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, it is governed by one and only one Rule, (the ‘hop, not the host): make that story exactly six sentences in length.

Full Disclosure: this is a ‘true Six’. At the start of writing yesterday’s Six, (having Lou as a character in it, what can we say, ‘easy-peasy’ am I right?). Trouble was, I got the beginning of a song in my head that insisted it should be included. Only the first ten notes. Turns out I guessed the group who did the song correctly, but the song itself, incorrectly. Today we have the correct song (by Cream).

… and a thoroughly weird-assed Six Sentence Story.

This week’s prompt word:

SEAL

“”Thank god, I know the name of the song!!”

The other Proprietors, (not counting jenne or Ford or Chris, who were on sabbatical, furlough and sick leave, respectively), were standing in a semi-circle at the edge of the small stage nearest to the bar; they were facing an object emitting a multi-colored light that: imparted a carnelian hue to the Gatekeeper‘s face, like a sunrise in the Carpathian mountains; sent a pale cast of celadon to the Barkeeper, making one think of nested porcelain dolls; Mimi, who stood between the bar and the small group, owing to her leaving her Off-White sneakers (with the lifts) at her stool, had to accept a pale blue halo; Tom just stepping out of the kitchen was hypnotized by a spare ray of gold, rendering him speechless, but he still managed to turn to shield his guest, Nancy, who, having been shanghaied by the short-order-chef of the Six Sentence Café & Bistro, had the protection of her white garb to reflect all spectra, save a spare rose beam.

The tall, thin man moved with surprising urgency from the entrance of the hallway that lead to the Managers office even as Hunga tilted his head in that uniquely-canine, non-verbal interrogative, which caused the Manger to cease his frantic progress to the empty-except-for-the-necessary-to-get-away-with-the-narrative, people, crouch to offer a Mini Milk Bone© to him; the dog accepted the gift but raised his ears at the repeating ten notes the well-dressed man was humming.

“Wait! I get the next choice of song… No, you had the turn before last… Yeah, but I have a cigar…. sure, but have you noticed I’m holding one of those little, curved knifes that heaven-only-knows is the preferred utencil for slicing lemons… well, (from back at the bar), I’ll see your lemon knife and raise you a…..a. colandar!!! (err,  I’m new here, but does that make any sense?)… Please, everyone will get a chance to pick a song from the new jukebox (the letters scrolled in an obviously-strained, yet ultimately patient manner across the computer display set on the small stage... I believe the man who established this patently-contrived, if-not-undeniably-good-natured-premise should have first pick...”

…the small crowd of virtual people became silent in their assent to the wisdom.

....but then, I’m next and I’m going with S7 Seal’s Kiss from a Rose!

The tall, thin manager stepped up to the glass of the jukebox, his reflection in the glass front a portrait of inexplicable relief and the hint of a smile that lingered like a memory fragment of a time too long ago.

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