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

Prompt word:

MOVE

“You start to cry and I swear, I’ll tell everyone, you’ll never hear the end of it,” the voice, originating from nowhere and everywhere in the nearly dark room was, in terms of emotional subtext, jars of finger paint to a five-year-old at the end of the first day of kindergarten; too much energy and nowhere near enough paper.

“Hey, I’m alright, it was just the shock of the change; not everyone has your… ” the pause was neither simple nor clean, leaving as it did, a glottal breadcrumb of sufficient size to allow a reasonable person to hear ‘guilt’ or ‘gullibility’, “capacity to accommodate a fundamental change in reality.”

The accusation, a knee-jerk attempt to change the focus of the conversation, amounted to nothing less than preemptive foreplay; the Hail Mary pass in the final seconds of a game with an unlit scoreboard; the best defense is always a counter-punch.

“I told you this was a big step; I said, sure everyone does it but it’s not for the faint of heart, and you did real fine.”

“I did, didn’t I?”

The world reshaped itself, as it must, but not without a subtle yet enduring alteration of one of the two young people; and, in doing so, reinforced the most human of truisms: to move along the path of personal growth and development, the first step is let oneself fall.

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.

(the subtitle reference is to a character in a serial Six ‘The Order of Lilith‘. Brother Abbott was in charge of the day-to-day operation of the London branch of the Order in Victorian London.)

Prompt word:

FAINT

“Forgive my confusion,” Brother Abbott smiled, despite an abundant beard and unabashedly assertive brows, a steely glint in his eyes gave lie to his words, “I am a man of the cloth and study the life of the spirit, I know nothing about furniture.”

The parlor of the Godwin’s London home was dark and sparsely furnished, testimony to the need to maintain social position; the inadequate number of gas lighting fixtures allowed a passerby to be impressed and the owners to feel secure.

“My former business partners assured me that you are as knowledgeable in matters of the spirit world as you are discrete,” Wallace Goodwin stood next to his wife Iris and did his best to sound confident which was her cue to become actively involved in the conversation;

“This chaise was delivered a fortnight ago,” nodding at the new green couch, oddly placed in the middle of the room, she relaxed slightly as her large guest in the brown sackcloth robe focused on the item in question, and continued, “I have not been able to sit, relax or otherwise use my very expensive couch since it arrived.”

Without waiting for the obvious question, the former Iris Montgomery, stepped to the green tufted seat, turned and sat… on the floor.

The mute alert of an eyebrow the only sign of concern on Brother Abbott’s face, “That’s curious, the couch moved itself out of the way before you could sit.”

Kneeling in front of carved wood scrolling running between the feet of the chaise he pulled a cloth tag free and standing, turned to his hosts, “Here is your problem… perhaps a misreading of your original purchase order, but this label clearly identifies this as a feinting couch, not a fainting….”

*

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?”