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

This is a ‘the Case of the Missing Fig Leaf‘ story. When last we saw Ms. Whitelaw…

This week’s prompt word:

ERUPTION

Sieving her way through the crowd, Stacey Whitelaw got to the waitress station at the far end of the two-deep bar in time to see the Bartender send three drinks and a note to the bandstand; her curiosity was further piqued as the woman with as much hue as hair, stood and watched the waitress navigate the shoals of hips ‘n elbows between her and the three musicians on stage.

“I’m looking for a guy,” laughing at her choice of wording, Stacey was rewarded with an elevated eyebrow and a half-grin, even as the Bartender remained focused on the three men as they looked up from the middle of the Six Sentence Café & Bistro; the bearded bass player laughed a smile over the heads of the crowd, the drummer grinned and tom-tom’d his thanks, the guitar player, however, remained at the front of the stage, a frown corrugating his face as he read the note that accompanied the drinks.

Reading the name tag, Stacy persisted, “So Denise,” only to be interrupted as the guitar player addressed the crowd, “Thanks for coming out for this joint’s new house band, we have our very first request… oh my, it looks like AARP is in the house,” smiling at the crowd but looking towards the bar, Roger laughed and said, in a confiding manner, “What a surprise… a van Halen tune, ‘Eruption’,” the people standing in front of the band added their own sarcastic laughter.

“Hey, sorry to catch you at a bad time,” the look of practiced regret clutching the lesser muscles in the Bartender’s face almost convinced Stacey to ask somebody else but the sandbag fatigue from twelve hours moving against time zones inspired her to push through the jet-lag, “Sorry, man, I know this kinda jars with what you’re feeling at this moment, but I really need to find this guy, goes by the name ‘the Sophomore'”.

“No, don’t worry ’bout it, I saw the kid headed towards the manager’s office a little while ago,” the softening of Denise’s frown betrayed an affection all the more contrasted against the tired ache hiding at the corners of her eyes, “Follow the hall over there until you see a door with some way-tacky lettering spelling out MANAGER.”

“Listen,” Stacy put her hand on the wrist of the Bartender, where a leather and brass bracelet did a poor job of covering old scars, “Maybe after I find who I’m looking for, if you’re still on duty, I’ll buy us a cup of coffee?”

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

This is our contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop

Denise the host.

(It’s no secret that one of the pleasures/benefits we derive from participation in this bloghop is the opportunity to learn from others and, with any luck, improve our own word skills. By imitation, if not education. In any event, last week Chris wrote this installment in her serial story, ‘The Jade Camel’ that was pure action, from start to finish. So, naturally, we thought, “Damn! I’d love to be able to do that.” As we all know, when it comes to writing fiction, the best way to learn is through constant practice.)

The prompt word:

STROKE

The door to his hotel suite was on the receiving end of the only free appendage available to Brother Abbott, specifically, his left foot. The rest of his body was committed to winning the heart of Eugénie Descartes who, giving up hope of physical resistance, deployed wave after wave of blonde hair down over his face, hoping to undermine his confidence in the precise location of his bed.

The young woman, her heart taking leave of the earth as her feet left the floor, noticed the man becoming mired by indecision whether to continue his initial romantic sortie while standing or doubling down on his physical advantage in the waiting bed. He badly underestimated the price of consulting his brain in matters of the body, confronting the row of buttons down the back of the waitress’s blouse, a simple but effective defense; victory in love’s timeless battle would, pyrrhic or not, appear to be within the woman’s grasp.

Now, on the silk and pillow-strewn battlefield, Eugénie took matters in her own hands and, pulling the offending article of clothing over her head, paused, knee-upright on the bed and waved it over her head, cheerful traitor signaling the castle keep was his for the taking. A lesser man might attribute the outcome of the night as testament to his skill with women, even while acknowledging the chance stroke of luck; Brother Abbott, having had his view of the world enhanced by his time in the Order of Lilith, smiled at what a fool Adam had been.

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.

Warning! ceayr, yo! This is one of those Six Sentence Café & Bistro stories. Best let yerself out, less’n you get caught up in this thing. No, seriously, this one is way tangled in terms of narrative. Not only does it reference an on-going narrative here at Denise’s ‘hop, but it’s part of a quasi independent series of stories called, ‘Tales from the Six Sentence Café & Bistro’. (As an appetizer may we suggest Chapter 2?)

This week’s prompt word:

KEY

“Hello, anyone here?”

The Sophomore, pushed open the door with the word, MANAGER, spelled out in metal-foil letters, each slightly reflective on the front, sticky on the back; they were a staple in most ACE Hardware stores.

‘Or at Benny’s before they were run out of business by Walmart…’ the young man shook his head, a wave of wanna-be blond hair crossing over his face to brush against the opposite ear; physically it was like trying to set a full wash basin on the counter without a ricochet splash, emotionally it twisted a wistful smile into a defiant grin.

‘Well, in for a penny, in for a…’ the first thing he noticed was an ashtray on the desk opposite the doorway, as in-your-face as a car key in an ice cube; the desk was wood, the ashtray full and somewhere the sound of running water.

“Sorry to barge in…” the confidence he felt making the decision to talk to the Proprietor that his mentor Nick referred to as, ‘the tall, thin man’, completely disappeared as he looked to the right of the desk, past an arrangement of furniture in front of a fireplace to where the industrial brick and hewn timber wall crystalized into columns of audio equipment, the name on each high-end component shrieked of college dormitories and time lost.

Surprising himself, the young man pushed the play button of the cassette deck, just as a man wearing a bathrobe stepped into view; Jimi began to sing, the tall, thin man smiled and said, “That’s just about perfect, make yourself at… well, make yourself as comfortable as possible.”

 

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