Six Sentence Story (not quite what it appears to be)

Six Sentence Story -the Wakefield Doctrine-

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

This is the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Denise is the host, and informs us, the only hard and fast rule is the total number of sentences. Six.

Blame Ford for (his) recent Sixes, written in the key of creepy, combined with our own penchant for matchcover-academia, which left us spending far too much time reading up on ‘the Unreliable Narrator’. We trust we’ll get it out of our system straight-away and return to ‘the Whitechapel Interlude’ next week.

We think.

(No, the image at the top of this post has nothing, as far as I know, to do with the following Six. It was, just that, when I first came across it yesterday, I was all, “Where have I been, this story, I haven’t heard, already!”)


Prompt word:


(Let’s see, last week we posted the next installment of ‘Anya Claireaux, P.I.‘, that means we need to continue our historical-fantasy serial, Eve’s Étude, how difficult can that be?)

Sister Abbott looked at the mound of homespun blankets, the shape of the body hard to distinguish, the bloodstains impossible; the memory of the terminal whimper of pain, earnest supplication to no avail, brought a smile to her lips. Like the endless subvocal howl of the birth of the cosmos, the echo of momentarily-sated hunger lightened her step and heighten her senses, now moving through the dust-cloaked streets of Tangier, alert for a certain sign on the pisé de terre wall at the dark end of Rue le Jour.

(Wait a minute… where’s the sense of the, hidden-in-plain-sight, atmosphere surrounding Abbott and her cohorts, maybe it’d help to have another caffeine cake and some water; too much time last night with The Rhetoric Book, seeking the secret of the Unreliable Narrator; still, there’s a disturbance in the Force, that makes all this feel…somehow, subversive.)

“Inspector Anselm, fancy meeting you here, in the Medina; we know you have him in one of Scotland Yard’s safe-houses, hand him over now and all concerned will fare better, well, except, of course, for the good Professor Egmont,” Sister Abbott, in an apparent nod to Islamic influences, wore a kirpan hung from a belt of amber beads, cinching the waist of an otherwise flowing robe.

(This is really not going anywhere, and I still haven’t plugged in the Prompt word, better check the dictionary, maybe get some inspiration,


adjective: (of one or more things) available as another possibility

noun: one of two or more available possibilities

…uh oh.)