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…

Prompt word:

CURSE

The Omni Corp’s hostage Rescue team left in a manner that was an opposite-land mirror of how they arrived: vacating the building like a Delta Force squad of lethal mimes.

I remained in the semi-furnished dining room of an early 20th colonial house in the company of: a young couple in love, a nun with a conscripted Gaelic manservant and Anya Clarieaux… talk about an embarrassment of riches.

Kinda reminded me of my first double date: a rainy Friday evening in October of my freshman year in high school when I found myself in the backseat of a car with the sister of an off-brand friend headed to my first (and only) sock-hop; he was enthusiastic, she was hopeful and by evening’s end I’d become intimately familiar with the original curse by god on a certain first couple, namely the Stockholm Syndrome.

The Sophomore sat at what had, by the same magic that drew the first humans to a fire outside a cave huddled against the darkness full of hungry predators, become the center of the room.

I was dragged back into the present by the sound of the Sophomore’s quiet voice.

“It was the smell more than the gaslight-flickering on a hand-painted cast-iron sign that read: ‘Thrawl St.’ but what creeped me out was almost running into a tall guy who stood in an alleyway laughing, “La naiba, Cyrus… this is what you get for helping those Order of Lilith witches.”

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