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 defined by it’s numerically eponymous title.

…previously.

Prompt word:

AGENCY

” …left no good deed unpunished, no bad one unrewarded.”

Diane Tierney demonstrated a gift possessed by few women: she smiled seriously as I approached her hostess station.

“I once had a friend, we were waitressing at a supper club when I was still in school, who got it into her head to start a real estate agency just so she could name it ‘Really Realty’,” as she glanced to her upper left, recovering the memory, I found myself captivated by her necklace; a small ruby on a gold chain, ever-so-slightly cantilevered by her collar bones, my fear of looking up grew even as I continued in the opposite direction.

I felt her silence, transmuting into affectionate amusement, as my autonomic nervous system went all civil war on where to send the excess blood supply; gathering the tatters of my confidence, I looked up into her laughing eyes.

To illustrate her interpretation of Walter Maps’ oft-misconstrued aphorism, Diane handed me the brown-paper takeout bag.

“Be careful, Ian, our Ms. Storme is the soul of discord; you might do well to consider changing careers, selling houses has less potential for permanent physical and/or psychological disability.”

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, there is a single rule: the story is to have six sentences; no more and no less.

(Not for nothin’ but I’m hoping there is a Reader with as great a tenure as we have that can name the TV show in the above photo.)

Prompt word:

PANEL

“We just got your CBC panel back from the lab.”

The man in the examining room not wearing a white lab coat, with or without blue-stitched lettered name: Dr. G Moore  ‘Internal Medicine’, felt the room’s ambient temperature drop.

A third person, though not wearing a coat, did display a name tag; Jayne; an odd spelling, but consistent with the aggressively phonetic convention embraced by the current generation of parents; it echoed a forgotten memory.

“Everything looks fine, I’m quite pleased.”

Remembering his manners, the older man stood and extended his hand, a gesture seemingly as archaic as his respectfully-silent attention; the physician nodded and Jayne, for her part, smiled an impossible combination of polite interest and generic affection favored by her generation.

The patient, the one lacking an embroidered lab coat or the natural ease available on short-term loan to the young, began to speak, but the door was already open and the doctor was following his clipboard to another room and another patient sitting alone, balancing on the edge of the future.

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 defined by it’s numerical eponymous title.

Prompt word:

CLAW

The sign, in flaking gold-leaf letters against a time-sooted field of white read: East of Éclair and immediately below: Pâtissiers

…the tall, thin man turned to the Bartender, an impatient October wind pushing the brown cashmere scarf, his one concession to end of Summer, perpendicular to the storefront. “You know what we really need to offer our clientele at the Café?”

“Strippers?”

If an acquaintance, familiar with both, were asked what the signal characteristic of the man and woman currently forming a dyad on the seaside village’s brick-paved sidewalk, a shrug would be encyclopedic if not slightly inscrutable; as if to escape further scrutiny, the man in the Harris tweed jacket held the door for the multi-couture’d young woman.

The proprietor was of average height, her figure buxom in a cyclothymic-cheerleader sense and, though dressed in a fashion not atypical of the seaside village in the south of the coastal state, wore jewelry worth more than the shop, real estate included; display cases were set in the middle of the shoppe, glass-encased islands of flaky dough, confectioner’s sugar and a peripheral zephyr of cinnamon.

The tall, thin man smiled at the incidental benediction of a brass bell shouldered aside by the oak-and-glass entrance door; the Bartender, already looking for something to brush the powdered sugar from her lips was muttering, “Lions and tigers and bear claws, oh my!”

Offering his hand to the woman, the Six Sentence Café & Bistro manager smiled, “My associate and I would like to discuss establishing a business arrangement, one we trust our fellow Proprietors, Mimi and Chris and the Gatekeeper and, of course, Tom will surely applaud,” the more subversive of his eyebrows broke loose in the direction of the Bartender, “With or without exotic dancers, of course.”