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:

PINCH

“La Raconteuse! What a pleasant sur… wait, are you limping?”

The tall, thin man had just placed a tray holding a sterling silver coffee carafe, several china mugs and assorted sugars and creme on a folding tray stand next to one of the double-sized round tables halfway between the bar and the bandstand; looking around the Bistro for his guest, Lou, who at the moment was standing next to the writer his right forearm horizontal and level; the polite solicitousness of his offer of support was in contrast to the expression on his face.

“Two questions: if your foot is the result of someone making a bad decision regarding your ability to walk, just say the word; if, however, if this a legitimate case of natural causes, I got a guy; one of the top orthodontal surgeons in the area until he developed something of a jones for slow horses and fast women, if you get my drift, but not for nothin’ I had a bad pinched nerve and this guy, with a single touch and a twist, pain gone,”  Lou pulled out a chair for the red-headed writer at the table.

Returning to the table with a tray of desserts, the tall, thin man looked towards the hallway that led to the Manager’s office and smiled, “Mr. Frank, if you please!”

Turning to Lou, he continued, “I don’t believe you two have met, Lou, this is Frank; Frank, this is Lou Caesare owner of the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge and a friend of the SSC&B;” Lou, already standing extended a hand that looked like a catcher’s mitt with a diamond pinky ring, nodded, “Pleased to meet’cha, Frank, on yer way over here, what say you drop a quarter in the jukebox and you can tell us about your invisible fren’?”

*

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:

BALLOON

“Lou, what an unexpected surprise!”

The owner of the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge stood at the end of the SSC&B bar where, in a seamless, polished mahogany 90 degree right turn ended at the waitress station, with it’s access to the backbar and, halfway along the shelves of liquor, the entrance to the kitchen.

“Your lack of entourage suggests you’re here on personal business,” the tall, thin man stood in the open space between the hospitably bright Café & Bistro and the intermittently-dark hallway that led to Manager’s Office (the first door on the left) and afforded access to the rest of the old mill building, “Can I offer you coffee?”

Leading his guest towards the double swinging doors situated hallway down the shelves of bottles (backlit by a variable spectrum of colored LEDs and neon tubes), the Proprietor backed through the swinging door, pausing for his guest to enter the currently vacant stainless steel-on-porcelain kitchen; seeing the salt-and-pepper hedge of Lou’s eye brow stand at attention, the tall, thin man laughed, “Ah, you’ve noticed that our du jour is bouquets of colorful balloons.”

Each of the white-string-umbilical’d cluster of balloons, currently trying to escape through the ceiling, (as a species of short-lived life, they are famous for emotional impact, less so for problem-solving); were of a variety of hues representing the primary segments of the spectrum of visible light and every one had printed on it’s side a variation of ‘Félicitations, mémère’.

Even as the Proprietor was turning to explain, Lou was barking into his phone, “Today… take the fuckin company jet, whatever it takes, I want the flowers delivered today.”

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:

BALLOON

Anya Clarieaux glanced to her right, nodded ever so slightly and walked to where Rosetta sat as close to the Sophomore as the geometry of the round table permitted.

Even as she approached the couple, two waiters appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, positioned themselves behind the young couple and, with a demonstration of professional food service kung fu, moved them still seated, a chair’s width apart; without hesitation Anya stepped to the newly created space and sat, a chair materializing and held by the head waiter, ‘Danke, Enriico, you’re a dear.”

Turning to the Sophomore, Anya smiled like a recently sated predator, “My research department tells me you’re the only one at this table with direct experience with time travel,” smiling over her shoulder she winked at Rosetta, “We may need a …debriefing some time soon.”

“Rosetta, your involvement in the trajectory of the parcel now approaching Chicago is even more direct than Sister Aclima’s; whereas she is merely a member in the organization that took possession of the component a century and a half ago, while you and your family were about to go into business with the man who arranged the exchange. Sure, your uncle’s proposal amounted to nothing more than a trial balloon, however you need to appreciate the nature of the man in Miami, a certain Cyrus St. Loreto.

Sister Aclima jumped at the mention of the name but quickly regained her composure, all the while her guide, Brother Lymphocytus was busy making the sign of the cross.

Sliding her phone across to the center of the table, her tone now decidedly more business-like, “Devereaux, do me a solid and put this in the middle of the table, on speaker, I want you all to listen to Lou and Anya and Cyrus.”

*

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:

THUNDER

The broad blue afternoon sky conveyed the uncertainty of an uninvited guest to the party-on-the-roof and frowned itself a low-row of dark clouds. Keeping a distance, it mostly hid behind the other buildings in the industrial district; an occasional flash of lightning, ineffectual attempts to announce itself. As a last-ditch effort to be noticed, it produced a distant chorus of thunder.

The tall, thin man stepped backwards through the door to the stairway led down to the lower floors of the mill building that housed the Six Sentence Café & Bistro. As his left knee accepted the weight of his body, his right leg extended into the stairwell, even as his mind considerately provided an ink and pen drawing of ta’i chi: 捋 (Lǚ).

The Proprietor’s last open-air view was of people surrounding la Raconteuse who, in turn, smiled at friends both new and old, with the kind of wistfulness that spoke of childhood games played out by actors far too old for their parts; only Frank, his head nodding to something or someone unseen, appeared comfortable in the social embrace of the other guests.

*

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:

PLAN

“…stop talking.”

To better appreciate who, (and, to a suicidally-heretical few, what,) Anya Clarieaux is, consider this: she’d reserved the finest table in the Signature Room (on the 95th floor of the former John Hancock building in Chicago), for five people.

Sure, not a big deal, after all, at least a small handful of people in the city had the juice to compel the restaurant to cancel on an hour’s notice several, to-die-for reservations.

It does help, however, in this, our illustration of the woman’s power and influence, to know that the floor plan of the room consisted of tables radiating out from a single, large round table that commanded the maximum view of the night-city below. As a matter of fact, staff and a few, not-quite-powerful-enough parties, referred to it as ‘the Circle of Excellence’; it is helpful to note that not all who might call it that, were being churlish.

The thing about Anya Clarieaux is that, after crossing the room from the elevator, she stopped to address her five guests and were a diner, late for their reservation to ask the maître d’hôtel why the room was silent, the answer would be a whispered, “Because Miz Clarieaux is standing at the head of our best table.”