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.

Denise is the host.

This week’s prompt word:

FILM

As is the case with most premature, if not too-goddamn-early, awakening in the morning, an axiomatic warning of fundamental design-failure of human beings, follows the first attempt to swallow. Why Man, (or Woman), must contend with a practice-run of the third most fundamental physical function so immediately upon return to consciousness has been a mystery to physiologists, evolutionists and first-date lovers since Time decided dawn would serve as the day’s starting gun, at least until alarm clocks were invented.

If flesh were unfired terra cotta, (employed by an impulsive, if not impatient, god to create the apex species in a hurry, like a Sunday evening science project), the difference would be more difficult to find than a glass of water without too much water in it.

In a contrast that defies anyone to claim coincidence, the next hurdle, in preparing for a day of activity, is even less enjoyable, much less attractive to observe, especially by the aforementioned couple beginning a non-hormone-assisted interaction.

The film, seemingly everywhere on the body, clamors for release; in an unintended positive outcome, it often is concentrated in the eyelids, rendering their otherwise quite attractive functioning much like a jelly sandwich dropped on the beach by an impatient, and hungry, five-year-old; on the positive side, vision is blurred which is beneficial to the now-quiescent drive to perpetuate the species.

All in all, despite the film and the terra cotta, human beings manage to transition from sleep to active functioning with a modicum of grace, thereby allowing the depiction of lover’s morning awakening in countless movies and films to be enjoyed without the slightest cognitive dissonance.

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.

It is hosted by Denise.

The rule is six, (and only six), sentences per submitted story.

Hey, while at one time, in these pages, we would lead in to a serial story installment with a brief, “Previously on…”

That’s not gonna quite do it today. Frequent Readers are surely familiar with both the metaphoric location/narrative known as ‘the Six Sentence Café & Bistro’ and the current Ian Devereaux serial, ‘the Case of the Missing Fig Leaf’. Here, in this Six Sentence Story this week, we offer the next installment of the story that continues on from last week’s Six.

We make no secret of the fact that our participation in this bloghop each week is primarily to practice our writing skills, such as they are. This, necessarily, entails raising the bar on our-own-self. (Hint: the Six Sentence Story here should convey not only a shift in POV but, also one of the setting, in the sense of time frame. To make matters worse, i.e. raise the bar unrealistically, the second part of this Six is from a *WIP, ‘the Number You Have Reached’ which is a time travel story with an unfortunate insight into the reality of the past-we-remember and the past-that-was.

This week’s prompt word:

Film

The Sophomore, his attention commandeered by the tall, thin man stepping out of the hallway at the far end of the bar, singing,”…spark of the low-heeled boys.“.

Feeling something change, shift like an old 35mm film hopping from the sprockets of the reel for just enough frames to establish a different visual continuity, the young man stepped forward, extending his left hand even as there grew a sound that manifested as one part aural and two parts somatic; the familiarity of the momentarily quiet Café leached it’s color into greyscale, it’s detail into charcoal smudges and a vibration grew in intensity.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hello?”

“Clark, it’s Molly, what the hell happened to you last night?”

The voice was familiar and the words made sense, unfortunately the calming effect of talking to a friend on the phone were nowhere to be found; even as the undifferentiated black filling the space around him grew in detail and shrank in size, he was seized by a feeling of fundamental incongruity.

“What do you mean?”

*

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

This is our contribution Denise’s bloghop, the Six Sentence Story.

(…you know, to make up for the fit-of-lyric-ambition exhibited in yesterday’s post)

‘course, it, (that post), is an example of the sincerity of my embrace of the time-honored advice to beginning writers such as ourselfs: “Leave the fear of ridicule at the door and, no matter how small it is, step up on the stage.”

The week’s prompt word is:

CLUB

“Why’d I name this place the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge?”

Lou Ceasare looked over the top of his reading glasses at me like a cigar-smoking Siddhartha Gautama answering the door on a family of Jehovah Witnesses; I prayed he was actually looking past me, towards the front entrance of the club where the hostess, Diane Tierney, was greeting an embolus of conventioneers with a level of professional detachment to make the head of the CDC turn green with envy.

“Whaddya think I am, Devereaux, the fuckin’ Hallmark Channel or are you back to takin’ on the little ole ladies at the Preservation Society as clients again,” Lou laughed, which meant everyone laughed; hell, even the conventioneers, currently jostling each other like a high school junior varsity football team for the front-facing chairs, turned towards us, high-fives cocked and ready.

I grinned without letting my teeth show too much and never took my eyes off his, at least until the flare of assessment died down enough and he released a cloud of cigar smoke like the sign from a College of Cardinals button man that the hit was successful.

“Yeah, that’d accept me as a member…” in response to my raised eye brow, Lou laughed again and, with a smile of  jovial menace, said, “I’m just bustin’ ya; that guy at the door of that hippie joint you dragged me down to a couple of months ago, what was it, the Sixth Sense Bistro, some fuckin thing, anyway, he liked cigars and reminded me of that old Groucho Marx joke.”

“Anyway, let him know, he’s welcome here at the Bottom of the Sea, tell him I’ll introduce him to the girl of his dreams,” a pause as his end of his Cuban cigar glowed, which was a relief, as I was no longer his primary focus, “or his nightmares!”

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

This is the Wakefield Doctrine’s contribution to the weekly writing-prompt bloghop called the Six Sentence Story.

It is hosted by Denise.

Apologies to J Kilmer. (New Participant Advisory: If you’re stuck for ideas, facing a hard-deadline and find yourself thinking, “The best thing is to not force it, get a night’s sleep and wake up in the morning, rested and refreshed. Surely the story ideas with be flowing and abundant!”)

Don’t. Anything else. But don’t try to dream-yourself-into-an-idea-for-a-Six-Sentence-Story.

In deference, (with a certain overtone of apology), to the well-intentioned participants in this fine, fine writing forum, we’ll be adding a ‘real’ Six, later in the day.

(After a shower and a cup of moloko vellocet, of course.)

The prompt word is:

CLUB

I think that I shall never see,
A letter as evil as a ‘C’.

Neither circle nor an arc,
It waits, half a deadly mark.

The ‘C’ sits patiently after ‘A’ and ‘B’,
From its gaping maw, other letters flee.

While some Sixes are dreamt, others are forged,
By ogres and nymphs by the Celtic sea.

Better to be a rapier than a club,
A surgeon than a butcher.

Some Sixes are dreamt, by fools like me,
After nightmares based on the letter ‘C’.

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

This is (another) of the Wakefield Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

It, (the ‘hop), is, of course, hosted by Denise.

This particular Six is incited by Friend of the Doctrine Nick’s own Six this week.

And, as Webster’s defines it, incitement is only as effective as the prone-to-excitation potential of the intended target.

This week’s prompt word:

SPARK

“Thanks a fricken lot!”

Typing the end-quote, I hesitated and thought, as redundant as those two particular verbs might sound, “Shit, am I headed down Meta-story Lane again or just indulging in rhetorical ego?”

Looking around for a quick link to ceayr’s or Doug’s Sixes, knowing that, if anyone would be more than happy to inform me of the opinion shared by, at last count, two-thirds of the general population, those two misanthropes would.

‘Alas, they are as distant as last week’s daydreams,’ I thought, making sure to add something from the self-deprecatory aisle, …. ‘he really seems at home with the First Person thing, probably ’cause there ain’t such a crowd’.

Seeing the end of the sentence-count approaching, the author shouted, ‘Shotgun!’ and jumped in the passenger seat as the POV shifted back to Third Person.

“Thanks, Nick,” he remembered, just in time, to separate with quotes, “For sparking a memory from the 1970s, to show my appreciation, here’s the song”.