the Wakefield Doctrine

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

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

Hosted by Denise, subject to the Rule of Six.

Prompt Word:

WIND

…”I’d be twisting the ends of a comically-long mustache and saying, “Or else.”

Closing my eyes, the other senses claimed dominion over my surroundings: first a zephyr of ‘sweet’ (the-way-candy-should-be-but-invariably-disappoints), scent of maple syrup sublimating against the griddle-hot surface of a stack of pancakes; then, a treble-splash of metal utensils against china plates and cups, the subtle assertion of a symphony orchestra tuning up, kitchen-shouted orders and family conversations, all in the key of Eat; finally, from what is surely the most under-rated sense, taste, in the harmonious cacophony of chemosensory exclamations to the brain, at first oleaginous ambrosia of perfectly cooked bacon.

As I’d hoped, this stepping out of my real-time interaction cued up a memory of a now-deceased zen master who, seeing me wind myself up in noetic bindings, would smile and say, “What it is, is all that it is”.

“Listen up, Mr. Peabody,” resisting the impulse to laugh at my erstwhile captor-slash-time-traveler guy’s confusion, I pointed the outside-arc of my coffee mug, first at his face and then, in an enthusiastic pan around the room; bonus from my Achilles’ waving his shield on the plains of Troy.

“The illusion was well done, so well done that the average person would have bought into the whole, ‘We’ve taken you back in time, how scary are we?”

My time traveling captor actually started to fidget and while I was beginning to enjoy his discomfit, I was also starting to get not just a few nostalgia-flashbacks and, in a very real ‘Speak the Truth and Shame the Devil sense, I was getting uncomfortable with long buried memories;

“So, here’s a tip that your script-writers didn’t read their Heinlein:

“Even if possible and time travel were real, you’d of tried this, heard me tell you to go fuck yourself, knew that I meant it and then would’ve decided not to bother at all.”

*

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

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

Hosted by Denise, subject to the Rule of Six. hubba hubba

Previously in our Six Sentence Café & Bistro serial story…

Prompt Word:

TIP

Lou Caesare sat opposite the tall, thin man,

“Not planning on staying, loved the act, just wanted to see, first hand, the kind of operation you ran, you know, make sure it wasn’t just book-signings, poetry jams and Sunday Brunch for the Uber-on-the-Mild Side crowd…. that and to say thanks for giving Rosetta a job.”

Like all the tables in the Bistro, theirs was round, lacquered wood, intended to resist stains from all classes of liquid including but not limited to alcohol, drink condensation, tears (both joy and sadness) and, of course the inevitable tubular burn of unattended cigarettes; his face effectively obscured by the stage lights to his back, the Proprietor tipped his glass and lit his cigarette,

“Hey, mi casa…

I hear you, but it’s always about the man… or woman; I didn’t get where I am without developing a nose for character in those I have business with, you know what I’m saying?”

“I do indeed,” on the fringe of audibility came a whooshing sound from the street end of the bar and a brief eclipse of a street light as someone stepped from the vestibule into the Café proper.

“And, not for nothin’ I got a guy, a PI by the name of Ian Devereaux, don’t know if you know him,” Lou’s eyes lost their distant focus and came to rest on the Proprietor opposite him, every jungle predator approaching a watering hole,

“Nope, can’t I say I do, mind my asking why you’re concerned…

Well, he was doing some surveillance work for me and now I can’t seem to get in touch with him…

Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?”

“Yeah, somethin’ like that, mainly I wanted you to know I’m in your debt…”

The tall, thin man stood, smiling, “And you can’t remember the last time that I invited you to my home for a cup of coffee?”

Lou’s unrestrained guffaws broke the tension even as the tall, thin man’s careful but equally unrestrained laughter joined in creating a contrapuntal storm of merriment that rolled over the empty tables, breaking against the feet of the shadowed figure moving along the bar.

*

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 and defined by a single number: 6 (the exact number of sentences in qualified stories)

Previously on ‘an Ian Devereaux Six‘

Prompt Word:

RANK

‘Think, Devereaux’, my habitual self-admonition ranked right up there with, “Of course, just being friends would be great” in the category, ‘Change one thing about myself?’

“Alright, one hint and we move on,” the guy who’d started out pretty impressive, not gonna use the ‘intimidating’ word, but given my present circumstance, was looking like someone I’d better pay attention to, leaned over his maple syrup-drenched Cinn-A-Stack, “This is not a poorly-written sci-fi novel info dump where you retell the whole story because the Reader can’t remember that far back in the plot.”

His lip betrayed the friendly tone; the hint of a curl, of the low-life wife beater, proclaiming justification for his growing anger, “But, now that I think of tropes from this era,” he turned enough to linger on our waitress returning to the kitchen, “I could arrange for the wavy-wavy line transition, but given the risk of permanent brain damage, you might want to accept a simple, “Shut the hell up and I’ll tell you, ‘what the fuck is going on’.”

“I am part of an ancient organization charged with keeping mankind from destroying itself and rendering the world uninhabitable. You’ve come into contact with us before, when you helped your friend Dr. Leanne Thunberg search Europe for the cause of her husband’s death; your present client, a Mr. Lou Caesare, has you maintaining surveillance on a young woman by the name of Rosetta Storme, we need to know everything you know.”

Smiling with obvious enjoyment at the pile of pancakes and too-well-done bacon on his plate, he looked me in the eye, “If this was one of your culture’s even older memes, I’d be twisting the ends of a comically-long mustache and saying, “Or else.”

*