the Wakefield Doctrine

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

This is the Six Sentence Story

It, (the story, not this site), is our contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop hosted by Denise and participated in by hundreds of people with an interest in writing fiction, some of whom actually write a story of six and only six sentences and link it to the aforementioned blog. You should be among those willing to take a chance and reap the benefits of co-fraternity (and, of course, co-sorority) with us folks what like to write and such.

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This week is an Ian Devereux week. So the Six that follows is the next installment in, the Case of the Missing Fig Leaf. (New to this bloghop? Been away? Go ahead and click on that ⇐ link.  I guarantee you’ll enjoy our week’s contribution all the more.)

This week’s prompt word:

ELASTIC

“Dr. Thunberg, an envelope just arrived,” Kendra’s disembodied voice held a touch of shrillness on the interrogative, but then darkened and sank on the passive verb as it hung in the autumn light, leaching most of the color, and all of the softness, from Leanne Thunberg’s office overlooking the quad at Radcliffe University.

The head of Advanced Anthropology and Cultural Semiotics frowned; her antipathy towards advanced technology metastasized into tension as a subtle clockwork quality braced her shoulders and the natural elasticity of the connective tissue in her neck eroded; her therapist’s voice whispered from a private corner of her mind, “Remember, Annie, you are responsible for how you feel.”

Serenity appeared and moved tentatively, like a first-time traveler separated from the security of the tour group, negotiating elbow-and-glare-studded crowds in a foreign city, upwards towards her eyes, “Well, don’t keep me in suspense, Ken”, as her admin placed a yellow, 8.5 x 11 inch mailing envelope on her desk; at first glance it was no different from the stack already in Leanne’s in-box, on second glance it looked like the survivor of a death match in a post office sorting room; blue and red ink smeared like blood and tears on both sides, everywhere except for the address label, that remained as untouched as a virgin princess officiating at a medieval jousting tournament.

Inside, a single sheet of paper, hotel letterhead written in 12-pt German:

‘Dr. Thunberg,

You don’t know me, but I’m in Germany with your husband, Elias, rather I should say, ‘I was with Elias’ until a day ago when I managed to escape from the Abbey at Eibingen; at least I think I escaped; I have no idea why I’m writing to you, his ex; something tells me its what those people in the Abbey want.

PS Your ex, Elias, might be a famous scholar, but he threw me under whatever they call buses around here, by my standards that makes him kind of a dick, er please send money to my PayPal account as follows.’

Leanne held the sheet of paper up to the light, a sepia X-ray showing faint smears of rusted brown; in a dark, nearly hidden part of her, an atavistic spirit stirred, ancient muscles pulling at her ears, flaring nostrils and dilating the pupils of her eyes; the part of her personality that had her in therapy, for no other reason than to keep her position as department head, etched a smile on her face and she turned to the keyboard, first sending a thousand dollars to the account on the letter and then, an email, ‘Ian, I hear Germany is beautiful this time of year, join me on a field trip? 

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

This is the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Denise is the host.

The goal is to write a story, using the week’s prompt word, in exactly six sentences.

This week we’re returning the Order of Lilith story, ‘the Whitechapel Interlude‘. (The title is linked back to the blog so you can read any or all the previous chapters.)

This week’s prompt word:

KETTLE

“You are certain, I trust, the binding fields are secure,” Brother Abbot turned from a wall covered with draw-bars and chains, pulleys and levers with mother-of-pearl handles, “While I do not question your work, this is your first guard duty with our,” although his broad shoulders seemed oriented on the dark rectangle of the cell door, he held his trainee’s gaze with a gentle ferocity, “guest, and in our Order, we help each other be certain.”

He moved across the small antechamber that separated the dark cell from the door to the outer corridor, watching Sarah, who had somehow moved to stand with her back to the cell; her head at a slight angle, as if trying to locate the source of a faint sound; “How curious, the sound a kettledrum might make were it to try and sing a melody, do you not hear it?”

Embedded In the nearly tactile darkness of the cell, the outline of a woman drawn on a black canvas; as if something drew light from the outer chamber, details grew more substantial, and with this increasing definition, temptation sent a silent invitation to see more, the promise of a beautiful discovery hung in the air.

The stolen illumination gathered and grew around the woman’s face, even as the light in the outer room dimmed; coalescing around her head there was created what could only be a halo.

“My God, how beautiful,” Sarah felt her body fly backwards through the air, even as she leaned forward to within a lover’s touch of the doorway; the sigils and symbols, glyphs and incantations carved into its wooden frame were flaring redly.

The occupant of the cell stood silently and stared, eyes raging with insatiable hunger; the glow from her face grew, momentarily creating the shape of sharply curved wings extending to her sides; Brother Abbott stepped between Sarah and the cell; the light inside the cell bled into the stone floor and the antechamber was again fully illuminated.