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

This is an early (by a day) Six Sentence Story.

Holiday post tomorrow am. Then this and perhaps another Six.

The tall, thin man sat behind the Office Supply Depot grey-metal desk, frothy Christmas music breaking against the office door, waves of cultural merriment relentless, but neutered.

The other Proprietors were in the public areas of the Six Sentence Café and Bistro, their voices, like tastefully-applied tinsel, effective as a group, yet each individually distinctive.

The voice of the Bartender moved lightly, easily determined if not constant location, in no small measure due to Tom‘s voice creating the slightest of reverb to her combination of hospitality and non-directive hostility

Chris‘s voice was a pool of quiet, rather evocative of her homeland, a life giving oasis in an otherwise predator-heavy environment; her laptop open on the small round table near the small stage, it’s display a wonder of multiple streams of stories, each independent yet linked in a way to include much more than a single narrative. Nearest the street-side door, now bedecked with a magic marker’d sign; Κλειστό για τα Χριστούγεννα Nick sat beneath a cumulus congestus bank of cigar smoke, smiling as Hūnga made his rounds, his species being the only true manifestation of the ubiquitous wandering figure of good will.

Mimi, sitting at the end of the long bar, turned her head ever-so-slightly towards the dark hallway and smiled, “Admission”.

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