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 it has but one rule: make it Six Sentences, binyons
This being a Six Sentence Café & Bistro story, it is most likely there will be other writers contributing views, perspectives and parallel (as well as intersecting) storylines. For example, our host, Denise’s first Six is set in the Café later on the same New Year’s Eve.
Prompt word:
STYLE
The tall, thin man, holding open the inner door, allowed himself to be caught in the riptide of cigarette smoke, Viktor & Rolfe and good, old-fashioned pheromones as Rosetta Storm swept into the Six Sentence Café & Bistro.
He spotted, in the fairly crowded club, his fellow Proprietors in their usual places; the Gatekeeper stood outside at the top of the three stairs leading down from the sidewalk to the Café, Charon didn’t have nothin’ on him; Chris, who, at times aka’d the scene as Raconteuse, was at her table just beyond the small stage, bathed in the halo of colors streaming from the laptop that served as anchor while she jaunted through worlds both fictional and real; Tom, visible in the kitchen by way of the porthole windows of the swinging doors, a ghost with a cleaver, he could be heard speaking to someone out of sight, “Well, faith ‘n begorra, I know it’s not ye style, why don’cha tell her off now …me head’s chocka, life’s too short lass.”
Walking towards their table, the tall, thin man heard friendly greetings and well-wishes from new customers and regulars, yet was enchanted by the glittering cascade of sequins that claimed to be his young companion’s evening dress, giving truth to the fact that magic spells draw the majority of their power from the soul of the target rather than the mind of the sorcerer.
Rosetta stopped at a table occupied by two couples and stood, an ever-so-slight cantilever to her left hip; there was a dip in the temperature of the air to make an 18th Century ghost hunter wail in envy; with barely a nod to the hapless group, Rosetta tossed her Birken clutch onto the table as the hapless foursome gathered their personal property and sought the social balm of being indistinguishable among the crowd of celebrants surrounding them.
The tall, thin man stepped behind the young woman at the now empty table; her smile was deflected by his grin as he contimued to scan the bar for one or both the remaining Proprietors, Mimi and the Bartender.
As carnal ransom, (or profane obeisance), Rosetta pressed back against the Proprietor’s hands as he held her chair, exceedingly confident of herself as well as her couture, and recalled her dresser’s shy comment earlier in the evening, “If the eyes are the mirror to one’s soul, this dress is a reflection of the Underworld.”
