Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
Early, (for me), to start warming up, but, what the heck! right?
Holy smokes! Not only did I not warm up yesterday, (afternoon, night…other than take a near-meaningless photo of my new phone and write one line), but the prompt word was not there when I went looking last night! Admittedly, I was tired and, despite my resolve to get some more words down for Chapter 3 in ‘Almira‘, I fell down in the-room-with-specially-soften-floors and slept horribly most of the night!
…anyway, now it’s Thursday morning, the prompt is ‘Last’ and, as zoe demands each and every Thursday, here is my Six Sentence Story:
Last
Heidi found her husband, Claus, sitting, his face slumped in the vee of his elbow-propped hands, at the end of the long, narrow plank bench that ran in parallel rows on either side of the wooden tables,
“Why, my husband do you wear such a sad face, Oktoberfest is for the beer-laughing, wench-pinching men of the Village to celebrate and shout and drink and eat, what is it that bothers you so?”
Claus’s usually cheerful face turned to look up at his wife’s, like an avalanche in reverse, his bushy white eyebrows raised, blue eyes regarded her with fierce affection,
“I know, I know, each year, out there among the young people I am, telling the young men to walk, so that they might get them all and, when they get too boisterous, there I stand between them and the shyer girls, at their first Oktoberfest all alone in small groups of friends.”
“But this year, I had to insist on claiming the title of ‘Münchner Kindl’ and start the festivities and even, my ego it so large, arrange the menu, course by course!!”
“And that you’ve done so well,” Heidi turned, pulling her husband in close to her, the two-now-one, facing the tent full of townspeople gathered at the tables and outside on the lawns beyond, “look, Claus, they eat and they drink and laugh and carouse.”
“That is so, and each plate of food and every stein of beer has its proper place, like a wedding procession, the bride would not be first to enter the Church, as with the heavenly choir of angels, there is a proper order to things.”
Waving his hand towards the townspeople, who, standing and sitting, laughing and whispering and, all held plates of sweetly-iced strudel, “I distinctly said, the last shall be Wurst!”