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, constrained by a sentence limit (high and low) of six, there are worse ways to spend the remaining time you have on earth.

Previously, in our tale...

Prompt word:

FIRE

“Frank, will you be staying?”

The tall, thin man stood in the middle of the Bistro amid numerous empty tables, a derelict ship caught in the embrace of exceptionally powerful doldrums somewhere in a low-number latitude.

la Raconteuse was in conversation with Mimi and the Bartender and the new poetess, Aurelia, had been seated at the bar looking, for reasons beyond the Proprietor’s imagination, uncomfortable.

Taking out his phone, the Manager’s thumb became as frenetic as a teenager in a 11:30 pm car backseat doing his best to start a fire limited to materials and body-parts available; smiling at this confabulation, paused and then triggered the jukebox.

The Proprietor, even as the neurons connecting his brain to his hand, (all nearly as poorly moderated as the aforementioned late-night teenager), closed his eyes, laughed to himself and waited for the music.

The sympathetic response of muscles to the rhythm section, while not winning a Dancing With the Stars contest, did open a door, (or a window or maybe, simply lettres de transit to a far earlier/younger iteration); and, as with most gifts acquired in life’s trials, the tall, thin man accepted the restrictions inherent in the space in which he might visit his past-self, as being well worth the enjoyment of the music.

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, constrained by a sentence limit (high and low) of six, there are worse ways to spend the remaining time you have on earth.

Previously, in our tale… no, today’s Six introduces the character of Cyrus St. Loreto to wit , Read this excerpt from ‘Home and Heart’ (A Sister Margaret Ryan Mystery)

Prompt word:

FIRE

“I want it back,” Cyrus St. Loreto, owner of the Bernebau Company, stood at the window wall of his penthouse office in the Santa Cristo Building staring down at the financial heart of Miami, he felt no need to turn around.

Genevieve Novak halfway, somewhere halfway between where her boss and her single-desk reception area that welcomed anyone riding the only elevator to the penthouse; the nature and character of her working relationship with the CEO of Bernebau Company was to the thousands of employees improbably resistant to credible definition, a testament to the Owner’s imprinting on corporate culture.

The sole receptionist on the 36th floor remained as quiet as a nun in a confessional awaiting counsel and penance; still and focused on her boss as a snake charmer on a woven-reed basket.

“What is standing in the way?”

“There are a number of people who are working in the belief they will be able to take possession of the component presently en route to Chicago.”

Cyrus turned from the view down Brickell Ave with an expression that manifested the provocative idiom, ‘to fight fire with fire’, even as Genevieve continued,

“A niece of Lou Caesare, the mob boss with whom we recently concluded unsuccessful negotiations, by the name of Rosetta Storm, her companion of no account, a nun accompanied by a guide of questionable character and, …Anya Claireaux.”

 

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, constrained by a sentence limit (high and low) of six, there are worse ways to spend the remaining time you have on earth.

Previously, in our tale...

Prompt word:

SLIP

Channelling my inner fourth-grade parochial school self, I raised my hand.

It took an easy full minute for my dinner companions to notice; not counting Anya Clarieaux… said no one with a sense of self-preservation ever.

The others: four people, all safely on the right shoulder of the Stanford-Binet bellcurve, let their silence serve as a Jules Winfieldesque retort to the nonverbal assertion of my elevated hand; Rosetta looked annoyed and the Sophomore showed relief; the nun and her leprechaun simply stared. I suspected the former had learned at an early age to slip into the background at the first sign of conflict, while her diminutive companion had an expression most often observed on the faces of mean drunks hoping to get in a fight and sixteen-year-old girls disappointed that their first real boyfriend preferred to hang out with his bros most of the time.

As it stood, Cyrus St. Loreto would play with this group like a mountain lion coming off a catnip-jag in a ball pit full of children on the last day of Summer vacation.

“Ian, how delightful, you truly never disappoint; do you care to bring your little group of Adventurers up to speed on how totally fucked they are if they even think they can out maneuver the man in Miami?”

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, constrained by a sentence limit (high and low) of six, there are worse ways to spend the remaining time you have on earth.

Previously, in our tale…

Prompt word:

SLIP

“If you gentlemen would excuse me, I must have a word with my fellow Proprietors.”

The tall, thin man managed what, as unlikely a gesture in the ‘swipe ‘n scroll’ world of 21st Century social intercourse as holding a door for someone, was a subtle bow, nothing more than a certain incline of the upper body, offset by his steady eye-contact with each man, “Lou, mi casa es su casa, whenever you are in the neighborhood.”

Lou Caesare, shrugging into the coat held by his driver, paused, “Likewise, though I suspect my invitation to ya boy Frank here to stop in at the Bottom of the Sea fell on deaf ears, which is too bad seein’ how Diane just hired a new dancer by the name, Holli Spirit,” the club owner completed the topological miracle of slipping both tree trunk arms into the tailored overcoat while making it look graceful.

Waving away his driver and Frank, Lou leaned closer, “And about that matter with my niece Rosetta out in Chicago, I appreciate your efforts.”

“la Raconteuse! Jy is die een skrywer aan wie al die Muses veg om toegewys te word…” the Manager, turning to his left as Lou walked away, laughed unselfconsciously as Chris and Aurelia approached.

“Please tell me that was a genuine compliment in Afrikaans, the manager continued, “After my attempt to slip a Cajun greeting into the note attached to the balloon bouquet for Mimi several weeks ago and getting the spelling wrong, you’d think I’d swear off online translations.”

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