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 each Thursday, an exercise in creative writing in sextuple-form.
(Hey! I’m counting the first sentence (ending with an ellipsis) as being half of the line of dialogue which ends with ‘chicken’. This may very well not be a controversial strategy, but, you know, full disclosure.)
Prompt Word:
BALANCE
The post Six Sentence Story -the Wakefield Doctrine- “A Tale from the League of Redacted Metaphorians” first appeared on the Wakefield Doctrine.“Come on, man, don’t be such a…”
Ever since discovering the true power of metaphor, all autobiographical hell had broken loose, like a… well, it says it best in the Manual issued to all Metaphorians; that, almost said, is always the first challenge: looking around at my surroundings, I recognized the abandoned gravel pit from my childhood neighborhood and sticking out of the far end of my blue jeans… a pair of PF Flyers!
…chicken.”
Based on location, dress and the lack of habitual aches and pains, I figured: sixth grade, which makes me eleven, (still pre-draftee status in the upcoming Gender Wars), playing at life after school; my months of rote memorization paid off as the 3rd Principle of the League of Redacted Metaphorians lit my mind; ‘Sure, the Map may not actually be the Territory, but how bad do you want to explore alternate realities?’
The boy challenging me to jump down the 45° sand escarpment was Allen, my best friend in grade school. Funny how, as I let myself experience this reality, the character and nature of our shared laughter stood out; it was celebration, pure and simple; nothing to do with rating or comparing the day, analyzin’ or dramatizin’ an event, laughter at this stage of life is surely the essence of humanity, a glimpse into the Garden before the decision was made to swap innocence for maturity.
I ran to the edge faster than I could think and jumped out as far as would take me; as luck would have it, my phone rang, the wind on my face and the dry-tickle of sand and gravel coursing up the back of my shirt ceased to exist and all I felt was the concave teasing of the keys of my computer, like the come-hither of a cybernetic lover; the emotional charge of the memory surged, temporarily shifting a balance I was no longer aware of and the corners of my mouth turned upwards.
