the Wakefield Doctrine

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

Detail of the painting “God reprimanding Adam and Eve”, by F. Zampieri (1625)

(come on! you knew it was just a matter of time)… this is an attempt to consolidate two of my three three favorite weekly bloghops.

The first is the Six Sentence Story, (I trust Denise, the host, won’t mind). The second, the Unicorn Challenge. (Well, totally crossing my fingers, as I value the opportunity to be here at the bloghop that jenne and ceayr built).

This mashup was not merely a random thought, (I think it might have been Tom or maybe even Nick… lets agree to lay blame on those two ne’er-do-wells), to do my second Six and my first ‘Corn as a single story.

The Six Sentence Story you all know: weekly prompt word/ six sentences only. This week, the word is REPLAY

The Unicorn Challenge: the photo below and a 250 word maximum.

Let us do this thing:

Sister Margaret Ryan felt the transition from asphalt to sand in the ‘oh, yeah? show me what you got’, way she used to hear the words, ‘Pick up your pencils and begin…now‘. Although her morning jog always took her to the shore, eight miles from the convent, she never tired of the challenge; veering left, the clutch of the loose sand brought to mind the myth of Antaeus and her pace always increased.

The sand changed: an increasing supply of endorphins stuttered and the young novitiate stumbled as the earth pushed back; her right foot, denied an unreliable surface, gave way and she fell into the sand. Laughing to herself was inevitable as she replayed the fall, but from the perspective of an innocent bystander: twenty-something woman sprawled on a Maryland beach, crucifix tangled in her bunched-up ‘Property of J.C.’ sweatshirt, short red hair salted with white crystals. Her laughter stopped as her left hand caught on something just below the surface, the soft-rubber sole of a child’s sneaker.

The nascent flood of endorphins now abruptly reversed by a torch-wielding mob of adrenaline and pulling gently, the pink canvas upper sole with the iconic swoosh gave way to flesh and a delicate ankle continuing downwards in the very most improper of directions; crossing herself in the spiritual semaphore of her Order, Sister Ryan reached for her phone.

*

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is our contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise, guided by the simplest of rules: use the prompt word and tell a story in exactly six sentenae.

For a sense of continuity, when last we saw Lou… click here.

Prompt word:

REPLAY

Constantin Szarbo sat opposite the owner of the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge and without the slightest self-consciousness twisted around to stare through the divider between the Club and the Bar as the lights dimmed on the small stage. His gaze conveyed all the humanity of an Easter Island statue, without the sociability implied by the fact the originals were always in groups.

Lou enjoyed challenges almost as much as he did contests; he was neither intimidated nor annoyed by the visit from Cyrus St. Loreto’s fixer. This assessment from a would-be-business partner was nothing if not a replay of a very familiar dance; the qualifier,  ‘would be’ on the two men’s relationship constituting a reservation on Lou’s part and an enticement on Cyrus’s. Neither man was fond of disappointment yet what gave him an advantage was that it was not personal for Lou Ceasare; nothing was personal to Lou, other than family and business.

A new dancer, Caran Delight, materialized on stage in a shower of pale, blue light to the sound of Freddie Smith’s saxophone intro from a track on Hendrix’s album, ‘Electric Ladyland’.

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is our contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise, guided by the simplest of rules: use the prompt word and tell a story in exactly six sentenae

Prompt word:

PETRICHOR

The light pressing on his tightly shut eyelids was a corrosive medium bathing his eyelids in a sour froth waves as top and bottom eyelids resisted, lashes strained but nevertheless parted like lovers hands pulled apart as they plummeted earthward. Finally with irony even a sixth grader could recognize, (if not fully appreciate), when Seth opened his eyes, his vision abdicated its role as a primary source of sensory input; the voice of his teacher, Sister Catherine telling him to come down to earth and listen was his sole passport to his current surroundings.

A voice from the darkness behind (or part of) the light intoned, “Are you ready?”

Resources once in seemingly endless supply allowed but a nod of his head as he braced himself for the long-anticipated onslaught.

“Petrichor.”

“Petrichor: ‘P-E-T-R-I-C-H-O-R…  the relief that washed over Seth nearly undid his training and practice before he added,

“Petrichor’

*

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is our contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise, guided by the simplest of rules: use the prompt word and tell a story in exactly six sentenae.

So, when we last saw Rue DeNite, she was in the company of one Cyrus St. Loreto, owner of the Bernebau Company and all-around man of mystery. If you Click Here you can refresh your memories.

*Wait!! Alert Readers Denise and Nick were kind (and, by DM, diplomatic) enough to point out that the first Six of this week had a prompt word that was different from what was on everyone else’s Six!!

(Let’s agree to chalk it up to lucid dreaming, unintentional time travel or… the late ’60s lol)

Below is the version appropriate to your dimension.

Prompt word:

BOX

“Should I ready ‘the Box?'”

Standing at the window-wall of the conference room, Cyrus St. Loreto smiled as he remembered what it was he liked about Genevieve Novak. Turning towards his assistant, the transparency circuit circuit in the glass-wall overlooking Miami, glitched, his face momentarily half-in-shade, half-in-illumination, causing the most fundamental of facial expressions to misalign.

Her sudden intake of breath, (followed by a slow, bordering-on-languorous exhalation), confirmed that Miz Novak was reminiscing as well.

The owner of the Bernebau Company walked past his admin, who, despite focusing on her ever-present, (and willfully anachronistic), steno pad, swayed ever-so-slightly as he moved.

“Not quite yet, I want to hear Constantin’s assessment of the profitability of any partnership with our new friend’s to the north; after all, why buy the cow when you can steal it.”

His laughter filled the room and Miz Novak smiled ignoring the misspelling of half the words in her notes.

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is our contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise, guided by the simplest of rules: use the prompt word and tell a story in exactly six sentenae.

So, when we last saw Rue DeNite, she was in the company of one Cyrus St. Loreto, owner of the Bernebau Company and all-around man of mystery. If you Click Here you can refresh your memories.

Prompt word:

BLOCK

“Ok, you can laugh, but this Cyrus guy totally gives me the willies,” Rue sat opposite Rocco at a table overlooking Biscayne Bay and beyond, the Atlantic Ocean; the ‘Crazy About You’ restaurant was less than two blocks from the Espirito Santo building. Resisting her host’s invitation to join him for lunch had taken a toll on her nerves, as charming as Cyrus St. Loreto had been through their initial meeting, there was an underlying quality to the man, almost completely hidden, that made her think of a moray eel staring out from the shadows of coral reef at the passing schools of prey. Rue accepted that a return visit to ‘look at the books’ was unavoidable, the prospect of maintaining her CPA charade brought back the hollow feeling of inadequacy of her first night dancing at ‘the Bottom of the Sea’.

“You’re doing great,” Rocco, diving into his role as bodyguard, met Rue at the restaurant in full ‘Tony Montana’, complete with gold chains, white suit and black silk shirt, his grin triggered the desired reaction in the girl Lou had charged him with protecting, sitting with a sensual grace that few Certified Public Accountants could pull off, she smiled, “But what about Frank?”

“Just stay with the icy-intellectual vibe and you’ll be fine,” Rue ignored her menu and let the tension leach out of her as she listened to the professional tone of her companion, which in his line-of-work always sounded like rock-solid confidence.

“I’m the one we should be worried about, I think that admin, Genevieve Novacaine or whatever, is trying to get into my pants,” Rocco watched Rue from the corner of his eye and was rewarded with Rue’s unsuccessful effort to not spit her drink all over the white linen tablecloth, catching her breath, they both laughed, “No, I’m serious, that woman is scary and, not for nothin, all I packed was my favorite handgun.”