the Wakefield Doctrine

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 is has but one rule: your story must have exactly six sentences.

Hey! Here’s something interesting. At least to Readers who enjoy the challenge of providing musical accompaniment to what is, naturally, a solitary and, for the most part, silent diversion; we have provided two equally enhancing ‘soundtracks’. But, the thing is, each impart a different tone to our Six. If you have the time and are so inclined, let us know which makes the story(ette) more enjoyable.

Prompt word:

DIAL

“Rosetta, Rosetta Storme.”

There are times in life, the mind shepherded into a certain quietude, when the world speaks nearly aloud; one might, within these very special moments, hear it comment on the ways of men and the designs of women; this being one such moment in the Six Sentence Café & Bistro: the ice maker under the bar chuckled with cool cynicism, the coffeemaker sighed wistfully and, with an authority more assumed than real, the antique cash register threw an asterisk into the neon dusk of the nearly empty Café.

Tethered by one perfectly manicured hand on the polished mahogany, the young woman smiled at the Bartender who, moving her head away from the cell phone in her hand, turned towards the voice, slowing her arc to make eye contact with Mimi sitting at the dark end of the bar, “Pleased to metcha, what can we do you for?”

“I’m here for a job,” the double swinging doors leading to the kitchen behind the bar, in their haste to get out of Tom‘s way, offered a ‘hmph‘ with as much disapproval as, well, as doors are capable of; “I was told by my boss to come here and say, well, I guess I already have, ‘I’m here for a job.”

“And that you did, cher,” Mimi smiled at Tom, who, folding his towel, carefully tucked it into the ties of his apron, the plain-white obi of the culinary arts; with the passionate calculation of the watchmaker adjusting the hands over the dial, she continued, “And who might your boss be, if you don’t object to our curiosity?”

While sometimes, in rare moments, the world can be heard to speak, there are other times, far more common if not still quite challenging, when a person can answer; with an exhibition of the mutual respect exhibited by prize fighters and 1960s Spelling Bee competitors, the young woman removed her exquisitely-tailored blazer, draped it over the back of the adjacent barstool and smiled, “Lou Caesare.”

(to be cont’d)

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 is has but one rule: your story must have exactly six sentences.

Prompt word:

DIAL

“Hey, dude, dial it back from eleven, yo,” the air freshener shaped like a 1950’s pinup that hung from the rearview mirror of the convertible shimmied and jittered over the dashboard speaker grill one bar into the Pat Travers tune.

“Fuck you, it’s all your fault and besides, who died and made you the boss of me, huh?”

“Will you two cut it out, we were having such a nice day until you both had to compete like you always do when we’re together,” the steady diminution of the girl’s voice failed to alert the boys that, while one of them might win this particular battle, victory in the war was increasingly in doubt as she left the car headed towards the path leading down to a small dock.

“Well, he started it, I mean it’s his car, but all I did was dial down the volume, we’re in the goddamn country after all,” his plan was falling apart and the fact that one of the two loves of his life was, at the moment, stepping down into a surprisingly ornate boat added an unattractive stridency to his voice; his hormone-spiked emotions as destructive as a cloud of mustard stroking the cheeks of the unsuspecting doughboys defending the Ypres Salient.

“Yeah, you’re just jealous cause I got a car and the closest you get to taking her out is tagging along on trips like this,” the second boy, his hormones, charged by conflict took control of his emotions with the deadly certainty of the first cloud of mustard gas stroking the cheeks of the unsuspecting doughboys defending the Ypres Salient.

“You’re both right, and a couple of knuckleheads and we’ve been friends since, what, the Sixth grade, but if neither of you can get along, then I’ll just drift out into the middle of this, what’s it called, oh yeah, Crystal Lake, until you shake hands and make up.”