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. This ‘hop has but one rule, that I’ll share with thee, Six and only six sentences your stories must be.

Previously in our series: the Sophomore sits down with the tall, thin man.

(Warning! This Six is unabashedly a self-imposed writing exercise. Our challenge: to continue the on-going scene of the meeting of the tall, thin man and the Sophomore, with the emphasis on description of both the physical and emotional states of the two characters. Ideally showing and not telling.)

This week’s prompt word:

CHALLENGE

…“Do you know what Hell really is?”

The Sophomore settled back into a chair that was the epitome of minimalist design, in the words of one of his favorite authors, ” …meant to create an alternative to standing and nothing more; moveable and stable which, when you thought about it, are the only really essential qualities a chair required.” The thick folds of his grey-wool overcoat provided support to his lower back, the excessive volume of material in the garment covered up his psycho-congenital slouch and, as a bonus, by leaving it on, he sent a non-verbal message as impossible to ignore as a cat tossed into an occupied shower stall.

“Yeah, of course I know what hell is, kid,” a pink tide rose from the top of the young man’s shirt collar, “If everything they say about how I was somehow transported through time and all, that’d make me your father’s age and, before you even think about trying the ‘you’re young, you don’t know about the painful challenges life can throw at you,’ allow me to retort: Fuck you, I have the scars that prove I’m a survivor and no one, especially an over-dressed, hypo-limbic metro with an exaggerated sense of his own insight into human nature is in any position to challenge my right to do what I want.”

The tall, thin man tilted back in his chair, let his lips turn up at the corners, every bit the scantily clad magician’s assistant and lit a cigarette; the blue-grey smoke formed a skirmish line between his thoughts and the young man’s anger.

“You really gonna try and go meta-a-mano with me?”

*

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

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

It is hosted by Denise and, other than insisting on six sentences-per-story, she maintains a light-to-a-fault hand on the proceedings.

The funny-looking title? The ‘subtitle’ is a reference to this week’s inter-related stories from Nick (2) and Denise (3).

“…previously on the Doctrine’s Café Six‘, the Sophomore was dragging his feet on his way to the Manager’s office.

Prompt word:

FARM

The tall, thin man smoothed out the crumpled paper with the passionate serenity of a widower smoothing the shroud of his departed, prior to taking his place at the head of a receiving line of one.

The muffled knock on the door was followed by a trapezoid of darkness contorting it’s characteristic sharp-angled shape, as if to minimize the fact it provided passage into the office.

The Sophomore crossed the distance between door and desk almost too quickly, the casual swing of his second-hand overcoat, an unmistakeable imprimatur of youth, was a non-verbal announcement informing all that he was not afraid, but would ask deference to his remarkable intelligence.

Sitting in the lone chair in front of the desk, the young man smiled without cause, remained silent out of caution and occupied his mind with an escalating variety of possible realities extending from the present moment; his friends in the past from which he was mysteriously transported, often chided him on not taking life seriously enough.

The tall, thin man’s fingers ran over the ridges and creases of the letter like a third-generation owner of a subsistence farm sifting dry soil through calloused hands, as if to seek enlightenment, if not salvation.

“Do you know what Hell really is?”

*

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

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

It is hosted by Denise and, other than insisting on six sentences-per-story, she maintains a light-to-a-fault hand on the proceedings.

…in any event. We were ‘talking’ to Friend-of-the-Doctrine and fellow SSC&B Proprietor, Chris about a character in this week’s Six, namely, the Sophomore. With no encouragement from her, (being a mature person), we got it in our heads to suggest a ‘walk-on’ story. (When one writer ‘sets up’ another to allow the fun of seeing their character in action. Usually with full consent.) lol

To provide a little continuity, click here, for the lead-in Six.

Prompt word:

LIMIT

“Yeah, I heard… from out on the sidewalk,” the Sophomore shrugged his worn, grey-wool overcoat higher on his shoulders, any resemblance to a knight adjusting the brigandine being lowered on his shoulders was purely coincidental.

“You ever had a saying get stuck in your head,” he continued; the Bartender leaned forward over the bar to a near-musical accompaniment of multiple rings on polished mahogany followed by a cymbal splash, courtesy of a silver pendant on a long chain and offered, “Like an earworm?”

“Yeah, sorta but it’s actually a proverb,” the putative time-traveler raised his chin in casual interrogatory towards the bearded man next to him,  “Hey, Nick, isn’t one of your fellow Proprietors something of an expert on old cultural sayings and artifacts?”

The Gatekeeper smiled, “Dude, you have been paying attention, I guess the late ’60s weren’t just fifteen-dollar-ounces and In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida;” his up-raised palm was enthusiastically met by the Bartender‘s descending hand; “Oh, vous deux!”; Mimi‘s voice lit the darkness at the far end of the bar.

“That’d be the Raconteuse; normally she’d be sitting over in one of the alcoves, but she’s been on safari; I heard something about some kind of clerical error on her US visa that put a limit on her time here; what’s this proverb of yours?”

Taking out a crumpled No. 10 envelop from his coat pocket, the Sophomore read: “Until the lion learns how to write, every story will glorify the hunter.’

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 the ‘hop has but one rule: Six and only six sentences your stories must be.

Prompt word:

LIMIT

“Are you sure?”

Sister Catherine sat behind her desk at four forty-four on a Wednesday afternoon staring a pile of eighth grade book reports. The dusty-susurrus of chalk-on-slate providing the traditional soundtrack of detention at Saint Dominique’s elementary school.

“Yes, ma’am. I counted twice,” the boy stepped back from the field of black holding a nub of chalk, yellow-coated shirt cuffs and a single lemon smudge in the center of his blue clip-on necktie, the contrite artist surveying a papal commission.

With a skill available only to those women who, choosing to serve their God without reservation, devote their lives to educating the young, his teacher erased the blackboard of all but one iteration of the repeated sentence; not a particle of chalk adhered to the long black sleeves of the habit of her Order.

‘The prompt word is LIMIT, not LINK;’ the single sentence was eaten by the black felt of the eraser and, in the tone of any teacher who shares punishment with her pupil, said, “You may go, Seth, I’m confident you will not make this mistake again.”

*

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. Dominated by an endless drive to make all things Six, in this case, the exact required number of sentenceses

Stop the Presses! Unread this Six! Incorrect prompt word, deployed without reason, rationale or explanaiton.

(So, what say y’all just save this bad boy against the day the correct prompt word is written about).

Prompt Word:

LINK

“Has that bio-chrono missing link of a time traveler shown up yet?”

The voice on the intercom was that of the tall, thin man; his tone carried a remarkably-grating edge, one that the average person would have little choice but to interpret as unbridled hostility.

Fortunately for any internet-fiction critics, the setting, (of our tale), is the Six Sentence Cafe & Bistro where the odds of encountering ‘average people’ are laughingly scant; the risk of harm, trauma (rhetorical or emotional) or distress was readily accepted by the three Proprietors gathered around the bar, witnessing the first, (Spoiler Alert!! …and last), use of the aforementioned intercom.

“Nick, cher, tell me you didn’t get the intercom from that awful Sil’s Loans and Pawnshop,” Mimi’s voice had the calm intensity of an airline pilot advising his passengers to prepare for a rough landing; being the man he was, the Gatekeeper bowed his head ever-so-slightly, and said, “Nai agapité Miz M, I thought you would be pleased at how good a deal I got.”

The Bartender’s smile at the exchange evaporated, like suds in a kitchen sink after a Brillo^© pad is rinsed, as the Sophomore walked in from the front entrance; looking a bit worse for wear, he threw a smile at the three and said, “Ssup,” laughed briefly and added, “Too bad our rhetorical greetings back in the ’70s didn’t have such elegant economy, it would have made life much simpler.”

“What?” a treble snap from the square grilled screen signaled the ‘Talk’ button being pushed by the occupant of the Manager’s office, “Send him down… now;” uncharacteristically harsh, the voice convinced the three Proprietors that not every conflict can be ameliorated by good-intentioned mediation.