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 is has but one rule: your story must have exactly six sentences.

Prompt word:

DIAL

“Hey, dude, dial it back from eleven, yo,” the air freshener shaped like a 1950’s pinup that hung from the rearview mirror of the convertible shimmied and jittered over the dashboard speaker grill one bar into the Pat Travers tune.

“Fuck you, it’s all your fault and besides, who died and made you the boss of me, huh?”

“Will you two cut it out, we were having such a nice day until you both had to compete like you always do when we’re together,” the steady diminution of the girl’s voice failed to alert the boys that, while one of them might win this particular battle, victory in the war was increasingly in doubt as she left the car headed towards the path leading down to a small dock.

“Well, he started it, I mean it’s his car, but all I did was dial down the volume, we’re in the goddamn country after all,” his plan was falling apart and the fact that one of the two loves of his life was, at the moment, stepping down into a surprisingly ornate boat added an unattractive stridency to his voice; his hormone-spiked emotions as destructive as a cloud of mustard stroking the cheeks of the unsuspecting doughboys defending the Ypres Salient.

“Yeah, you’re just jealous cause I got a car and the closest you get to taking her out is tagging along on trips like this,” the second boy, his hormones, charged by conflict took control of his emotions with the deadly certainty of the first cloud of mustard gas stroking the cheeks of the unsuspecting doughboys defending the Ypres Salient.

“You’re both right, and a couple of knuckleheads and we’ve been friends since, what, the Sixth grade, but if neither of you can get along, then I’ll just drift out into the middle of this, what’s it called, oh yeah, Crystal Lake, until you shake hands and make up.”

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, governed by one ruleL six (and only six) sentences to all contributions.

This week’s prompt word:

SWIRL

I will now count backwards from three, when I say ‘One’ you will open your eyes feeling relaxed and rested…

“Three”.

When you awake you will know you possess everything necessary to meet all challenges with confidence and accept any setbacks opportunities to enhance your experience as a problem solver…

“Two.”

Although you will not remember my instructions, you will know that, being a part of the world, everyone you encounter wants to be associated with you once you tell them what you need…

“One.”

The darkness began to swirl in what felt like a limitless space inside his eyelids;  the stage lights, distant stars turning into small suns, illuminating the small stage and, beyond it, the audience, a quiet, night ocean dotted with dark circular islands, cigarette fireflies circling and diving. He felt good somehow, despite the fact that his last recollection was talking to Mimi at the bar and, for some reason, raising his hand.

Standing to the left of the seated Sophomore, the tall, thin man held his right index finger to his lips, his eyes reflected a conspiratorial smile at the rapt audience sitting in the Six Sentence Café and Bistro, “Ladies and gentlemen please, a round of applause for our young friend; he’s been a very good subject.”

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is the Wakefield Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise the only rule is: six sentences in length.

Prompt Word:

PLATFORM

“Damn vehicular peristalsis…’

The sole occupant of the car felt a mental finger depress a well-worn, (so worn that if one could see it, they would observe a cream-colored rounded-corner protrusion, somewhere between the hippocampus and the prefrontal cortex), and in the slightly concave surface, a faded-black letter ‘O’,  the man’s ‘Out-loud thinking’ button.

“What did you say?”

The sole passenger’s face had the look of affectionately-patient resignation, the corners of her mouth a true telltale, the time-pressed creases of age rose upwards; her partner’s youthful eccentricities, like some wines, a handful of paintings and all of love, smoothed themselves over time into endearingly creative expressions.

As traffic resumed forward motion, she recalled the conclusion of his last bi-decade physical; his physician made a point of mentioning a certain behavior/syndrome common to a certain stage of life, “The Latin phrase is: ‘Quo profundiores cogitationes sunt, eo majore apud nos loquimur’.

“I think therefore I mutter,” The man, stepping off the ledge-platform that stuck out of the end of the exam table, continued,

“We,” looking at his wife, perched on the only seating that didn’t have stirrups or a covering of white paper, “have an agreement that, when in public she will look at me and nod, like we were in a conversation and I will refrain from swearing excessively.”

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is the Wakefield Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise the only rule is: six sentences in length.

Prompt Word:

WIRE

“Really? You’re sorry and this is all a misunderstanding, that’s what you’re going with?”

“Can you fuckin’ believe this guy?” The owner of the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge looked around, three of the four men showed no inclination to regard their boss’s interrogative as anything but rhetorical, however, the fourth, clearly most junior of them, offered a shocked ‘What the hell!’; his older, more seasoned companions repressed their reaction to the young man’s misguided ambition, favored uncles smiling at the enthusiastic if not off-key performance at a grade school talent show.

Being the owner of most of the warehouses in the once-thriving industrial park, Lou Caesare found the small, elevated office marked, ‘Shipping and Receiving’ was ideal for private, secure meetings; the subject of his attention at the moment, a second-tier accountant for an import company primarily serving a speciality market based in several South American countries, struggling against the painful embrace of several rolls of duct tape.

Raising an eyebrow, a salt-and-pepper hedgerow he reserved for only the rarest occasions of non-verbal communications, when a rabbit punch to the kidneys or, at the moment, a Skil saw umbilical’d to a wall socket, was insufficient to convey his frustration and slightest touch of pique;

“Tell me who put you up to wearing a wire or you’ll hear my aunt Rosa, may she rest in peace, who used to say, ‘I swear, Louis, you’d forget your head if it wasn’t tied on.'”