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.

It, (the bloghop), is hosted by Denise.

There are rules, (of course, there are always rules), but they are relatively low-demand. The story that we submit must consist of six sentences. Not five and not thirteen. Six.

(…hey, Chris, Welcome back!)

This week’s prompt word:

FORM

Walking away from the primer-and-faded-blue sedan, the man eyed the construction workers standing in small clumps of cigarette smoke, hair-of-the-dog and quiet desperation by the side of the small truck, which has been referred to, since the first entrepreneurial-worker brought an extra lunch pail to work, as the roach coach.

“Seriously, my man, are you going to tell us who or what put your arm in a sling?”

Fred Stevens, anger growing down his face like black mold from an attic full of soaking wet insulation, ignored the voice and turned towards a small group standing in front of a waist-high stack of concrete forms.

The group made itself permeable, like a cell demonstrating endocytosis, and Fred’s anger began to subside; that his life increasingly felt normal only when at work became ignorable when one of the men, already wearing his safety vest, held out a cardboard coffee cup, a caffeine thurible to begin the morning mass of hung-over construction workers.

“Well, I told the little bastard that if I saw him come around the house again, he’d regret it.”

The men all nodded in support of whatever their foreman’s anger-logic was offering, of course, at this hour of the morning, factual information was more like the forms they would spend the day assembling, empty space held together by countless metal ties, waiting on the concrete to be poured,

“I don’t care how she feels, the guy’s a loser, she’s my daughter and that’s it; ain’t no college punk gonna take my daughter away from her family.”

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

This is the Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Which is hosted by Denise each Thursday. (The bloghop, not the Doctrine.)

This week’s prompt word:

BEAT

Light, refracted from the rows of liquor bottles behind him, threw a red, gold and blue corona along the back edges of his linen suit coat as the tall, thin man smiled at Mimi; to the side of the fresh cup of coffee he set down in front her, he added a small box with “Drink Me” written in well-intentioned Comic Sans, “You’re the Proprietor most likely to hear from Tom, I trust you don’t mind holding onto this?”

Propelled by the near-palpable goodwill of the Proprietor, he moved out into the open area of the Café on a heading towards the low stage on the right side interior wall; surrounding it on three sides were tables arrayed like coral reefs, and, as with actual reefs, what mattered wasn’t the outcroppings as much as the variety of life they nurtured.

The man moved with a grace that somehow combined the best of martial arts and runway models, carrying what, for all the world, appeared to be a plain brown-paper bag, as in: (the) ubiquitous carry-all found in supermarkets to transport sundry family victuals; (usually) located in the clothing-shaded backs of bedroom closets, full of paper and diaries, books and childhood mementoes and, through a time-forgotten topological transformation on a September Sunday evening, was the raw material of impromptu text book covers.

“And for Ford, we have,” stepping up to the stage, his announcement was interrupted by a gender-duet as Denise and Nick, chimed, (for surely their tone harmonized like Poe’s first two bells), in a single voice, “An Oil Can!”  “A Giant-fricken Pocket Watch shaped like a Heart…”; their synchronous celebration dissolved into laughter, like a sea-green comber failing to escape the endless thirst of the shoreline sand.

Without missing a beat, the Proprietor used the outburst of good nature to continue his passage, tacking now, off to his left, bound for a darkened alcove in the furthest corner of the room that glimmered with a purple shade and whispered with a voice as reflective as introspective.

Standing on the western coast of the lacquered table, holding out the last item, he smiled to Jenne with the acknowledgment that captains of two fishing vessels might exchange on a close passage as they journeyed to and from the sea, “Might I impose on you to hold this for Chris, while her itinerary is still subject to conjecture, this table, in this alcove will be the first place she will stop on her return.”

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, once a week, by Denise, it is, as bloghop go, the essence of simplicity.

Employing the week’s prompt word, write a story consisting of six and only six sentences.

Pretty simple, isn’t it?

And …and! As a bonus, from most of the talented writers who participate, we are treated to small tales of wonder, tantalizing episodes of serial adventure and grab-your-sides funny stories. Of course, the Six Sentence Story bloghop being Freedom Hall, the Wakefield Doctrine is licensed to confound with Sixes such as the following.

This week’s prompt word:

BEAT

[Thuh…]

 

The name, William Blake, took up residence in the not-all-that metaphorical Green Room of the man’s early-morning mind; he let a smile push parts of his face into a pattern more habitual than congruent to his mood.

‘A little late now, don’t you think,’ The smile, as un-sustainable as are all willful lies, despite how practiced they may be, began to break down, like fractal clay banks of a river at the end of a flash flood; a life-time of habit coughed a laugh in a vain attempt to reshape his lips, the better to support his eyes.

[…Luh]

 

The world, long a puzzle of recalcitrant parts looking so simple, yet always resisting the effort to join together into a sensible whole, stopped moving around the man and an Arctic chill filled the space between his scalp and his skull, hair follicles contracted in a long-abandoned defense to make a being un-appetizing to any and all predators…

[     ].

Between one beat of the heart and another, lies the most objective and concrete manifestations of ‘everything’; the sound of one extinguishes and the essential habit of mortality anticipates, if not hears, the next note of a song, the only one that has ever mattered.

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.

(Hey, a little shout-out to Paul and ceayr in this week’s impromtu-’cause-the-primary-Six-was-a-little-less-than-we’d-hoped’ ya know. Thanks guys!)

Prompt word:

SIN

“I don’t know, Lil, they’re mostly your friends and as much as I love the ocean…” glancing sideways enough to see her denim shorts and dangerous tan, but not enough to establish direct eye contact served to renew his flagging enthusiasm, “You do, I trust, appreciate how unfair it is to have such power over a part of me that I haven’t been on speaking terms with since puberty.”

As the boy and the girl climb-walked up the parking-lot-side of the dune, the sand, as fine as inedible sugar, seduced bare feet into sliding backwards a half a step for every one gained; as effective a non-verbal statement of anticipation as any shout of, ‘Hey, we’re almost there, can’t wait to join the gang at the beach’.

The  late-morning breeze off the ocean blew through the reeds growing in startling abundance on the leeward side of the final hill, making a sound like papier-mâché hair; the air was perfumed with the scent of desiccant (with a hint of iodine) and caressed their faces as they looked down over the shoreline. The beach, surely the most primordial of boundary disputes, continued its endless victim/stalker relationship; often at peace, occasionally embraced in destructive passion, neither the ocean nor the earth ever surrendering entirely.

The girl’s face was young and thoughtful, her smile dangerous and her body made most everything else moot, as she walked next to the young man over the last sand dune with the easy stride of a child, her body accepted the minimal covering of a bikini, both innocently graceful and SINfully willful.

“OK, but those two exchange students, if they get rude or out-of-hand, just let me know and I’ll have a talk with them,” but the girl was already halfway between the boy and her ragtag group of friends, so, laughing to himself, ran to join them on the last day of Summer.

*