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.
Prompt word:
LACE
The sun was slow to rise in Whitechapel; night’s damp fog convincing the universal symbol of renewal and hope there was no rush and, even if god had a plan, it did not include the people drawn to the Order of Lilith’s soup kitchen, currently located on Thrawl Street three doors in from Commercial Street.
Our newest acolytes, as acolytes do, milled about the interior of the former dry storage facility, some looking sincere, others certain of their value to the Order and a handful trying to avoid scrutiny; I smiled in identification with that last group and waited for Brother Abbott to arrive and provide a sense of meaningful purpose.
The Reverend Mother had been as direct as I would expect, “Brother Abbott has returned from abroad and will resume his duties as Headmaster,” I was expecting this and showed no reaction, “Do not celebrate the rearrangement of duties too quickly, Brother Anselm, the Order has need of your skills in other areas of our Mission;” her smile was a cypher but I knew better than to speak.
Now, standing at the far end of the long, high-ceiling room that combined a kitchen with donated tables and chairs to create a refuge for as many of the poor of East London as were able to stand in line for what might be their only hot meal of the day, I heard an approaching rumble of laughter, orders and advice.
Brother Abbott directed the acolytes in their duties, a maestro calling out instructions to those assigned the preparation of the main fare, soup and bread,
“John: 1-12 People! Jesus had to change water into a grape and alcohol beverage…. all I ask, while you stir your boiling cauldrons, is to whisper a prayer, ‘hearty beef’, the better for our guests that they may find sustenance… surely you can imitate our Savior.”
The line in from Thrawl Street moved with the determined forward shuffle of the starving, heads still bowed from a night in a two penny hangover; many showing a necklace of bruised blood vessels on their throats, the result of slipping from a protective arm while in the sleep of the exhausted.