Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
The time of the week when we are challenged to write a story of no more than 6 Sentences. The only ‘Rule’ is that it, (the story, not the Rule), use, employ, infer, imply or otherwise, (in whatever manner the author might deem likely to cause the) Reader to encounter a certain word. In the case of this week’s Six Sentence Story, our host, zoe/ivy would ask that we invoke the word, ‘convert’
‘To one who has faith, no explanation is necessary. To one without faith, no explanation is possible.’ (Thomas Aquinas)*******************
“I really don’t believe you are taking this matter quite as seriously as you should.” sitting in the single chair positioned directly before the desk of the Mother Superior, Sister Margaret Ryan is trying to forget what she thinks she now knows about herself.
The room is a symphony of wood and stain, carved relief figures, (scenes of forests and huntsmen, the ‘Action Figures’ of a long ago and very different time), and towering shelves holding priceless First Editions and dead animals, a bygone era reflected in polished oak and walnut, the decidedly masculine tone somewhat offset by the intricate patterns of the oriental carpet. The former owner, a devout Banker who, undoubtedly, decided that leaving his mansion to the Church would be a sound investment, the building, now converted to a Convent, made the nuns living there the envy of their Order and, this room was the Inner Sanctum for the person holding power over, …nothing as mundane as Life and Death, rather the woman who reigned within held sway on a person’s Life After Death, and though not physically elevated, the expanse of desk between the two women was no less a Judge’s bench, lacking only a Bailiff and Stenographer.
“Are you Listening, Sister Ryan?”
She was not listening, she was staring out the window that framed the imposing figure of Sister Affrontina, the Autumn colors of the trees outside made the (mostly) black garbed (with a splash of white surrounding her face), woman seem especially predatory, an albino tiger nearly perfectly still in the underbrush, waiting for the prey to make a fatal error.
Sister Margaret Ryan was thinking about a girl in 6th Grade at Our Lady of Penance,
“If you don’t apply yourself and use the gifts you were born with, it will be like putting a gun to God’s head and pulling the trigger,”
the memory-echos of well-intentioned, yet wholly twisted and disfigured efforts to motivate a talented young girl, maintained it’s power, the remarkable violence contained in the words, like a greenstick fracture mistaken for a minor injury, returning years later with consequences far in excess of the original trauma,
‘Who says that kind of thing to a child?! Margaret said out loud… looking at dedicated and devoted woman and feeling only like prey, “these are children, they’re not prey…“