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, governed by a single admonition: make the story six sentences (no more, no less) in length.

ok… since we insist on continuing our, ‘what the?!??!!’ serial Six story, (the one that’s all dialogue between two characters at everyone’s favorite metaphorical virtual gathering place, the SSC&B), it behooves us to provide a link to the previous installment. Sure, we all enjoy writing, (and reading), serial Sixes. This one is so (we want to allude to an episode of our favorite show, ‘Community’ but my meta account is way overdrawn). Lets just go with the standard,

…Previously in the Manager’s Office.

This week’s prompt word:

GAME

“This is all just a …contest to you, isn’t it?”

Surely the smile is the original, (and thoroughly irresistible), prompt to indulge in anthropomorphizing every other animal; this for a race characterized more by it’s collective insecurity than it’s putative intellectual advantage over all other living things. The non-verbal emotional bait being set out by the man in a ten-thousand-dollar suit, seated on the far side of a discount office supply desk from the young man in Salvation Army top coat and scuffed Corcoran jump boots; the challenge in correctly identifying which had the upper hand is an example of the core dilemma in quantum psychology: it had nothing to do with them and everything to do with the hypothetical observer.

“I could throw in a third-hand quote from the creator of the modern detective novel, but that would be redundant, wouldn’t it kid?”

The tall, thin man felt a ripple of excitement in his abdomen, surely what the storied hunters of the previous century must have experienced in the moment they had, in their gun sights, the big… wild animal, the trophy of sought by all Big…. animal hunters.

“Let’s quit this shit, we both know any disagreement between you and I won’t amount to anything more than every beginner-writer’s info-dump;” as the Sophomore stood up, the collective scream of piezoelectric pain rose from the cell phones on the desk, renewing their dance for attention, “And agree to call this…. what’s the word I can never remember… something from the sport of tennis  win-set-match…. no, not that… some singular collective word… whatever.”

*

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, governed by a single admonition to make the story six sentences (no more, no less) in length.

To get in the mood, aka get the backstory to this week’s Six, follow the link: …Previously on the Six Sentence Theatre.

This week’s prompt word:

GAME

“Stand aside, woman, ‘The Game’s afoot!'”

Diane Tierney, now back at her hostess station of the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge laughed; it sounded like everything that humor conjoined with sexual tension can be and hardly ever is, joyous abandon with an undertone of the carnal.

I smiled, ‘Into the breach fair maiden…’ and immediately stumbled over my words as I exceeded the safe duration of eye contact with a woman who was, from our first encounter, at once intimidating while simultaneously supercharging my atavistic drive to protect her from danger, real or imagined.

“Dear Sir, your commingling of literary allusions makes my knees weak and fluttery,” Diane, had she been a character in an olden days romance novel, would gather adjectives like willowy, alabaster skin touched by a rose and eyes of a deep blue to be mistaken for violet; I found her intriguing.

“Far be it from me, Mr. Devereaux, to interrupt you in your mission, so, until next Mid-Week Lunchtime Special, I’ll see you your Conan Doyle/Shakespeare mashup and raise you a simple, heartfelt, D. H. Lawrence, ‘Give me the democracy of touch, the resurrection of the body.’

To my credit I not only did not walk into the glass outer door, I transformed my stumble off the sidewalk into a manly jeté as I crossed Weybosset Street headed towards the palisade of hand-drawn picket signs milling around in a clumsy oval.

*

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 each week by Denise, all we’re asked to do is write a story of six (and only six) sentences.

So we continue this oddly interesting meeting of the Sophomore and the tall, thin man. Our last encounter.

Prompt word:

CRAFT

“Let’s say, just for the sake of argument, I accept your claim of being a time-traveler; as far as I can tell, you got the other Proprietors, if not believing you, at least are willing to give you the benefit of the doubt,” the fingers of the young man’s hands on the arms of his chair went from being triangles to lying in a row; spotting this reaction, the tall, thin man leaned forward, “aka humoring the kid’.”

“That’s not very ‘you’ of you to take that particular tact,” the Sophomore, marginally more upright in his chair, his pupils dilating as his nostrils flared, any prize fighter stepping into the ring.

Seeing uncertainty and anger grow in the older man’s face, he hastened to add, “What I mean to say is, courtesy of my putative knowledge of the past…. your past, that kinda sneery, faux-crafty response is for a personality type that you are not.”

The young man with long hair and a head full of fear added, “You, ‘Mr T. Thin Man’ sir, suspect I am who I say I am, but fear of the implications has you as tangled up as an octopus in a bowl of warm spaghetti.”

“Fuck you,” the Proprietor pushed away from the desk like a third grader from his cafeteria tray on Welsh Rarebit Day.

The phones on the desk began to ring, vibrate mode making them move randomly across the surface, digital Mexican jumping-Chiclets; a million miles, (and decades of life) away from the Six Sentence Café and Bistro, the tall, thin man considered which phone to answer first.

*

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 each week by Denise, all we’re asked to do is write a story of six (and only six) sentences.

Prompt word:

ACCESS

“Hey, Devereaux, I know you got a degree from Hah-vud,” Lou Ceasare looked up from his booth as I approached, “But the Bottom of the Sea ain’t no Ivory League satellite campus and, even if it was, a Doctorate of Breasteses and Sequinology ain’t in the catalogue,” un-leashing his crocodile-laugh, the career-drinkers at the bar joined in like a flock of tipsy plover birds.

About to deliver a thoroughly devastating riposte, a liquor-bottle-fractal woman approached us in mirror behind the bar; the reflection stopped, and, all Plato’s cave fire-made-flesh, the Club’s hostess, Diane Tierney, stopped next to Lou’s booth/office/boardroom, “Lou, three of our dancers have called in sick for the second day in a row and a fourth said she was quitting, something about protestors and tires being slashed in the parking lot.”

Lou leaned over his table towards me, his peculiar sense of decorum regarding the woman responsible for the efficient operation of the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge exerting itself and said, “Devereaux, you being out of work and all, wanna earn some money?”

Diane stepped away from Lou a few steps past me and, putting an index finger to her lips, in the tone of a professional appraiser, “I don’t know Lou, the butt’s good but kinda flat in the chest and besides, I don’t think our clientele are ready for a Chippendale reboot.”

“Fuckin’ Tierney, you crack me up,” a millisecond of a glance, taking in everyone in earshot, guaranteed there would be nothing but a respectful silence.

“But, you’re absolutely correct, Diane, having our dancers stressed by this is not acceptable; I can make sure nobody loiters in front of the joint blocking access for our dancers or customers, that’s Underworld 101; as far as the group behind the protests, these so-called Magdalenians, I want you, Devereaux, to get me something I can leverage on them, without having to resort to gunpowder and other explosives, capische?”

*

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 each week by Denise, all we’re asked to do is write a story of six (and only six) sentences.

Prompt word:

KICK

“On this we can agree.”

Despite being extremely expensive, the music system unexpectedly flared into pre-LED colored light, heralding the unmistakable plastic-flop of vinyl onto turntable; the 100 proof-silk sound of Curtis Mayfield began to confide raw truth of life for those on the left up-slope of the Bell curve.

“Not to be rude, but what, not counting your fanciful oeuvre hung on being a time traveler, encourages you to presume that?”

The Sophomore’s lips compressed into a non-committal line, even as his eyes skidded across the direct line-of-sight with the other man; the haplessly-optimistic part of his mind ran scratchy newsreels of manly hugs binding self-absorbed veterans returning from battle. Medals and campaign ribbons, official tokens of instant depreciation to be treasured only when alone, the better to survive the emotional kick of a lethal fetus awaiting entrance to a loud, noisy world, barely hinted at the true extent of his wounds.

The tall, thin man stared at the visitor on the far side of his desk when one of six phones skittered to life, a deaf-mute sand-crab demanding attention in a surprisingly arid world; swiping the screen into the cell phone equivalent of a coma, he looked at the Sophomore and rose from his chair.