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, 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.

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

“Bon nuit, mon ami.”

The tall, thin man stepped to one of two stools at the bar nearest the half-darkened hallway; a woman in a floral dress that, in design, yelled Kmart, in construction and drape, whispered Chanel; her Dolce & Gabbana running shoes toe-hooked on the chair’s middle cross rail.

“Cher,”

At the precise moment Mimi smiled her acknowledgement, a young woman in the middle of the crowded Café just happened to glance up and, caught in the older woman’s gaze, smiled in a reflex that pulled at something within her; a secret sadness somehow exposed to light vanished and replaced with a doubled resolve to turn her life around, starting with going to the ladies room and leaving the overly self-assured man opposite her to his own devices.

‘Busy night.”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

Patting his hand, a synthesis of every athletic coach pep talk, Drill Instructor invective-studded harangue and good friend’s hug, she up-nodded towards the main entrance,

“Nick is doing well, but what we need is Tom to transition here from whatever dimension he’s presently occupying; folks getting hungry, all envie; now go and do your job.”

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 your enjoyment and supplant with narrative continuity, here is Tom’s Six read it first.

Prompt word:

DOUBLE

“Dude!”

The Sophomore levered himself into the Manager’s office, one hand and upper arm against the in-swinging door, opposite hand and leg extending, like an animated folding rule. His forward momentum and worn-sole loafers wrestled to a draw at the single wooden chair. The desk that provided meaning, context and utility to the chair, was cluttered in a manner to cause any reasonable observer to think: ‘Double Slit Experiment’; except that manila folders and cigarette burns in the oak top stood in for particles and waves. On the far edge of the incandescent-yellow pool of light, the tall, thin man sat, a still-life study in Doubt, Competence and Age-dulled Ambition.

“The Gatekeeper said to give you this note and tell you he’s got a small group, quote: ‘all Tholian-webbed’ out on the sidewalk;” the Proprietor took the crumpled No. 10 envelope and smoothed-out the wrinkles against several 8 x 10 glossy black-and-white photos of Ford and jenne, sitting together on one side of a booth listening to someone facing away from the camera; the note itself contained one word, scrawled in a hasty, Bic-blue hand:

“ὑπόστασις (hypóstasis)!”

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.

It is hosted by Denise and has a strict Six Sentence Limit

Speaking of ‘Penny Dreadfuls’, Tom and I are writing a Serial Six Sentence Story: ‘…of Heroes and the MisUnderstood‘.

Prompt word:

GRAIN

Cyrus St. Loreto muttered something in the key of involuntary resignation to the unexpected presence of one of the few women he genuinely respected and chose his words carefully, “Miss Claireaux, I will not insult you with a question regarding your participation in this private discussion on what the Bernebau Company’s former IT Department insists is a secure line.”

Her laughter evoked the downcast eyes and fingers-to-mouth blushing female characters found in so many romance novels set in the mid-to-late 19th century, replied, “Cyrus, declar că oamenii tăi cunosc cu siguranță calea către inima unei femei.”

“You’re crazy as a loon, Anya, gotta say, I like that about you,” Lou Caesare came as close to smiling as Diane Tierney could recall seeing in recent days; “I just got a call from my people, they’re on their way home, I am gladly in your debt,” the gruff edge to his voice enhanced the sincerity of his compliment, “I owe ya.”

“You don’t owe me a thing, Lou,” the Lady from Chicago did something with her voice, shifting from a warm affection for a favored uncle (or family dog), to the hard-edged tone of a life-or-death negotiator being informed of a terminal diagnosis, “As to you, Mr. St. Loreto, I have a parting gift; a list of mid-level functionaries embedded in the security apparatus of most countries who are, in fact, the eyes and ears of a certain secret, quasi-religious organization reputed to be headquartered in Germany.

“I’ll bid you both adieu for now with a reminder: while muscle and direct force serves one of you well and centuries of life affords the other a perspective on the minds of normal men, from the center of my world, both virtual and common, I’ll borrow from Blake, ‘To see a World in a Grain of Sand’.”

 

[Eibigen Abby
Rüdesheim am Rhein, Germany]

Bring the young man from the GHCS, he can now be of use to the Order; as you wish, Reverend Mother

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