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. Regulated by the Department of Sentenae Limitation, Ordinal Section; Sextuplet Division.

Prompt Word:

ENGAGEMENT

“Hey, teach, nice to meetcha,”

Lou Caesare is many things; a complete list would necessarily involve contact with a variety of law enforcement organizations and, if a totally comprehensive measure of the man was the goal, employing a medium wouldn’t hurt as some biographical resources were, ‘at-a-distance’; but for all of his societal-shortcomings, being a poor host was not one.

I pride myself on my sense of people when, early the previous week I said, ‘Sure, it’ll be fun,” in response to Leanne’s suggestion that we have dinner at the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge.

Chair of the Department of Advanced Anthropology and Cultural Semiotics, friend, former client, sometime lover, Leanne had driven down from Radcliffe to lead a symposium at Brown University; Dr. Leanne Thunberg, ever the considerate houseguest for the weekend insisted on having dinner at my favorite ‘restaurant’ and ‘meeting my friends and dancers and mobsters’; what could I say other than, “Of course!”

“Tell me one thing about Devereux that you know he doesn’t and one thing I do,” Lou offered his Great White grin, an elevation of his shoulders and the slightest of nods, all from his side of the last booth on the right; the gestalt was as direct and formal as a bow over a ladies hand in a Victorian parlor.

Returning his smile, Leanne did something with her voice and eyebrows that put ivy on the walls of the Lounge side and caused the bump ‘n grind music from the strip club to acquire a baroque lilt,

“The woman is always right and hearing someone begin a sentence with, ‘Rules of Engagement’, tells you who’s the first to cheat and on top of that, a fuckin’ hilarious oxymoron.”

Lou Caesare laughed with characteristic lack of restraint that made a person want to be funny, it was full-bodied and totally disarming;

“Hey Devereaux, first of all, you’re clearly playing way, way out of your league with your lady-friend here and second, you better pray I don’t take it to mind to open a branch Bottom of the Sea up Cambridge way,” Leanne and Lou lead the ensuing laughter.

 

 

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. Regulated by the Department of Sentenae Limitation, Ordinal Section.

(Full Disclosure: Last week Nancy did yeoman’s work including multiple prompt wordage in her Six. It is a chromosomal imperative for those of us hailing from Y Chromia to say, “Oh yeah? Dig this!” We are counting on her more developed sense of decorum and maturity to take our Six as a compliment.)

Prompt Word:

LIFT

With my car at the dealer’s for routine maintenance, I considered trying Lyfte to get to the office. The offer of a loaner was tempting, but they knew me too well, and while driving a brand new A7 would give my spirits a certain lift, my current accounts receivables were not exactly smiling and inviting me to buy it a drink.

I stepped into the lobby of my building in time to see the shiny-brass accordion inner-door of the old fashion lift expand into it’s closed position, followed immediately by the two embossed metal doors closing with the certainty of a nun tucking a stray fire-red lock beneath her wimple.

I glanced at the staircase at the end of the hall, felt an unaccountable lift in my spirits and found myself sprinting up the first flight of worn-marble steps.

Laughing, (egged-on by the inner six-year-old who, despite our becoming our own jailor, never submits to the demands of the world to grow up and accept freedom as a hardened-adult), I ran up the stairs to the cadence of leather soles on marble, lifting each foot was less about exercise and more about control.

Like a tyro shoplifter exiting the local five and dime, I closed my eyes as I ran, trusting my recidivist inner-child to save my current and mature self from stumbling.

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. Regulated by the Department of Sentenae Limitation, Ordinal Section

Prompt Word:

LIGHT

“Got a light?”

The tall, thin man offered something of a throwback 18th Century formal bow as he stepped up to the Gatekeeper outside the Six Sentence Story Café and Bistro.

The Gatekeeper complied, but not without the slightest hint of a interrogative arch of one dark eyebrow; the man with the unlit cigarette hastened to explain the occasion requiring portable fire.

“Well, earlier this evening, the Sophomore suggested there was an early point on my timeline when these,” the Proprietor held out his left hand, the white cylinder nestled in a reversed V-for-Victory gesture, “and I were inseparable”.

“Players, haven’t seen those in, like, forever; while I prefer my cigars, got nothing but props for the brand,” The Proprietor-slash-Heimdall grinned approval.

“Not for nothin’ Nick, was there a small but odd group of people on your line this evening, consisting of a stripper, a bodyguard, a short young woman with a homicidal vibe and a guy in blue tights?”

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, this ‘hop has but one rule: Six is the number of sentenceseses in your story, aiight?

So, this week, Tom and I close out our Serial Six ‘…Of Heroes and the MisUnderstood’.

To enhance the continuity, here is Tom’s Six read it first.

Prompt word:

DOUBLE

The tall, thin man pushed off from the bar like a surfer making the day’s last run; alert to the danger of social undertow, he skirted the crowd and headed towards the curtained alcoves that ran along the exterior wall,

“Raconteuse.”

The woman in the next-to-the-last alcove paused, allowing the sound of a familiar voice to draw her to earth, clouds begrudgingly tore as she smiled at the man; diaphanous privacy curtain draping one shoulder, smile hiding on the left side of his face.

“Wait, wait, before you say my name, I need a favor!”

The woman laughed, a comber of russet hair crossed the tops of her eyebrow, tumbling down to her shoulder as she nodded assent; the man held out his phone and waited, every schoolboy anticipating June’s final bell: “OK, I’m ready, read;”

“Days and nights hast thirty one , Swelter’d venom sleeping got, Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot;” laughter restrained, in all but her eyes, Chris looked up at the tall, thin man encouragingly.

“Boil…no… toil …shit …cauldron something… goddamn it!”

The two Proprietors laughed, standing on the shore of a desert island amid a sea crowded with ships and freighters passing on the horizon, neither felt the need to signal for help.