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, there is one rule: Six (no more, no less) Sentenceses to the story.

Previously, in our serial story…

Prompt word:

FLAKE

“There’s an old saying…”

The tall, thin man watched as Mimi‘s right eyebrow teased her lips only to have a frown try to head-off the laughter; it was no contest.

A good-natured, if not charitable, concession to anyone nearby who, upon observing one tall man and one not-tall woman in conversation might be tempted to believe they could extrapolate it’s content from non-verbal cues, the man turned to face the growing crowd at the Six Sentence Café & Bistro’s first April Fools Day³ open house.

“Oh…kay, I just made it up?”

Mimi smiled at Rosetta who, ferociously not paying attention to the two Proprietors, backed her way into the Ladies Room with a fresh supply of towels and hand lotion, then looked back at the man who had a green bar rag tucked in a twelve-hundred dollar Hermes reversible belt, “I’m sorry did I break your concentration? I didn’t mean to do that, please, continue…”

“… that no two snowflakes are identical, the blizzard knoweth not’ and how in heaven’s name did you manage that,” a nod towards the restrooms on the lighted end of the hallway, “miracle?”

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, there is one rule: Six (no more, no less) Sentenceses to the story.

Previously, in our serial story…

Prompt word:

FLAKE

“Glad you could make it,” a slight pivot, shoulders barely half a degree down and the tall, thin man moved among the tables in the main area of the Café, his smile a letter of transit through the crowd, “Good to see you, how long has it been…” the ecosystem of a party, especially one with such a varied constituency as the first April Fools Day³, generated it’s own language, each individual contributing to the lexicon, snowflakes in a linguistic blizzard.

“Pierre, Héloïse we are so glad you could make it,” taking the man’s hand, he smiled at the woman.

“Non, mon ami, c’est mon honneur, le château en Normandie est à vous lors de vos prochaines vacances; après ce que tu as fait… nous aimerions tous les deux pouvoir faire plus,” the woman smiled, the patina of fine wrinkles at the corners of her eyes conveyed genuine affection, yet despite her advanced years, there was a flare in the back of her eye that spoke of a lifetime of… life, as she elbowed her husband with the most subtle of marital arts, “Forgive, my husband, you’d think being a diplomat would make him more sensitive; now go, attend to your other guests.”

The Proprietor checked his phone, knowing that Nick and his fellow-traveler, while likely to put in an appearance, rode the winds of chaos on their private odyssey and headed to the left of the small stage which, at the moment, was occupied by two women seemingly intent on recreating the cave scene at the end of the movie, ‘Annihilation’; the typical concentric audience/observer/participant-wanna-be rings formed around the stage.

“Ma come puoi anche solo suggerire che… aspetta, ecco il nostro ospite… chiedi a lui, Proprietario,” the young woman lurched, thereby appending a subtext to her complaint even as her young man blushed, a not-so-proud display of the purple heart of public faux pas, “I apologize for my date, sir, she’s never been to an event with such a high ratio of the celebrated and the notorious.”

Looking through the waving reeds of human figures, the Proprietor noted that Chris‘s table was, at the moment empty, except for her laptop, the open cover perpendicular and showing stickers that included ‘Louvre ’84 ‘all the world’s a pyramid’; sensing the party had reached a level of equilibrium to obviate the need for a formal host, the tall, thin man headed towards the bar and, beyond it, the Manager’s office.