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, in our tale…

Prompt word:

YARN

“You fuckin’ crack me up, you know that?”

Lou Caesare manifested what could best be called an unbridled appetite for life; what he lacked in polish he more than made up for with simple, and mostly good-natured, exuberance, at least on those occasions he felt in the presence of friends.

“I like you Frank, I really do and anybody tries to mess with you and your Topo Gigio invisible friend, just gimme a sign, won’t be no trouble at all,” Lou leaned towards his new found friend, “Sister Imelda, my third grade teacher used to say, between whacking my knuckles raw for talking in the back of the class, “Remember what Proverbs tell us: “…lean not on your own understanding”; I know now what she meant, but back then I was kid dreaming of running the world, or at least my old neighborhood.”

“Not to get excessively meta…” the tall, thin man smiled a smile one might see on a successful broker’s face as he handed a client his business card, low key persistence.

Were it not for his euro-urban rasp, one might have missed Lou’s phonetic mimicry as he covered his mouth to poorly mute an explosive ‘Bullshit!’

Mimi, now that all had made it safely through the intermittently dark hallways, was where she preferred to be and for reasons impossible to understand, was assailed briefly by thoughts of Norns and skeins of bloody yarn.

*

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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, in our tale…

Prompt word:

PINCH

I did a paper once in grad school titled: ‘Overt Emotional Tenor Coincident with Challenging the Individual’s Belief System’. Hey, I was majoring in psychology for two reasons: I’d just met Haley, my future ex-wife and drowning in unconditional sex and love; being younger than I should have been, I woefully lacked the capacity to distinguish between the two.

The people at our table were: young and in love(ish); young and enjoying a sense of companionable stability; young and in a crisis of faith; of indeterminant age and demanding respect; our host, Anya,

“You have something you wish to add, Ian?”

In a pinch, when needing to frame a social context to my advantage, I’ll go with Warner Brother’s cartoons every time: Anya Clarieaux as a terribly attractive combination of love, sex and life-threatening peril, sorta Wiley Coyote and the Tasmanian Devil in drag.

“Well, Anya, while my take-away from both recordings was, were I sitting with friends and making up stories, it would be irresistible to not conclude that the Count St. Loreto in the first story is the same as the guy in Miami that Rosetta’s uncle wanted nothing to do with; and Lou being a underworld crime figure, gotta make you wonder about the nature of St. Loreto’s business.

I know we’ve all agreed to not talk about how unbelievable it is we’re here under the premise that a component of a time travel device… no, pardon me, a time travel mechanism, will be arriving tomorrow, but can I just hold up a hand-lettered sign: ‘Help‘.”

*

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, in our tale…

Prompt word:

PINCH

“La Raconteuse! What a pleasant sur… wait, are you limping?”

The tall, thin man had just placed a tray holding a sterling silver coffee carafe, several china mugs and assorted sugars and creme on a folding tray stand next to one of the double-sized round tables halfway between the bar and the bandstand; looking around the Bistro for his guest, Lou, who at the moment was standing next to the writer his right forearm horizontal and level; the polite solicitousness of his offer of support was in contrast to the expression on his face.

“Two questions: if your foot is the result of someone making a bad decision regarding your ability to walk, just say the word; if, however, if this a legitimate case of natural causes, I got a guy; one of the top orthodontal surgeons in the area until he developed something of a jones for slow horses and fast women, if you get my drift, but not for nothin’ I had a bad pinched nerve and this guy, with a single touch and a twist, pain gone,”  Lou pulled out a chair for the red-headed writer at the table.

Returning to the table with a tray of desserts, the tall, thin man looked towards the hallway that led to the Manager’s office and smiled, “Mr. Frank, if you please!”

Turning to Lou, he continued, “I don’t believe you two have met, Lou, this is Frank; Frank, this is Lou Caesare owner of the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge and a friend of the SSC&B;” Lou, already standing extended a hand that looked like a catcher’s mitt with a diamond pinky ring, nodded, “Pleased to meet’cha, Frank, on yer way over here, what say you drop a quarter in the jukebox and you can tell us about your invisible fren’?”

*

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, in our tale…

Prompt word:

BALLOON

“Lou, what an unexpected surprise!”

The owner of the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge stood at the end of the SSC&B bar where, in a seamless, polished mahogany 90 degree right turn ended at the waitress station, with it’s access to the backbar and, halfway along the shelves of liquor, the entrance to the kitchen.

“Your lack of entourage suggests you’re here on personal business,” the tall, thin man stood in the open space between the hospitably bright Café & Bistro and the intermittently-dark hallway that led to Manager’s Office (the first door on the left) and afforded access to the rest of the old mill building, “Can I offer you coffee?”

Leading his guest towards the double swinging doors situated hallway down the shelves of bottles (backlit by a variable spectrum of colored LEDs and neon tubes), the Proprietor backed through the swinging door, pausing for his guest to enter the currently vacant stainless steel-on-porcelain kitchen; seeing the salt-and-pepper hedge of Lou’s eye brow stand at attention, the tall, thin man laughed, “Ah, you’ve noticed that our du jour is bouquets of colorful balloons.”

Each of the white-string-umbilical’d cluster of balloons, currently trying to escape through the ceiling, (as a species of short-lived life, they are famous for emotional impact, less so for problem-solving); were of a variety of hues representing the primary segments of the spectrum of visible light and every one had printed on it’s side a variation of ‘Félicitations, mémère’.

Even as the Proprietor was turning to explain, Lou was barking into his phone, “Today… take the fuckin company jet, whatever it takes, I want the flowers delivered today.”