rumbling up to the epidermis and the imagined laughter echoing down the corridors of a high school that clearly is one stake short of being dead.

If there was a pin nearby to drop, I’ve no doubt the whooshing sound of it’s fall to earth would have drowned out the fifty-decibel stripper music coming from the brass pole and hormone side of the Bottom of the Sea; until, that is Lou Ceasare’s voice, from the last booth on the Lounge side, put to rest any question of how a Great White shark would sound if convinced to try and whisper as it closed in on its prey.

“Hey Devereaux! Get yer ass back here, I got a favor that I might let you do for me.”

This particular evening, the owner of the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge was wearing a white shirt that appeared one size too small, a Zegna floral silk tie that cost more than the average car lease and a black suit coat with two gold cross pens in the breast pocket.

Lou smiled, I sat opposite him and thought about how much safer my previous job on an off-shore fishing boat was.