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

This is the time of the week for some creative arranging of words in order to form sentences into a story.

As our host, Denise provides a prompt word and everyone in the blogosphere (I would add, ‘near and far’, however, neither quality holds significant domain o’er this virtual world) to write a story of six (and only six) sentences.

This week the word is:

Fear

“Timmy Williams, report to the Principle’s office immediately, Timothy Williams to the Principle’s office.”

Mrs. Nicolson’s sixth-grade home room was still filling with students, the near-whispers of eleven-year-old boys and girls were divided between enjoyment and dread, the news of a surprise history test mixed through the chatter like chocolate in a marble cake.

Timmy Williams, who always felt a secret pride in getting back to his desk well before the final bell, stared at the alternating green and white squares of the floor, certain that, somehow, they just moved, as it registered that he was that Timothy Williams the adult on loudspeaker was identifying as someone in trouble.

Worse than every face in the room swiveling like compass needles towards him, the final bell still had not rung, which meant both doors to the corridor were wide open; it was not just the twenty-five boys and girls in his class that knew he was in trouble, it was the entire school; passing kids, even Mr. Stevens the janitor, turned to stare into the room.

“Timothy, you are excused,” for a wonderful, if not oddly disconnected second, relief flooded the boy’s world, ‘he’d been excused’ of whatever it was that warranted being called to the Principle’s office; he started to slump back into his seat, a desperate smile pulling at the side of his mouth when, from the back of the class, ‘Lucky jerk gets out of the history test,” he started to protest that he wasn’t ready for the test either, when he realized that everyone was waiting and staring at him.

“The other boy said he saw you at her desk and, no it doesn’t matter who it was, the fact is Mrs. Tremonti’s fountain pen is missing; you are not being accused, however, if you know anything about this, I promise it won’t leave the room,” the principle’s voice was calming and seemed to promise that reason still prevailed, unfortunately his mind produced a very clear memory of looking in the teacher’s in the desk the day before; Timothy Williams felt a flash of freezing-cold static light up his scalp, followed, nearly a second later, by his stomach sinking much farther than it should have been able to move and still remain inside his abdomen.