the Wakefield Doctrine

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.'”

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 there is but one rule: the story (inspired by the week’s prompt word) must be six sentences in length.

So, last week Mimi wrote this excellent Café Six. We were, at the time, way behind on (our) reading and did not feel we could do justice to a walk-on Six*. So here we are, a week later.

Prompt word:

HERMIT

“Hey, I was thinking…” the tall, thin man stopped both his forward physical motion and, with it, his prepared speech denying that the amount of time alone in the Manager’s Office made him a de facto, hermit; the tableau that threw a big Cease and Desist on his entrance was comprised of Hūnga wagging his tail at Nick who, standing next to Mimi, reflected the dog’s unconditional love like a Maybelline saleswoman trapped in a traveling carnival’s house of mirrors; something in the scene in front of the bar of the Six Sentence Café & Bistro triggered a long-repressed memory (genuine or false) of a novitiate nun telling a handful of sixth graders in detention a fairly subversive version of the Story of Genesis.

The First Woman was nearly out of the Garden when she spotted an unfamiliar four-legged creature crouching under a bush with an expression of serene patience in his eyes; over her left shoulder, in the opposite direction, a tangle of conversation, “You’re better off with her…” and “I know, but why’d You have to create her like that, You said I’d have dominion over everything,” followed by a harumph of frustration trigging additional, non-specific vocalizations that, much later in the development of culture and language would be synonymous with ‘Wounded Pride’ and Whiny little boy’.

Stopping, Lilith spoke to the animal that looked up at her from his place along the Path,”I can’t stay too long, those two jamokes are likely to notice that my leaving the Garden makes it a two man club and that won’t end well… the Gate to the East is just up ahead, I’d be happy for the company if you want to walk with me;” the creature shook itself from nose to tail, rose with a muscular grace and, after pacing her for a few steps, began to bound ahead, running in wide arcs around her, clearly for the simple joy of motion.

Finally, where the tall grass ended and a dark passage began, the animal stood, waiting for the Woman to catch up; pink tongue hanging out in it’s version of laughter, while on the other end of his body, a tail swept back-and-forth in the grass in a crystal clear, albeit, non-verbal celebration; Adam’s first wife crouched down, and looking into eyes that whispered of the Divine said, “As much as I’d love to have your company, would you help… not me, but those who will follow,” ears folded back patiently, the animal waited.

“I know He’ll never give up on His experiment, but you are what Mankind could be, rather than what we think we should be; so let’s play a joke on our Creator; seeing how my former Husband did not officially name you, I shall, while ‘God’ is already taken, by the Power vested in me, you shall be known as… Dog!”

The dog turned and sat on its haunches facing back along the Garden Path and waited for the first conscripts of a doomed army of Men and Women marching towards a battlefield they could not imagine; wagging his tail as farewell to Lilith, the first Dog waited with neither reservation nor regret for it’s chance to lead a new race back home.

* a walk-on in the context of Six Sentence Story(s) is when a character (from another writer/another story-reality) takes part in a scene. In this case, fairly closely related, the Six Sentence Café & Bistro being a familiar metaphorical world and the character, Mimi, the Gatekeeper and the tall, thin man are regulars in that particular virtual world.

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 there is but one rule: the story (inspired by the week’s prompt word) must be six sentences in length.

Prompt word:

FREQUENCY

“You’re a’scairt, that’s all you are.”

“No I ain’t!”

The two boys moved through the brush like grooms through layers of diaphanous veils and curtains securing their respective wedding nights; one slid careful hands, fingers soft pry-bars, and parted each leaf-clad branch in his path, the other, slightly older boy less taken by the beauty of flourishing wild cherry bushes equally the sting of green briars lying in wait.

The lakeshore clearing was an incidental rise of the earth; a root-knotted and ivy-greened path leading generations of neighborhood children to a betrothal chamber far from the protective (and jealous) eyes of parents and other adults; the term rite of passage is the kind of description conjured by one who has forgotten childhood, ‘the Swing’ was all anyone, of a certain age needed.

The water was dark and quiet, a flawed mirror as the sun sketched details at the whim of passing clouds, the tree, at the top of the rise, was everything the earth might be, were it possessed of a desire to experience flight and the rope hung straight, a make-shift pendulum measuring the passage of Summer.

The swing’s arc, invisible in stillness, was the ritual; the rope ,the sacrament and the frequency of its celebration measured in seasons and generations;

“Then you go first.” the boy grabbed wrist-thick rope; closing his eyes as a last defiant act in the face of fear, he ran until the earth set him free.

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