Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
This is zoe’s Six Sentence Story bloghop. Each week, she provides us with a prompt word and challenges one and all to take the word and make the denizens of the metaphoric world of rhetoric totally green with envy at the fabulous stories we submit.
You know, we may talk funny ’round the Doctrine here and elsewheres… not pointing any fingers, (far be it from me to imply that Paul or Miz Avery or that English fellow, Keith… are among those of us who view the English language much the way a kitten sees a totally lit and decorated Christmas tree…. no, they all stand up folks what write real good and don’t even get me started on some the others like Mimi (who not only writes a mean Six, and somehow manages to make it part of an entertaining serial story)… and speaking of upside down, there’s that woman from clear on the other side of the planet, Irene and there’s Pat B…. I could go on and on, which might be the merciful thing to do this week. Given our Six.
Did we mention that sometimes the Six Sentence Story ends up being viewed as an opportunity to ‘practice the craft’…. (ahem! well, perhaps using the word ‘learn’ might yield a more satisfactory participial phrase.*) In any event, this week’s Six is from the next chapter in my other WIP, ‘Home and Heart’ (a Sister Margaret Ryan novel)
The prompt word this week is ‘TUNE’
“Alex, over here,” Alex Dumas heard the voice even as his eyes struggled to adjust; stepping in from a cloudless October noon, the pretend-nighttime lighting of the bar was like jumping off a dock into a cold blue lake, the secret lay in not panicking at the sudden change.
After six voice messages that consisted entirely of, ‘we need to talk, you’ll be glad you did’, Alex finally picked up his phone just as Phil Borastein was leaving his seventh; in what seemed to be a single breath, the man explained that he, among all literary agents in the world, was the only one qualified to make ‘The Nun and the Billionaire’ into a runaway bestseller. The ‘Nun and the Billionaire’ was the title of the series of articles the graduate student just completed for his college newspaper; chronicling the efforts of a novitiate nun, one Sister Margaret Ryan, to stop the foreclosure of her elderly mother’s home by a predatory corporation, by the name of the Bernabau Company, was by all measures a monster hit.
The bar was of a tried-and-true layout: a row of booths along windows that looked out over the street, creating a Hieronymus Bosch-painting–as-performance art i.e. a world of light and a world of darkness separated more by the nature their respective inhabitants than by any physical barrier.
The last booth was backlit in reflected neon red and silver that, like the shimmering waters of a fountain of youth (or failing that, a fountain of forgetfulness), the jukebox sat and released into the air, tunes that made one remember a past that should have been.
As Alex got nearer, stepping around the supplicants to glass gods of forgetfulness and forgiveness perched on lonely stools with heads bowed, looking at their drinks in quietly desperate attempts to find their way out of a world that they couldn’t remember seeking, the owner of the voice became clearer, or at least more visible; the young man’s immediate impression was that of a toad, not so much slimy as he gave the impression of being an animated pile of compressed fat with a toxic smile, wearing a worn-out suit.
* no, it’s alright, I admit to a shameless wikipedian binge in this week’s Six. That I risk totally inappropriate use of words and concepts of grammar is irrefutable. Much like a boy given 10 seconds in front of a candy counter, not only might I’ve grabbed items I have no familiarity with, I surely risk an upset stomach at the end of the day. oh well, such is the typical day in the fun house that is the internet.