Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
This is the Six Sentence Story bloghop.
Each week, Denise invites all to link their prompt-centric sextile-sentoid stories so that we might enjoy a good read. And, speaking for ourselfs, improve our skills by consorting (and figuring-out-how-they-did-that) with writers of no small breadth of style or depth of imagination.
Previously, in the Whitechapel Interlude…
Like most above average, (in intellect if not social standing), young adults, Anselm and Sarah viewed novelty as the only essential condiment to the banquet of life. As the morning carried them towards noon and their meeting with the mysterious Count St. Loreto, the dimming of the sky was too-easily dismissed as the gathering of tree-cloaked mountains to either side of the road north to Brașov. For some, fortunately rare people, darkness is both noun and verb.
Hey! before I forget, we have a ‘guest’ this week. ceayr commented on last week’s Six Sentence Story post and there was something in his comment or maybe it was his writing style, that reminded me of a friend in high school. Anyway. I said to ceayr, I said, “Hey! you wanna do a walk-on?”
He said, ‘Yes, it would be my honor.’ So head over to his place (after reading this Six first, of course)… see what the damages are. I’m looking forward to it as he promised a Six not constrained by ‘any rule’. (lol)
In the past, ‘walk-ons’ have ranged from direct offshoots of the narrative of a specific post, as Pat Brockett and Valerie did very effectively a number of years ago, to more recently, a parallel universe-take that Ford concocted, creating a character that left no doubt in the Reader’s mind she was very familiar with the Whitechapel section of Victorian London.
Prompt Word:
Method
The post Six Sentence Story- the Wakefield Doctrine- first appeared on the Wakefield Doctrine.“Sire, all is ready for your guests.”
Count Cyrus St. Loreto, a muscle and sinew embellishment to the carved stone chair that served to anchor night sky battering at the glass dome of the grand hall, relinquished his hold on the woman, and with a flick of a wrist, acknowledged the demands of the day ahead. With the deadly grace of a panther, Evangeline stepped out from his embrace, crossing the great room and into a vestibule under an arc of gold-leaf letters on the lintel: ‘Modis in Insania‘
The whispers of servants and staff stirred the quiet air along passageways and empty rooms, like the internal soughing of the circulatory system, lacking only the muffled syncopation of a heart to assure visitors there was a difference between the surrounding mountains and the castle.
Cyrus stirred from dreams of a Garden and endless daylight, suspecting there might come a time when regret succeeded in leaching the passion out of avarice; the irony of the true curse of the apple of Eden, the need to satiate the insatiable, brought a smile to his lips, a vestigial gesture of a lost humanity.
Rousing himself, he recalled a time in the Far East when, in the midst of a night of debauchery, he confided, in a voice loud enough to cut through the din of the crowded tavern, to his companion, a humble monk he’d taken pity on, “Gautama, my friend, take it to heart, all of this,” waving at the guests, concubines, waiters and money-lenders, servants and cooks, “These trappings should forever remind you that the indulgence of desire is the root of all suffering in this death-ridden world.”
