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, constrained by a sentence limit (high and low) of six, there are worse ways to spend the remaining time you have on earth.

Previously…

Prompt word:

TAG

“Anyone still here?”

The tall, thin man stepped out of the perpetually-dark hallway that lead to the Manager’s Office (and other less hospitable parts of the nearly 140-year-old former mill building). The light from the public areas of the Café, like long-dead children playing a game of tag, failed to illuminate him to any degree, immediately sliding off him like water on a freshly Rain-X’d  windshield.

Behind the bar, the ice machine chortled it’s troll laughter, neon letters buzzed like flies sharing secrets with the bottle caps along the top-shelf liquor and, quite redundantly, a street-sweeper shushed it’s way along the three-in-the-morning dark; he did not, however, hear the opening of a door further down the hallway he just exited.

“Well, fine, be like that, we officially declare this establishment a Talk-Outloud-to-Yourself-if-You-Want Zone.”

The Proprietor, briefly surveying the public areas of the Café, draped his suit-coat on a nearby chair and began to place each chair upside down on the round, wood tabletops; for no reason other than his nature, the thought presented itself, immaterial assistant to his labors: ‘As above, so below.”

*

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, constrained by a sentence limit (high and low) of six, there are worse ways to spend the remaining time you have on earth.

Previously…

Prompt word:

TAG

“Not for nothin’, Tierney, but that broad out in Chicago pisses me off.”

Diane Tierney stood next to the last in the single row of booths on the Lounge side of the Bottom of the Sea and listened to her boss, Lou Caesare; she preferred to remain standing if for no other reason than she could watch, through the half-wall of liquor bottles, the entirety of the Strip Club side of the business.

It was early evening on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving and what the crowd lacked in numbers it more than made up in enthusiasm; the expression of interest inversely proportional to wholesomeness of the next day’s celebration of family values.

Currently on stage was a new two-girl dance act.

A business woman with an MBA, 3 novels with decent sales numbers and a divorced spouse, Diane Tierney smiled, remembering the interview with the dancers on stage, in particular, one of the pair who mentioned that she was majoring in Rhetoric and Creative Writing at the local Teacher’s College; Diane rarely demanded her current occupation be satisfying but recognized an opportunity to be amused when she saw one.

Lou Caesare was more invested in the strippers who worked in his club than most and, a bit old-fashioned; at his insistence, first-time dancers were given the opportunity to use of a tripod on stage to display their name; seeing it now, reminded Diane of what made her decide to give them a chance: written on the card, beneath ‘the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club Proudly Presents’ in simple block letters: “Tag your…”

*

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, constrained by a sentence limit (high and low) of six, there are worse ways to spend the remaining time you have on earth.

Previously…

Prompt word:

RING

“Well, no, I don’t think I’m between a rock and a hard place.”

Pacing the reception area of my agency, Desiderata Investigations & Conflict Resolution, my admin/receptionist, Hazel sat at her desk and pretended not to care. I stopped to re-stack the magazines on the small table between the two chairs for clients to sit and wait when either they arrived early for their appointment or I was late for their appointment; three People Magazines, one Sports Illustrated, a single Car & Driver and, honest-to-god, a Readers Digest; this last was the most worn and dog-eared which makes me think I need to consider my client base demographic, surely all their kids and grandkids can’t be perfect law-abiding citizens.

I continued to pace,

“So, tell me again Ian, about this Anya person; I wasn’t working here when you got involved with the heiress and the nun and her, was I?”

I sat in the left-hand client chair across from Hazel’s desk and though I couldn’t for the life of me remember how much I paid her, it was money well spent.

“No, it was my first real case and, well, of the principals, the Woman in Chicago is the one I didn’t have you put in your three-ring binder labeled: ‘Client Greeting Cards list.”

 

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, constrained by a sentence limit (high and low) of six, there are worse ways to spend the remaining time you have on earth.

Previously…

Prompt word:

RING

“This is your place?”

The Sophomore stepped aside as Rosetta reached towards the security panel on the right-hand wall of the entrance foyer, briefly pressing her palm within a glowing red ring which immediately turned green; the computer did the rest: lights of a variety of hues and intensity came to life even as the sound system, as if jealous of it’s role in setting a tone, came to life. 20 foot ceilings soared, glass sliders slid into the wall, silent invitation to explore the terrace and it’s unencumbered city views; the interior design was inspired, the decor was perfect; the young woman walked towards the kitchen area, kicking off her shoes and tossing her jacket in the general direction of the long dining table.

“OK Ethan, here’s how it’s gonna go tonight: make yourself comfortable while I fix us BLTs; while we eat you get to convince me that my knowing you only as ‘the Sophomore’ shouldn’t piss me off and if I buy that you can explain this time traveler schtick of yours; but first things first, you watch the bacon and make sure it doesn’t get all dried out, after all, we’re not animals here, and I’ll go slip into something more comfortable.”

Within minutes Rosetta returned wearing something in the flannel, casual lingerie-for-all-occasions collection (no doubt from a fashion house that catered exclusively to the neer-do-well / well-t0-do demographic), stood at the counter and assembled the sandwiches.

The two ate in companionable silence until Rosetta, holding a single French fry like a carbohydrate and cholesterol baton, commanding the attention of the Sophomore;

“… and if I’m not satisfied with the honesty and reasonableness of your story, there’s a guest bedroom with your name on it, capisce?”

*

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, constrained by a sentence limit (high and low) of six, there are worse ways to spend the remaining time you have on earth.

We have a Guest return to the Café this week…

Prompt word:

FOLD

The tall, thin man stepped from the hallway that connected the Café proper to the Manager’s office, the ebb-and-flow of darkness that pooled at the end of the corridor seemed to cling to his shoulders, folds of ebony like a sentient tide refusing to be constrained yet yielding to some order that confined it to this section of the original mill building.

The other Proprietors were standing and talking as they usually did after closing time: the Bartender idly polishing the warm, dark mahogany that drew a line along the wall, briefly interrupted by double swinging kitchen doors, immediately resuming the rigid aroura of liquor bottles backlit in white neon, continuing on to almost the front entrance, where the Gatekeeper stood, nursing his Ouzo, as he watched the door, nodding briefly to a figure who moved along the bar to the halfway point and stood next to la Raconteuse.

The sound of a new voice reached a point past where Mimi sat (guarding the darkness), just in front of the manager as he shrugged into his Dege & Skinner suit coat. It was a woman’s voice that was, somehow, made a person hear the opening notes of Rite of Spring; attention demanding, yet un-threatening even as the melody followed a path both exotic and familiar.

“You must be Reena,” the tall, thin man nodded, the intentional imbalance of the slightest hint of a bow sparked of a smile from Mimi at the far end of the bar.

Offering his hand, palm up, he smiled, “Welcome to the Six Sentence Café and Bistro” chorused by the other Proprietors in a jambalaya of assent, “Goeie Dag!”   “Hey, girl!”    “Kalós órises sto spíti mas”  “Bienvenue à notre maison”

*