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, governed by a single admonition: make the story six sentences (no more, no less) in length.

ok… since we insist on continuing our, ‘what the?!??!!’ serial Six story, (the one that’s all dialogue between two characters at everyone’s favorite metaphorical virtual gathering place, the SSC&B), it behooves us to provide a link to the previous installment. Sure, we all enjoy writing, (and reading), serial Sixes. This one is so (we want to allude to an episode of our favorite show, ‘Community’ but my meta account is way overdrawn). Lets just go with the standard,

…Previously in the Manager’s Office.

This week’s prompt word:

GAME

“This is all just a …contest to you, isn’t it?”

Surely the smile is the original, (and thoroughly irresistible), prompt to indulge in anthropomorphizing every other animal; this for a race characterized more by it’s collective insecurity than it’s putative intellectual advantage over all other living things. The non-verbal emotional bait being set out by the man in a ten-thousand-dollar suit, seated on the far side of a discount office supply desk from the young man in Salvation Army top coat and scuffed Corcoran jump boots; the challenge in correctly identifying which had the upper hand is an example of the core dilemma in quantum psychology: it had nothing to do with them and everything to do with the hypothetical observer.

“I could throw in a third-hand quote from the creator of the modern detective novel, but that would be redundant, wouldn’t it kid?”

The tall, thin man felt a ripple of excitement in his abdomen, surely what the storied hunters of the previous century must have experienced in the moment they had, in their gun sights, the big… wild animal, the trophy of sought by all Big…. animal hunters.

“Let’s quit this shit, we both know any disagreement between you and I won’t amount to anything more than every beginner-writer’s info-dump;” as the Sophomore stood up, the collective scream of piezoelectric pain rose from the cell phones on the desk, renewing their dance for attention, “And agree to call this…. what’s the word I can never remember… something from the sport of tennis  win-set-match…. no, not that… some singular collective word… whatever.”

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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, governed by a single admonition to make the story six sentences (no more, no less) in length.

To get in the mood, aka get the backstory to this week’s Six, follow the link: …Previously on the Six Sentence Theatre.

This week’s prompt word:

GAME

“Stand aside, woman, ‘The Game’s afoot!'”

Diane Tierney, now back at her hostess station of the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge laughed; it sounded like everything that humor conjoined with sexual tension can be and hardly ever is, joyous abandon with an undertone of the carnal.

I smiled, ‘Into the breach fair maiden…’ and immediately stumbled over my words as I exceeded the safe duration of eye contact with a woman who was, from our first encounter, at once intimidating while simultaneously supercharging my atavistic drive to protect her from danger, real or imagined.

“Dear Sir, your commingling of literary allusions makes my knees weak and fluttery,” Diane, had she been a character in an olden days romance novel, would gather adjectives like willowy, alabaster skin touched by a rose and eyes of a deep blue to be mistaken for violet; I found her intriguing.

“Far be it from me, Mr. Devereaux, to interrupt you in your mission, so, until next Mid-Week Lunchtime Special, I’ll see you your Conan Doyle/Shakespeare mashup and raise you a simple, heartfelt, D. H. Lawrence, ‘Give me the democracy of touch, the resurrection of the body.’

To my credit I not only did not walk into the glass outer door, I transformed my stumble off the sidewalk into a manly jeté as I crossed Weybosset Street headed towards the palisade of hand-drawn picket signs milling around in a clumsy oval.

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