Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
We made it!
The Doctrine tends toward an every-other week schedule here at the ‘corn’, joining jenne and ceayr and the others here at the Unicorn Challenge.
Do yerself a favor, head over to the ‘corn. Plenty good reading. And, if you got the hankering to take the keyboard out for a stroll, go ahead and link your story (in Comments). The simplest of rules: a) Hey! look at this photo and 2) no more than 250 words, if you please. Tell ’em the Doctrine sent ya.
For her it was the light, an actinic slap of welcome to a newborn. Chloë responded with a most human of strategies, extending her hand across the table.
For him, it was an assault of odor, of such potency, his body wrongly interpreted it as immersion in a noxious ether. Montgomery was assailed by an overwhelming desire to stand up. Instead, he grasped the hand that appeared opposite his own.
In the shadows, a man laughed a guttural cough of merriment and aimed his phone towards the young couple. Bathed in the cold palette of technology, he basked in the approval of the woman in the display; her face an aurora of hues as she watched the man watching the young people.
“Sinè, my love, it’s time to reel in our little fishies.” Donning an waiter’s apron, the man picked up a tray holding two glasses. He sprinkled a shower of crystals into each. The motion caused his sleeve to rise, exposing a tattoo of a symbol combining an asterix and an angular ‘B’, superimposed on a heart.
“I don’t remember anything after that odd woman stopped us on the street.” Confidence returning with the shared strength of their touching hands, Chloë rose.
“Yeah, lets get out of here,” Montgomery threw a £50 note on the drink tray proffered by the waiter and left without a backward glance. Unseen, the man threw the tray against the curved-stone wall, cringing at the tiny voice of the woman raging from his phone.
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