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

Previously…

Prompt word:

LACE

“Fuckin’ Devereaux, you really kill me sometimes, you know that? Spend half as much time in the world out here,” Lou waved his ever-present cigar in my direction, pretty much organized crime’s version of a bishop’s benediction, “As you do in that giant brain of yours;” more telling of the man seated in the last booth on the Lounge side of the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club & Lounge was that he never, for even a second, broke eye contact with me; “you might find yourself less in need rescuing from time-travel hitmen lacin’ your double latte, frappa-fuckin’-chinos with god knows what.”

And, as any zoologist, psychologist or criminologist will advise that for certain forms of life, establishing eye contact is a no-win strategy, this group includes but is not limited to: crocodiles, wolves, polar bears and Great White sharks.

Fortunately for me, Lou Caesare chose to laugh and, like the sounds of the above cited predators, it combined the best parts of defiance of an innately hostile world, triumph over adversaries and a simple reminder of how short life can be.

“And not for nothin’ if your predicament had caused my hostess,” the Owner of the Bottom of the Sea had this thing that I could never figure out, maybe it was just knowing the other person or their routines, but when he mentioned Diane’s name, she looked back at us, despite being at the front entrance at her station, “…Mz Florence Nightingale to be… inconvenienced in any way, you and I would be having a more private conversation;”

I turned in time to see Diane telegraph a scolding smile to Lou that, for anyone else in the city, would come in second to ‘punch the shark on the nose, they hate that and will leave you alone’.

*

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…

Prompt word:

BED

“You wanna hear something weird?”

Diane did something with her face, as we walked toward the parking lot that triggered a momentary synesthesia in me; I heard her smile as laughter and felt the tilt of her head (enough to allow a side-long glance) as lightness in the soles of my feet; I considered saying something but was seriously concerned that I’d get confetti all over the newly mown grass.

“Sure?”

“I have an ABD in psychology, half a law degree and a BA in Theology yet there are moments, usually lying in bed late on a Sunday night, when I wonder in all seriousness what I want to be when I become an adult.”

“Ian, I know you are aware of the difference between you and most successful adults…”

“Not counting getting kidnapped by a putative time-traveler, taken to an IHhop, drugged and ending up rescued by a beautiful woman who runs a strip club?”

“Well some of that,” this time her laugh was constrained by something in her eyes, ‘The difference is that unlike most of us who settle in to the serious work of leading responsible lives, you have yet to send your inner child off to boarding school or worse, put him up for adoption; so, not weird; if anything, you remind me of the ransom most of us feel we must pay to get the life we are taught to expect.”

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… the Sophomore and Rosetta

Prompt word:

BED

“What?”

The Sophomore sat on the end of the bed and, looking up from the faint scars on her legs, watched Rosetta’s face as he smiled with what he hoped was a total absence of judgement, “Dueling scars, but not from Heidelberg?”

The atmosphere in the bedroom changed, her only response to his staring was an unambiguous and thoroughly non-verbal, ‘en garde‘ of her raised eyebrow, “Are you fuckin’ serious right now?”

(If they were, in fact, fencing, a student of the sport might nod and think, ‘She counters with Parry #8, be careful young dude;’) even as Rosetta continued, “University of Adolescence; Major in Me, Minor in ‘How fucked up is my life…”

“You graduate?”

“Nah…took a GED; mind if I finish getting dressed now?”