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, ruled by a sole numeristic imperative. Six

Prompt word:

PUNCH

“Who the heck made the punch?”

“Wait, don’t even think about going down that road, or I swear I’ll call Keith.”

“Chill, dude, I was just going to mention what a punch it had, nothing to the effect of implying that the word lended itself to a puh…”

“As god is my witness, I mean it, I will totally do it!”

“Sorry! Jeez, it’s just that I was reading this old magazine, ok! I won’t say the name, it’s from like the Victorian Era; and, for the record, your music video that you think enhances your story, the line you base the connection on is not; ‘Punching Judy and calling Keith’, the line is: ‘They’re all Pimping Judys and Popping Speed’.”

“Hello, operator, I need to send a telegram to England…. What do you mean you’ve never heard of them, telegrams are basically emails-by-castanet; no, really; ok take this down: to Keith (stop) Have a writer friend practicing Pun-ation without a License, send help (stop)!”

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. There is only one rule: a story must have six (no more, no less) sentae.

Hey! Fans of Lou Caesare and the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge! This here Six here, is our ‘Flash-back Six‘ wherein we introduced Rosetta Storme them fine folks at the SSC&B.

… so, please, permit us to intone, “just seven hours and fifteen days ago.”

Prompt Word:

FOAM

“You can’t stop me!”

Something in the young woman’s outburst caused me to hear the old Led Zeppelin song, ‘You Shook Me’ where, through some trick in the recording studio, Jimmy Page’s guitar lead is echo’d before it is played; my entrance was abruptly halted at the hostess station despite the invisible-foam push of restaurant air at my back as the stainless steel and glass doors shut behind me.

A manicured hand on my arm applied a gentle pressure that made me feel stronger rather than lesser; Diane Tierney, the hostess, smiled at me, which in terms of necessary force was a classic example of coals-to-Newcastle.

“Why the fuck should I do that…” in a place like the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge, as the last dancer was getting all Seiji Ozawa on the hormonal symphony beyond the multi-colored footlights, that the voice was that of a young woman in the last booth on the lounge side was not cause for alarm.

Diane shook her head while never un-coupling the lock her eyes maintained on mine; I might as well have been in handcuffs and leg irons, though the imagery did little to alarm me; suffice to say, any outburst, vocal or otherwise, in the vicinity of the booth that Lou Caesare used as his office/boardroom/refuge/headquarters was, by definition, approved…

“Well, fuck you!”

Thirty-five patrons gasped in unison even as Diane pulled me towards her out of the path of a the sequined tsunami of a young woman headed for the door; the spell was broken only when Lou called out, “Hey, Devereaux, stop dry-humping my hostess and get the hell back here, I got a job for you”.

*

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, there is but one rule. It relates to the number of sentences in a story. Can you guess the rule?

Prompt word:

DREAM

“Sure, but it was just such a vivid dream that I nagged my therapist, that surely there was something I could take to keep me, I don’t know, un-inclined to dream of her?”

Mid-day at the Six Sentence Café & Bistro can present a level of quiet that encourages the most untrusting to confide the deepest of secrets as the young woman in the ageless fashion continued, “Well, no, not all dreams; any freshman psych major knows that sleep deprivation will fuck you all up and, not dreaming at all is a close second.”

The ice-maker made a sound like an apologetic cough, as if to assure all that it had no intention to eavesdrop, but, for the record, approved of the young woman’s rationale.

“I know that it sounds, well, either immature or crazy, not that I cared, but I didn’t want to lose her and if I didn’t have the dream then I’ve truly lost her;” Rosetta Storme reached for the Hermes handbag she’d put on the bar, unconscious ransom for the audience she’d been granted, “Clearly I’m willing to live as an emotional cripple so I guess this disqualifies me for whatever job Lou thought you might have for me?”

The woman seated at the end of the long bar nearest a hallway that seemed to grow darker when one focused on it, smiled; less a ‘Mona Lisa smile’ and more, (though not as celebrated by the Renaissance masters), one would imagine forming on Mary Magdalene’s face, the better to make the silent wisdom in her eyes more accessible; “Cher, you’re the only kind of person we want.”

Like a giant clam conducting a symphony orchestra, Tom stood between the swinging doors of the Café’s kitchen and announced in a voice one-third laughter and one-half celebration, “Did I hear someone say BLTs!!?”

*

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, there is but one rule. It relates to the number of sentences in a story. Can you guess the rule?

Prompt word:

HATCH

“Argghh  whaddya say ye scurvy bunch of wharf rats, is she guilty as a raven or innocent as a writing….arggrhhh?”

Standing at the rail of the quarterdeck, the captain shouted down at the gathered crew and began to pace back and forth; the defiant, yet winsome, prisoner stood like the next-to last finalist in a Spelling Bee Sudden Death round, her hands behind her back secured to the binnacle, prow draped in hand-me-down silks of the would-be buccaneer; the pirate commander had their fullest, if not fulsome, attention.

The Master of the galleon, ‘Reprehensible’ paced to and fro, his uniform a tattered mismatch from the Royal Navy/Army store; where once hung ribbons of campaigns and medals of honor, were dried animal parts; some for their protective effects as talisman such as the shark tooth or the gannet beak, others, like dried human ears and scarabs of actual beetles, clearly were just for effect.

“Guilty!”

Hearing the ragged consensus, his assessment of the crew, recently brigadoon’d from a discount Club Med resort on the Isle of Onam in the French Chantillys, made it certain the Captain could do nothing ore than deliver the team-building coup-de-grace, “What do we do with mutineers?”

“Make ‘er walk the hatch… walk the Hatch!”

*