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

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

Hosted by Denise, constrained by a sentence limit (high and low) of six, there are worse ways to spend the remaining time you have on earth.

Previously, in our tale…

(Language Advisory. ….’cause, well, Rosetta!)

Prompt word:

SNAP

“Geez Louize… that poor little robot …”

The Sophomore’s quiet lamentation was, against the sheer volume of the conversation raging around him, but a scream doing a killer imitation of a whisper.

“What!?”

Anya Clarieaux’s single word question, at a volume no greater than the young man’s, cut through the vocal maelstrom of recrimination, accusation, invective and all around ‘whose fault is all this’ filling the dining room of a vacant house/temporary safe-house.

I watched as our leader/captor/rescuer walked around the table to where the Sophomore sat, his girlfriend on one side busy with fueling the argument and, with a soundless snap of a perfectly manicured finger in Rosetta’s direction, transformed the girl’s,  “what the fuck are you talking abou…” into silence.

Standing next to the Sophomore, Anya’s voice was a thoroughly disturbing synthesis of a mother comforting a child and a not-that-much-older young women coaching a determined yet unsure suitor, “Ethan, I need you to tell me what you saw in your time trip and don’t leave anything out…”

Without taking her eyes off him, she began to sit while taking his hands in her own.

I know I shouldn’t have been surprised, but it was Rosetta Storme who managed to get a chair behind Anya in time for her to sit; I was rewarded by her look of defiant chagrin before she returned her attention to Anya and the Sophomore.

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