the Wakefield Doctrine

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

This is the Wakefield Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise, there is one rule: Six (no more, no less) Sentenceses to the story

Previously...

Prompt word:

RATTLE

“Just take a second of ya time, I promise?”

The voice from the vacant lot was assigned corporeal form, that of a young woman, well-dressed, (in the way of the young a celebration of flaunting the rules of good taste), standing as still as the moment before the grill slides in the church confessional; failing in her ambition to further rattle the young man’s confidence, she left it to the Sophomore to advance the narrative.

On this particular evening, the Gatekeeper, perhaps in the throes of a regressively-whimsical mood, had set up his station outside the entrance to the Six Sentence Café and Bistro with a rusted 50 gallon drum containing a scavenged firewood blaze that provided far more light than heat; the illumination crashed like storm waves along the granite walls of the building, resulting in a quite respectable ‘Bread and Roses Strike’ vibe.

“You’re that new girl, Ronetta…Rosetta, Rosetta Storme the one that those who aren’t afraid of, kinda hate…”

“And you’re that old guy pretending to be a young guy who’s supposedly a time-traveler from the Seventies, sophmoric… no, wait, missing the slightly pompous way over-done, leading article, I got it: The Sophomore!”

Leaning against the granite wall that divided the old mill building that housed the Café’ from the rubble-strewn vacant lot, Rosetta shifted her weight to her trailing left foot and turned to face the unsteady waves of light fleeing the drum set up in front of the entrance; a smile hid in the corner of her mouth, allowing plausible deniability as backup to her go-to strategy that focused on hormones and wishful thinking.

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

This is the Wakefield Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise, there is one rule: Six (no more, no less) Sentenceses to the story

This is one of a series of Six Sentence Stories we’ve written based in the all-too-unfortunate reality of Parchman Farms. Links here and here

(In case you’re having trouble with suspending disbelief, here’s the wikipedia page.)

Prompt word:

LEASE

Sundays were the only day the inmates did not spend in the fields of Parchman Farms; that religion held sway over the lives of the men of Camp 8 one need only watch as they walked up the road towards the small white chapel with their escort: horsemen with rifles riding, groomsmen for a ceremony that celebrated irony as they endured the sermons of deliverance while wearing iron shackles.

The morning’s heat served to offer an involuntary baptism to the newest prisoners; as was the case of most things in their new life, the prisoners were expected to provide the water for the sacrament, as the man in black told them that they could be saved.

Severn Tigue, a name that made his life tough and his disposition tougher, leaned towards the old man who sat with the practiced balance of the aged on the rough-sawn pew to his right.

“You think, if I went to the Preacher and told him I’d surrender to the Lord, I might get an early release?”

The smile on Elias’ face, the one language beyond the reach of the Warden was, but for a flash of white in the ebony crags and folds of the old man’s face, spoke volumes.

“Your soul might belong to Jesus, but Boss Roscoe, he holds a lease on your body and there ain’t no skippin’ out on the rent.”

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

This is the Wakefield Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise, there is one rule: Six (no more, no less) Sentenceses to the story

Prompt word:

HAUNT

“Hey, pal, c’mere need to talk to ya.”

The Sophomore was pulled from his walking-reverie as he halved the last city block before the Six Sentence Café & Bistro.

As is often the case with waking dreams, he was in a dark place with an unlikely girl, negotiating the terms of the never-ending truce between Life’s dominant hemispheres.

“Just take a second of ya time, I promise.”

For some reason a conversational shard, from a talk with Mimi one quiet Tuesday night cued itself up in his mind, “Listen cher, don’t you give no never mind to them lowlifes that hangout at the vacant lot, they think they real, but ain’t nothin’ but a haint in a low-rent neighborhood.”

The hair on the back of his neck rose at the immediacy of the voice; adding to his fear was the horrible paradox common to nightmares and broken relationships, the security and safety of the nightclub seemed to elongate away even as he quickened his pace.

*