Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
This is the Six Sentence Story bloghop.
It is hosted by Denise.
This is a ‘Whitechapel Interlude‘ week.
That means that the Six Sentence Story that follows is the latest installment in (that) serial story.
The prompt word:
IMPROVISE
“Anselm!”
Sarah and Brother Abbott, welcome lighthouses on a sea of cobblestones and indifferent passersby’s, stared down at me; my name on their lips, masques of relief, gilded with worry; framed by the corrugated rooflines of Dorsett Street; their non-verbal essays of love and concern called out from their faces and whispered in their eyes.
The last memory I had was, like a letter written on old parchment and stored carefully after multiple readings, manifested as two separate but integral parts, the top and bottom of an oft-read letter on time-worn parchment; the first was of the time traveler and the second, below the fold of the page, was a cacophony of sights and recollection of a place, I could never have been.
Like an artist’s sheaf of preliminary sketches, the familiar rendered in a form one step shy of alien; my mind was so buffeted by images without intelligence, scenes lacking context and vistas that simply were not of this earth, I feared it had torn loose of it’s stays or, worse, had been tampered with; the consistent theme was walking along a street here in London.
The only stable remnant, not blurred by fear nor distorted by incredulity, was the image of the time traveler smiling as he opened the door to his apartment in Chiltern Court, somehow, now directly connected to the present, moment, looking up at the faces of my friends.
“Easy, take it slow”, “Are you alright” words shaped by lips, thoughts without sound; from Brother Abbott, a wary reassurance and from Sarah, relief with the hint of the ferocity found deep within every predator, awaiting the call to improvise.
About clarkscottroger
I’m beginning to believe this author is the time traveler himself. Such vivid a scene must have been seen. ;-)
Haven’t we all? Wait, I forget, there are many normal, balanced humans comprising the ranks of writers here…lol
Dude!! Is that you? (In the story)
As much as, imo, we all are…even Joseph Smith had to have mistaken in reflection in the golden plates as he scribbled his notes furiously
Somehow that last line doesn’t seem all that reassuring.
there is that! lol thanks
I fear the future may be as bumpy as the cobbles on which you lie…
they (cobblestones) are not considered ideal for a restful and dreamless night’s sleep
I like the buffeting of “images without intelligence”. And I like the ending where the predator waits for the call to improvise. Kind of makes me want to get out of its way just in case.
Trying to convey that ‘what the heck happened last night feeling’.. Funny about Sarah (and her hunter/demon internal companion) I’m not as worried about her as I might be about the time traveler… sorta like having a german shepherd… ferocious, capable of killing without compunction, given the correct circumstance, but not evil. If there is an evil character here, so far, it is, imo, the time traveler.
That last line does hint that all is not well in Mudville.
lol
tru dat
The first line and the last line together makes me so enjoy spending time with Sarah and Brother Abbott.
I also liked the music to describe dissociating oneself from the things of this world:
“scenes lacking context and vistas that simply were not of this earth”
Thank you.
much of the fun (in writing Sixes) is finding music that compliments the reading of the story
What a twist! The Time Traveler gave Anselm a taste of traveling through time. Excellent, lol,.
I imagine it may take Anselm awhile to process what happened to him.
thanks for the reminder/insight, it is easy (at least for me at this point in my ability) to overlook the more subtle aspects in the lives of characters… not simply the time it will take Anselm but how it (the experience) will alter him
cool
I like the romantic vibe it began with before unfurling the madness of what Anselm had experienced. It had a poetic feel to it as an opening. The image of BA and Sarah as lighthouses on the cobblestones was surely a welcome sight. That last line though, pretty chilling. And the time traveler smiling as he opened the door!
I’d say I got me a mess ‘o potential story lines. Challenge one: get everyone (Readers) grounded (or re-grounded) in the core plot, i.e. what is the goal of the time traveler and what does the Order do about it? Then to the characters… protagonist (Anselm) a complicated gf (Sarah and her symbiotic hunter-demon) Brother Abbott (straight-man, good guy riding herd on this mess)…and, if anyone wants more variety, a certain Count in Romania with a decided aversion to sunlight (Cyrus DeLoreto)
should be fun
All good ingredients, plus with the added spice of that certain Count!
should be interesting (God-willing)
In fact, I was in a group call Saturday night (The Saturday Night Wakefield Doctrine call-in) and was trying out an elevator pitch/verbal synopsis with Friend of the Doctrine, Cynthia and, in the course of the telling, I realized that, on the basis of their (whatever the term is for the evolving biography of a fictional character) backgrounds, there is one character who can (without resorting to artificial time travel) be in both stories. Cyrus St Loreto (Surely one wouldn’t keep the exact same name when traversing years beyond the norm.)
Here’s a sample from a WIP that goes a bit of a ways to giving us Readers a sense of the enigmatic Count:
The fingers of my right hand had just wrapped themselves around the old-fashioned polished brass door handle, when I heard a man’s voice, “Sister Ryan. How fortuitous your choosing today to stop by my broker’s office!”
Some men have loud voices. All too often they are men who have little to say. Lacking confidence in the content of their message, they compensate with volume. Even if you might have no interest in what they say, said loudly enough and you will hear them. There is a (much smaller) group who have the ability to project their voice. Common to stage actors and politicians, it’s a talent for some and a skill for the remainder. Volume is not only irrelevant, more often than not, it’s counter-productive. The skill lies in creating a spoken message that makes the listener want to connect, if only to enjoy the tone of the voice, the shaping of the sound.
The man walking towards me was different. It wasn’t the volume that carried from the back of the real estate office to the reception area that made me look longingly towards the exit. It was that I felt, as much as heard, his voice. It was like he was standing just an inch beyond my personal space. Somehow, I had the impression that he was whispering to me, yet the words were cloaked in a vitality that lost nothing for the fifty feet of air that separated his mouth from my ear. The sound made me remember my senior year in high school, when a boy asked me to go with him to a carnival. There was excitement and imagined danger in the rides and an unfamiliar feeling of energy, my being out in a strange place with bright lights after dark. I found that I did not particularly enjoy reliving the memory here, standing in a real estate office in the middle of the day with an attractive man drawing closer with each graceful step.
By the time I turned around, the man who only an instant before had been sitting comfortably in an office chair at the far end of the office, was standing in front of me. He smiled in a way that made me think of wolves and hyenas. He was very charming.
“I apologize for being so forward. I am Cyrus St. Loreto. I own the Bernebau Company and I believe you are looking for me.”
I allowed him to take my hand and pull me slightly back towards the reception area. I reluctantly let go of the brass door handle.
“Perhaps we could talk a bit. You surely have some questions for me, am I correct?”
I thought, ‘I now appreciate the use of an odd, old word. This guy is both charming and mesmerizing’. Despite the insight, the fingers of my left hand remained, bent over the ridge of his hand, held in place by how good it felt at the moment. I thought he was going to kiss my hand, but then he raised both eyebrows, as if seeing my habit for the first time and managed to appear to be a sixteen year old boy, trying to stifle his embarrassment. I fought the urge to giggle. There was a distant part of my mind yelling, like a person in a hot air balloon passing flood victims standing on the roof of their half-submerged houses. I knew that there was something important that I should understand, yet all I could do was smile and wait.
Something passed over his face, a cloud-shadow racing across a clearing in a primordial wood. The man stood more erect, his eyes became hooded and, surely a trick of the eye, his ears seemed to pull tighter to his head.
“Sister Margaret, I believe you and I are expected at the hospital. Say goodbye to Mr. St Loreto and we’ll be on our way.” Somehow Sister Cletus was standing to my right, her very old and wrinkled hand on my forearm. It did not feel like she was grabbing my arm, rather it felt like I was leaning towards her.
The man let go of my hand and looked at Sister Cletus with what I assumed was intended to be a smile; the look in his eyes, however, made the word ‘acknowledgment’ come to mind. Smiles were created by man as soon as there were more than three people. While it can convey a number of different meanings, ultimately it was the badge of man, risen above the rule of the jungle. Many want to interpret the look on a tiger’s face as a smile, (provided we can observe it from a safe distance), it’s a safe bet that no other animal in the forest would let their guard down seeing the corners of the predator’s mouth turn upwards.
“Svenlenka! Au fost mulți ani.” (Svenlenka! It has been many years.) A certain energy rose from his eyes.
“Cyrus. Da, dar pentru unii ani nu ajută.” (Cyrus. Yes, but for some the years do not matter.) Sister Cleutus’s voice changed. Not louder or even stronger, simply more certain. The tentativeness we hear in the speech of an old person is often due, not to uncertainty, as much as the lack of urgency. It’s an essential paradox of the elderly, the less time that, (may remain for them), the less need they have to hurry. Sister Cletus sort of sounded like the Mother Superior, but there was an added sophistication that made each word a multifaceted jewel.
“Este tragic că taxele anilor sunt exact pentru unii dintre noi.” (It is tragic, the toll the years exact from some of us.)
Now, free of my momentary paralysis, I turned slightly and looked at Sister Cletus. Her face was different. Still wrinkled with softened canyons ranging down from her eyes, rounded flesh hanging beneath her pale blue eyes. There was something else there, a power that, like the light of an arc welder reflected off the sooty, metal walls of a factory, made you step back, look away.
“Shall we go, Sister Margaret?” She was looking past me.
“Until next time, Svetlana.” The man turned his attention to me and I began to hear the carnival sounds in my mind, “My young novitiate, if I may offer a word of advice. It’s in the form of a very old saying, your Sister Cletus will surely translate for you, once she has you safely away. “Cel mai bine este să vezi întregul animal înainte de a începe să-ți tragi coada.” (It’s best to see the whole animal before you begin to pull on it’s tail).