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:

SWING

“Call me a geekette, but I got this thing for astronomy, you know, with telescopes and shit and there’s this place here in Pennsylvania that has one of the darkest night skies on the fuckin’ planet… Cherry Hill State park, we need to swing by, if you’re up for that,” the naked, almost childlike enthusiasm in her voice amounted to a blue-moon display of affection; Rosetta Storme was in a good mood as she turned her smile towards her friend,

” We good, Ethan …Ethan…Ethan?!?”

The only other person in the car appeared to be enraptured by the scenery passing in his side window, a 60’s Hanna-Barbera cartoon of repeating views of a pine grove, followed by granite outcroppings, followed by a pasture, …then a pine grove, unfortunately Ethan showed no reaction whatsoever to the young woman’s voice.

For her part, Rosetta was no longer in a good mood, as fear twisted her stomach; never overly passive, her left foot was already on its way to the brake pedal.

“Rosetta, he can’t hear you but your little friend is not in any immediate danger, unless, that is, you go all girlie and panic stomp the break, which at your current speed, will result in the two of you dying in a roll-over crash,” the voice coming from the car’s sound system, familiar as a childhood bed, yet possessed a quality that made one want to check underneath it.

As the car found the high speed lane and regained its original speed, Rosetta replied, “Thanks for the insight into German automotive design, who the fuck is this?”

A laugh that even the world-class audio produced by Bang & Olufsen could not filter out, a harmonic that would drive a dog to drink, “How rude of me, it’s Anya, Anya Clarieaux…. your new bff!”

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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, 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:

FLOAT

The Six Sentence Café & Bistro never really closes, it is always: open-for-business/ full-service menu/free-live-entertainment available, for anyone possessed of the desire to find it and, upon arrival, the Will to walk through its doors.

As with Nature herself, there are intermittent periods of quiet, as when Hazel Grover braced the tall, thin man for information relating to her employer, Ian Devereaux, being sent to Chicago by Lou Caesare, specifically any danger inherent in his path but not necessarily obvious, think Titanic and a football field-sized iceberg floating in the North Atlantic, if a person knew it was there, there’s a reasonable expectation that lives might have been spared.

“I’m here because I suspect you’re privy to information about the artifact everyone is so eager to get their hands on,” Hazel leaned across the round table, the un-lit cigarette tremulously balanced on her lips,  a tool the manufacturers of laser pointers would kill to own the rights to, “So tell me something you know that I should.”

The tall, thin man sat back in his chair, “What direct and forthright question, but with all due respect,” leaning over the table, the Proprietor flicked the flint wheel of his lighter, the flare of  yellow-blue light, like a slow-motion flashbulb obscured the features of his face while simultaneously creating a fading afterimage, ” I must caution patience with my answer.”

Saying that Hazel squirmed in her seat would not do justice to both the verb and the noun, the only valid assessment of the woman’s response to her host would be to say, he paused, quite unintentionally.

Genesis tells us that the Creator gave Adam and Eve dominion over all the Earth and all it’s creatures, if I may quote, “…that they may rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky, over the livestock and all the wild animals,” will suffice it to say, there are forms of life that,” this pause was more of a person enjoying a private joke, “do not conform to Divine edict; your employer would do well to keep that in mind as he travels to Chicago.”

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:

FLY

“What?”

“If you even think about making a joke or otherwise laughing this off, I’ll say, in the spirit of your putative ability to time travel, “to the moon, Ethan…to the moon.”

The Sophomore held both hand, fingers upwards, one palm facing his companion, the other back to himself; it was a gesture neither one of supplication nor surrender; rather one of acceptance, “But before you reach for your Glock, I rarely remember my dreams, even nightmares and I’m really sorry if you were disturbed by it.”

“Disturbed?!”

“So how bad was I, during the nightmare, Rose?”

“You were talking out loud, turning your head to the side every few seconds so it was clear you were driving in a car in your dream; fuckin Marcel Marciano’s got nothing on you when it comes to nonverbal communication; until, that is, you started screaming about a girl thrown from the car as it rolled over, watching her fly through the dark night.”

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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, 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:

SIGN

“Don’t fuckin do that!”

Rosetta Storme sat cross-legged on the king-sized Ritz Carlton bed surrounded by a tangle of sateen sheets, Frette cashmere blankets, pillows and a Doppio Ajour Duvet. At first glance she appeared fortified against an attacker, on closer examination, the configuration of bedding took on the appearance of a pier reaching out from shore towards a castaway.

Lying on the naked side of the bed, the Sophomore stared back at Rosetta, “Don’t do what?”

Reaching for her cigarettes and lighter on the nightstand, Rosetta did a very respectable imitation of an intoxicated smoker, right down to the always iffy strategy of moving her head in pursuit of the flame rather than steady her hand. Ethan both held her hand and lit her cigarette, and in the process showed no signs of impairment despite the early morning hours he spent sleep-screaming, “No, not again, this can’t be happening.”

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