Six Sentence Story | the Wakefield Doctrine - Part 27 Six Sentence Story | the Wakefield Doctrine - Part 27

Six Sentence Story -the Wakefield Doctrine- [a Café Six]

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, it offers a prompt word around which a story is requested. One rule: six sentences; (judicious use of feral semicolons allowed.)

Prompt word:

EXTRACT

“I have a package for a ‘Mister T.T. Man’ from ‘Fourth Wall Victualers and Restaurant Supply,’ who wants to sign for it?”

Dressed in an immediately-recognizable, ultimately forgettable, quasi-military uniform, the deliveryman held a plastic rectangle out to the darkness of the nearly-empty Café; though the GateKeeper and the BarMistress and Chris-of-the-Monitor were there, in the dark, (Chris, in a characteristically fun way, held a grey scarf between herself and her computer’s camera creating invisibility to anyone scanning the Bistro for someone to sign for the package); no one moved except Hunga, who didn’t so much move in the locomotoring-sense, as wag his tail to the rhythm of a dogsong, probably titled “Look! Its not a Threat and it’s not Food, Look, everyone Look!”

With passive admission to being the only one who might sign for the package, the tall, thin man, pushing through his storm a projectile-sighing, took the Mont Blanc from behind his ear and, realizing the signature being asked for was on the Etch-A-Sketch grey surface, returned it the opposite ear; he stared at his right index finger with the resigned acceptance of a kindergarten teacher at the beginning of the first finger-painting class for the twenty-three five-year-olds waiting impatiently to find their Muse in the little pots of primary colors and the brown placemats of construction paper.

“A moment chèr,” the voice came from the end of the bar nearest the Manager’s office and just behind where Hunga played tiddly-winks with the two small dog treats, courtsey of the stranger in the funny clothes and what appeared to be a vanilla wafer; “I believe our wayward chef is working on something of a surprise to celebrate his return from his walk-about.”

Tom, yo, we have the vanilla extract that you ordered, it’s here, the EXTRACT of vanilla,” restrained laughter from the other Proprietors put the bold in the font of the Manager’s choice of words to indicate the precise character of the food-flavoring.

The tall, thin man was just stepping towards the double swinging doors that offered access to the kitchen behind the bar, when there was a single sound and an asterix’d exclamation; the first described best as: ‘Dit—Dit—Dit‘ the second, something akin to ‘Bloody ‘ell‘.

 

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Six Sentence Story -the Wakefield Doctrine- [a (Kasia and Michael/Rue DeNite & Rocco) Six]

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, it offers a prompt word around which a story of a mere six sentence is requested.

[Editor’s Note: Of late we’ve been challenging ourselfs to write a Six Sentence Story in only six short sentences. Not critical of anyone, (or ourselfs, for that matter); we will surely continue to celebrate the unbridled liberty offered by the use of feral semi-colons. However, we’re liking this new fictional couple, Rue DeNite and Rocco and thought to spend some time with them after their sucessful mission to Miami on behalf of their employer, Lou Ceasare.]

Prompt word:

EXTRACT

“No, really.”

“Swear to God.”

“I grew up in the southern part of the state and was a Double-Hormone Threat: Class Valedictorian and a three-sport letterman in my Senior year, almost got to be Yearbook editor, but had to have a tooth extracted the day of elections.”

Rocco slowed the car from, ‘Stolen-on-a-whim‘ down to ‘Rental-with-a-significant-deductible‘ miles-per-hour and took the exit at a speed that reminded Rue why God invented convertible sports cars.

Pulling herself back into the open car, Kasia smiled from behind a light-brown curtain of wind-coiffed hair, “But ‘Hobbomock‘ High School, dude, even for New England, that’s gotta be a made-up name; that or conqueror’s guilt is finally getting to the minds of the Town Fathers.”

Michael’s laughter, boisterous enough to stimulate the drive-up box at the McDonalds at the traffic light into asking, “What can I get for you?” created a small, moving and self-contained happiness that Rue DeNite had forgotten she’d once taken for granted.

 

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Six Sentence Story -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, it offers a prompt word around which a story is requested. One rule: six sentenae*

Prompt word:

EXTRACT

They arrived early this morning.

Flecks of ground pepper on a verdigris tablecloth, the grackles swooped over the lawn, a ravenous Tourette’s-afflicted cloud. Feathered appetite, they moved like the probability cloud that higher math tells us describes the path of electrons around the nucleus. Dark-winged extracts of invisible clouds, their wings made terrycloth-paddle sounds as they argued at each other with a ferocity louder than it should have been, given the fact that no dead bodies were left in their wake.

They called to a part of me that doesn’t need language, scorns rhetoric and is silent to reason; I felt the Seasons move, more massive than continents, more personal than an erotic daydream.

Summer took wing early this morning, just outside my window, deaf to my calling out to stay.

* Latin for sentenceseses

 

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Six Sentence Story -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

One rule: Six (and only six) sentences per Story.

Prompt word:

ABƧTЯACT

“What the hell are you talking about now, Samael?”

“Language, Michael,” the Voice, as low in volume as it was high in Presence, had the world already been created, would have reverberated like a bell in a hail storm;

“I’ve gathered you, my first Creations, here for your thoughts, suggestions and feelings on my Plan, so that it might be as perfect as each of you,” a noise, the combination of a snort of condescension hidden under a laugh managed to disguise it’s author among the archangels.

“Well, Father, what your favored one here fails to understand is that among the many creations you plan, this ‘Man’, by virtue of being in your Image, must be perfect; leave it to the Light-Bearer to cast aspersions.”

The Presence paused, slowed by the words of the one He created to protect the Heavenly City, “So, tell us Morningstar, what do you think I am doing wrong?”

Lucifer stood and began to move, paused as aeons fled, seemed to think and turned to face the group, “All of your ‘living creations’ are perfect; they celebrate the moment, express their natures and conform to your Design,” a smile grew on the First’s beautiful face, “Especially, this ‘Dog’; I must say, Father, you really nailed it with this delightful creature, even I would be proud to call them one of my own.”

“But giving your… ‘Man’ the one thing all your other creations lack, the capacity for abstract thought and it’s bastard son, Free Will, well, it’s like giving a child a loaded gun and insisting they will learn in their own time what it’s for; not really the act of a caring parent, don’t You think?”

 

 

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Six Sentence Story -the Wakefield Doctrine- [a Café Six]

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, it is governed by one and only one Rule, (the ‘hop, not the host): make that story exactly six sentences in length.

Full Disclosure: this is a ‘true Six’. At the start of writing yesterday’s Six, (having Lou as a character in it, what can we say, ‘easy-peasy’ am I right?). Trouble was, I got the beginning of a song in my head that insisted it should be included. Only the first ten notes. Turns out I guessed the group who did the song correctly, but the song itself, incorrectly. Today we have the correct song (by Cream).

and a thoroughly weird-assed Six Sentence Story.

This week’s prompt word:

SEAL

“”Thank god, I know the name of the song!!”

The other Proprietors, (not counting jenne or Ford or Chris, who were on sabbatical, furlough and sick leave, respectively), were standing in a semi-circle at the edge of the small stage nearest to the bar; they were facing an object emitting a multi-colored light that: imparted a carnelian hue to the Gatekeeper‘s face, like a sunrise in the Carpathian mountains; sent a pale cast of celadon to the Barkeeper, making one think of nested porcelain dolls; Mimi, who stood between the bar and the small group, owing to her leaving her Off-White sneakers (with the lifts) at her stool, had to accept a pale blue halo; Tom just stepping out of the kitchen was hypnotized by a spare ray of gold, rendering him speechless, but he still managed to turn to shield his guest, Nancy, who, having been shanghaied by the short-order-chef of the Six Sentence Café & Bistro, had the protection of her white garb to reflect all spectra, save a spare rose beam.

The tall, thin man moved with surprising urgency from the entrance of the hallway that lead to the Managers office even as Hunga tilted his head in that uniquely-canine, non-verbal interrogative, which caused the Manger to cease his frantic progress to the empty-except-for-the-necessary-to-get-away-with-the-narrative, people, crouch to offer a Mini Milk Bone© to him; the dog accepted the gift but raised his ears at the repeating ten notes the well-dressed man was humming.

“Wait! I get the next choice of song… No, you had the turn before last… Yeah, but I have a cigar…. sure, but have you noticed I’m holding one of those little, curved knifes that heaven-only-knows is the preferred utencil for slicing lemons… well, (from back at the bar), I’ll see your lemon knife and raise you a…..a. colandar!!! (err,  I’m new here, but does that make any sense?)… Please, everyone will get a chance to pick a song from the new jukebox (the letters scrolled in an obviously-strained, yet ultimately patient manner across the computer display set on the small stage... I believe the man who established this patently-contrived, if-not-undeniably-good-natured-premise should have first pick...”

…the small crowd of virtual people became silent in their assent to the wisdom.

....but then, I’m next and I’m going with S7 Seal’s Kiss from a Rose!

The tall, thin manager stepped up to the glass of the jukebox, his reflection in the glass front a portrait of inexplicable relief and the hint of a smile that lingered like a memory fragment of a time too long ago.

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