Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
This is the Six Sentence Story
Denise is the host.
The prompt word for the week is:
CONFETTI
“Nick, I really fucked things up, man,” the Sophomore, looking up at the bearded face of his mentor at the Six Sentence Café & Bistro, sat like the sole uninvited guest in the last pew during the funeral of a widowed orphan.
“Take it slow, young dude, start at the beginning,” the Gatekeeper spoke quietly, although he had, coming upon the college student sitting alone at the table directly in front of the small bandstand, seamlessly converted a good-natured laugh into a look of quiet concern; with a renewed appreciation of the contrast between his outwards appearance and his inner self, he sat opposite the student.
“What’re you two conspiring about now?” the Bartender, stepping out of the dark of the hall that lead to the Manager’s Office and the elevator to the basement storage, put a case of Chivas on the bar with as much a display of effort as shoplifting a Michael Kors knockoff, and walked towards the center of the Bistro.
“For a young person you have pretty eclectic tastes, quick, tell us something about this song that you think we old folks don’t know…”
“Careful kid, your friendly-if-not-at-times-scary neighborhood bartender is settin’ you up, she’s a living illustration of the etymology of the term ‘fan’… ”
Denise held out a half-crumpled pack of Luckies, and shrugging off the lack of interest, lit her own; the flare of light from her cupped hands illuminated a jagged scar on her upper lip that had the effect of softening already subtle eyes, “Nick, much as I love the artist singing from our very expensive PA, I believe your young friend was about to provide us with some backstory on last night’s break in.”
“Hey, ho!” staring at the bartender’s bandaged wrist, the Gatekeeper’s voice drew the unwelcome spotlight from the student, “Someone be getting ink, and besides the depths of your encyclopedic knowledge of the better music of the late ’60s and early ’70s is surpassed only by the vagueness of your personal history,” looking up at the woman standing next to the small table, Nick’s voice began to clip as accumulating dBs mirrored his growing impatience, “Not that I don’t respect your right to privacy, but ticker tape and confetti ain’t my thing.”
