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

This is the Wakefield Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise, there is a single rule: a story is to have six sentences; no more and no less.

Prompt word:

PANEL

“Tell me you’re kidding me right now,” the pure light, (the man remembered something, from somewhere, that if all wavelengths, balanced and combined, would result in a perfectly colorless light), seemed to surge, the energy-equivalent of a nod.

“What the fuck, man…;” a single point source of all energy in the universe, (‘the singularity of existence’ a google-search return once called it, but he was drunk at the time, so…), could not, by definition, fluctuate; but there was an undeniable element of the briefest interval of non-coherence in the thing in front of the man, though, to be fair, it passed as quickly as it arose.

“Not saying that a single, dark-haired bearded white guy sitting in judgement ain’t nothin’ more than patriarchy-gone-wild, but a panel of my peers holding the fate of my eternal soul in their hands,” he looked to the double, stepped-row of seated men and women who looked familiar if not rather stern and dour.

Turning his back on jury, the man felt a smile grow, the ultimate light-source before him seemed to fade in benign modulation.

“Then I claim my voir dire rights, and designate the following replacement jurors: Nema, Ola, Bella, Una, Mia and… and that dog I saw once stuck by the side of an abandoned house that time, I will only accept judgment by them.”

Seeing how energy is energy, and sound is, in our present conceit, merely very slow light, the man heard the barking and yelping of welcome as he stepped through the Pearly Gates, some of his jurors running ahead, (just for the joy of running), and two hung back, leaning into his legs, not that additional support was needed, ever again.