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 (insisting only on the number of sentences be Six). No more. No less.

We left the tall, thin man and the Sophomore in the Manager’s office locked in a meta-adversarial contest of Will. (Click Here).

Prompt Word:

HEART

“What’s that noise⸮”

The tall, thin man was at the door of the Manager’s office before the Sophomore could laugh at the older man’s total inability to resist the urge to find the obscurely weird in the common everyday; but, before the younger man could justify his own love of the eccentric, the volume reached a level sufficient to permit comprehension.

Standing in the hallway where it opened into the Six Sentence Café and Bistro proper, the collective conversation of the crowded room, of which all but four were strangers, was enhanced by the visual: people smiling at the young waiters and waitrae serving drinks to those seated at the room full of small, round tables; the well-dressed (ok, well, over-dressed) man’s eyes were drawn to a woman sitting in an alcove facing the stage, her face awash with the richly-hued light of a laptop as she watched the celebration of her return.

The Sophomore, a little further in the dark of the hallway, slightly behind the manager, awed, “No way, thats…”; without turning the old man man replied, “Way.”

“We would do well to let her tale stand as a reminder of true inner strength; I hope to have half the heart and a quarter of the will that Chris has exhibited over the last months;” glancing at the crowd, the Proprietor spotted Nick and Denise sitting nearby with what they hoped was not concerned-hovering as regular customers greeted the Raconteur with quiet deference; Mimi, at the end of the bar rose and held the swinging doors as Tom stepped out of the kitchen, a food tray the size of a Hula Hoop^® balanced over his head.

“You go, I’ll hang back and get into character,” the tall, thin man stepped further into the darkness of the hall as the shouts of, “Yo, T-Traveler dude!’ burst from a cloud of cigar smoke like a message from a sky-writer in the anti-matter universe.