Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
This is a Six Sentence Story
Denise is the host
This Six is a continuation of the serial story, ‘the Whitechapel Interlude‘. When last we saw Brother Abbott, he’d just reaquainted himself with an old friend, from the days when he was both a performer and impresario. But, literally the last time?, here’s where we left off.
(ed. note) We have taken the liberty of crossing over storylines for the interaction in our Six. Ford, one of the Proprietors from the Six Sentence Café & Bistro (and an artist of breadth most extraordinaire) has created a fictional world so period-detailed, that I could not resist! If you enjoy our Six visit to Paris here, be sure to head over to ‘the Mage’s’ (To get you started with M. Magnifique, click this).
The prompt word:
CONFETTI
The post Six Sentence Story -the Wakefield Doctrine- (the Whitechapel Interlude) first appeared on the Wakefield Doctrine.“Si le verbe aimer n’existait pas, je l’aurais inventé en te voyant,” Brother Abbott’s smile freed the serving girl from the bonds of her blush, allowing a hasty return to the kitchen of the café and the task of convincing the cook she needed to leave work early; turning back to his lunch companion, the erstwhile principle instructor of the Whitechapel chapter of the Order of Lilith asked, with the slightest of self-conscious laughs, “What?”
“Mon ami, forgive the baseness of my innuendo, but had I any in my bag of tricks, I would be tossing confetti in the air,” Monsieur Magnifique’s face glowed with approval; as one friend to another thought to be lost from the rarefied life of show business, one which all denizens will liken to that experienced by war veterans and star-crossed lovers, pain and exhilaration intermingled so closely as to make the distinction virtually impossible.
“While the Order of Lilith has never indulged in the patriarchal hypocrisy of your more upright religions,” the former instructor of novitiates put italics to his comment with a twist to his newly restored goatee, a facial adornment more rapier than the broadsword of the full beard he left behind upon his return to Paris and the stage.
There was a sudden clatter of utensils from the café’s kitchen, immediately followed by voices, one as stolid as the other passionate; turning back, Brother Abbott watched in horrified fascination as the focus of his friend’s eyes shifted from, ‘two old friends catching up over a coffee on an eventful Saturday afternoon’, to a puzzled concentration on something in the distance approaching with lethal speed.
Clutching his lower abdomen. the ventriloquist rolled out of his chair and on to the beige tile floor, like an octopus with ptomaine poisoning.
Pushing his chair back, and almost knocking over the returning waitress, Brother Abbott moved to his friend’s side; kneeling, he heard from the direction of the battered leather valise resting on the only chair still in it’s proper position, “Pourquoi restes-tu là, va chercher un putain de docteur !!”
