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

This is our next installment of a Serial Six (co-written with Tom) ‘…of Heroes and the Misunderstood’. For heightened reading pleasure: …Previously in our story.

This week’s prompt word:

PASS

I’d be catching hell from Rue as soon as we were alone, but hey, sometimes gender trumps a guy’s better judgement, so as long as I was in bodyguard-mode, I decided to try and defuse the mounting tension in the room, “Let’s all take a beat, aiiight?”

Being 46 degrees of Italo-American descent, I was blessed with the whole, dark hair/complexion/eyes/improbable dimple, yet for God knows what reason, I find affecting a gangsta patois amuses the hell out of me, not to mention throwing my opponent off-balance, if only a little bit.

“OK, everyone but the dead or comatose chick on the floor stop talking,” I moved to the side just a microsecond before Rue’s hand on my back could move me; she was totally focused on the skinny dude with a twitchy arm, sneery lips and what looked to be a professional manicure; I moved over to our currently-holding-the-rug-down assassin-ette.

Crouching next to her, I turned her over on her back; her light-brown hair was short, (the pale of the nape of her neck suggesting a recent effort to change appearance), she was wearing what I think they call a peasant blouse and, as god-is-my-witness, circa 70s hip hugger jeans complete with a triangle of flowery fabric at the cuff; standing, she’d be 5′ 4” or so with a pass-able figure; a small tattoo showed above her honest-to-god macramé belt, a symbol: ; disregarding the remains of a big-assed gun now reduced to wood stock and canvas strap on the floor next to her, she reminded me of a coed who shot me down back when I was impersonating a college student.

Wonder Boy, or whatever his name was, was still speaking to Rue like I was her plus-one said something that reminded me that we weren’t in the US of A and how, other than Aston Martins, the Beatles and a recent UN award for “Most Progress in the Field of Dentistry’, I wasn’t in love with London or the whole spite-makes-right attitude of it’s inhabitants.

Then again, Rue had orders from Lou Caesare, orders far more nuanced, (and private), than the one he gave me: “Don’t let anyone kill her; you’re the more dispensable, capische?”

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 (insisting only on the number of sentences be Six). No more. No less.

We left the tall, thin man and the Sophomore in the Manager’s office locked in a meta-adversarial contest of Will. (Click Here).

Prompt Word:

HEART

“What’s that noise⸮”

The tall, thin man was at the door of the Manager’s office before the Sophomore could laugh at the older man’s total inability to resist the urge to find the obscurely weird in the common everyday; but, before the younger man could justify his own love of the eccentric, the volume reached a level sufficient to permit comprehension.

Standing in the hallway where it opened into the Six Sentence Café and Bistro proper, the collective conversation of the crowded room, of which all but four were strangers, was enhanced by the visual: people smiling at the young waiters and waitrae serving drinks to those seated at the room full of small, round tables; the well-dressed (ok, well, over-dressed) man’s eyes were drawn to a woman sitting in an alcove facing the stage, her face awash with the richly-hued light of a laptop as she watched the celebration of her return.

The Sophomore, a little further in the dark of the hallway, slightly behind the manager, awed, “No way, thats…”; without turning the old man man replied, “Way.”

“We would do well to let her tale stand as a reminder of true inner strength; I hope to have half the heart and a quarter of the will that Chris has exhibited over the last months;” glancing at the crowd, the Proprietor spotted Nick and Denise sitting nearby with what they hoped was not concerned-hovering as regular customers greeted the Raconteur with quiet deference; Mimi, at the end of the bar rose and held the swinging doors as Tom stepped out of the kitchen, a food tray the size of a Hula Hoop^® balanced over his head.

“You go, I’ll hang back and get into character,” the tall, thin man stepped further into the darkness of the hall as the shouts of, “Yo, T-Traveler dude!’ burst from a cloud of cigar smoke like a message from a sky-writer in the anti-matter universe.

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 (insisting only on the number of sentences be Six). No more. No less.

Back in May of last year, Tom, (The Mansionic Perspective) he comes up and says, ‘Hey clark,” he says, “I’m thinking my bunch of superheroes might have an interest in some of them characters what frequent the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge.” The beginning of the Doctrine’s contribution to the serial mashup can be read: Here

Well, our friend (and chef at the Six Sentence Cafe and Bistro) is at it again. Last week he wrote a Six that took place at Rue DeNite’s house. Totally un-expected. (Thanks! Frank…Mimi!)

Previously on (as yet named)… Serial Six we find Moonbeam feeling surprised

Prompt Word:

HEART

“Shit! Turn the car around.”

Like luminescent dominoes, the halogen street lights illuminated both speaker and driver through the car’s moonroof;  the driver was male, (Exhibit 1: early-stage male pattern baldness), confident, (Exhibit 2: right-hand on the wheel, left-elbow on armrest) and possessed of a certain serenity: (Exhibit 3: an easy smile of affectionate curiosity despite the volume/intensity from his passenger); who, with the additional  light from oncoming traffic, was unabashedly female, (Exhibit 4: eclipse-dark shadows rising and falling across her upper chest), athletic, (Exhibit 5: in an activity not so much focused on defying gravity as it was conspiring with it, i.e. willowy yet providing her provocative clothing with every parry and feint considered important to women’s fashion designers) and possessed of an intellect that searched for traps even as she baited her own, (Exhibit 6: shaded by her short, blue-veined blonde hair were two tattoos, below her right ear: Non serviam and, starting beneath her left ear trailing downwards: Vincit quae se vincit.)

The neighborhood was as quiet as a non-gated community gets, the architecture was tasteful, every house had three car garages and sited a discrete distance from the street, a taste not a meal, in terms of privacy; Rocco pulled the black-on-black DB12 into the driveway nearest the front entrance.

“I’ll be right back,” Rue’s shadow flowed across the front of the garage door, slowing as she approached the half-open front door; a glance back at the car confirmed that her friend had not abandoned his side gig as her bodyguard as he turned up the car’s sound system, letting Jacques Loussier’s jazz-Bach mask any sound of approach and eased out of the drivers side, siccing his own silhouette on hers.

“Well, far be it for me to forget a superhero,” stepping over the threshold into the living room, Rue DeNite smiled, “Oh wait, this isn’t one of those ambush reality shows, where they hide video cameras hoping to catch the homeowner doing the horizontal mambo with the hot neighbor, or in this case, maybe just sending a burglar in tights off to the ER.”

Ignoring the young woman with the rifle, Rue waited until Rocco closed the door and turned to the strange man in her living room, “Good Golly Mr. Moonbeam, who’s your cute little friend with all the weaponry; I gotta tell you, this supervillain action is turning my thermostat way up, poor Rocco’s heart might not be up to the demands I expect to be putting on him once we get back to our vacation, you hear what I’m sayin?”

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.

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