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, constrained by a sentence limit (high and low) of six, there are worse ways to spend the remaining time you have on earth.

Previously, in our tale...

Prompt word:

FIRE

“Frank, will you be staying?”

The tall, thin man stood in the middle of the Bistro amid numerous empty tables, a derelict ship caught in the embrace of exceptionally powerful doldrums somewhere in a low-number latitude.

la Raconteuse was in conversation with Mimi and the Bartender and the new poetess, Aurelia, had been seated at the bar looking, for reasons beyond the Proprietor’s imagination, uncomfortable.

Taking out his phone, the Manager’s thumb became as frenetic as a teenager in a 11:30 pm car backseat doing his best to start a fire limited to materials and body-parts available; smiling at this confabulation, paused and then triggered the jukebox.

The Proprietor, even as the neurons connecting his brain to his hand, (all nearly as poorly moderated as the aforementioned late-night teenager), closed his eyes, laughed to himself and waited for the music.

The sympathetic response of muscles to the rhythm section, while not winning a Dancing With the Stars contest, did open a door, (or a window or maybe, simply lettres de transit to a far earlier/younger iteration); and, as with most gifts acquired in life’s trials, the tall, thin man accepted the restrictions inherent in the space in which he might visit his past-self, as being well worth the enjoyment of the music.