the Wakefield Doctrine

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…

Prompt word:

FLY

“What?”

“If you even think about making a joke or otherwise laughing this off, I’ll say, in the spirit of your putative ability to time travel, “to the moon, Ethan…to the moon.”

The Sophomore held both hand, fingers upwards, one palm facing his companion, the other back to himself; it was a gesture neither one of supplication nor surrender; rather one of acceptance, “But before you reach for your Glock, I rarely remember my dreams, even nightmares and I’m really sorry if you were disturbed by it.”

“Disturbed?!”

“So how bad was I, during the nightmare, Rose?”

“You were talking out loud, turning your head to the side every few seconds so it was clear you were driving in a car in your dream; fuckin Marcel Marciano’s got nothing on you when it comes to nonverbal communication; until, that is, you started screaming about a girl thrown from the car as it rolled over, watching her fly through the dark night.”

*

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…

Prompt word:

SIGN

“Don’t fuckin do that!”

Rosetta Storme sat cross-legged on the king-sized Ritz Carlton bed surrounded by a tangle of sateen sheets, Frette cashmere blankets, pillows and a Doppio Ajour Duvet. At first glance she appeared fortified against an attacker, on closer examination, the configuration of bedding took on the appearance of a pier reaching out from shore towards a castaway.

Lying on the naked side of the bed, the Sophomore stared back at Rosetta, “Don’t do what?”

Reaching for her cigarettes and lighter on the nightstand, Rosetta did a very respectable imitation of an intoxicated smoker, right down to the always iffy strategy of moving her head in pursuit of the flame rather than steady her hand. Ethan both held her hand and lit her cigarette, and in the process showed no signs of impairment despite the early morning hours he spent sleep-screaming, “No, not again, this can’t be happening.”

*

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…

Prompt word:

SIGN

Deciding the use of her credit card to purchase clothing from any non-Order of Lilith fashion collection would be underestimating both Brother Lymphocytus and the Mother Superior, Sister Aclima put her faith in the people of Manhatten.

“Yes, Sister?”

Standing in the middle of a busy sidewalk in Hell’s Kitchen could be likened to body surfing at Inkwell Beach, now but a distant memory of one magical summer on the Vinyard for the former Kayla Sheperd;

“Could you please tell me how to get to the Salvation Army Thrift Store?”

As soon as the woman completed her directions, Sister Aclima deliberately stepped-left as her benefactor stepped-right, with the anticipated collision being the result. Confirming her initial impression that the young nun was from out-of-town and therefore lacked the navigation skills of those native to the city, the helpful woman woman laughed and continued on her way, minus her wallet;

“Like riding a bike, eh Sister?”

Equipped with credit cards, (for immediate use), a bit of cash for a rainy day and renewed self-confidence, courtesy of the sign from the Creatrix that she was on the right path, Sister Aclima, her younger self dancing incorporeally to her side, went shopping for disguises

*

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…

Prompt word:

SIGN

After seating his visitor at a private table set in one the of alcoves formed by a row of granite columns that ran down the street-side wall of the Six Sentence Café & Bistro, the Proprietor walked back to the bar and returned, almost immediately, behind a serving cart laden with a steaming carafe of coffee, service for two and sundry accessories.

“How may I be of service… other than how you like your coffee, of course,” the tall, thin man, an immaculate white bar rag draped over his left forearm waited for her response, continued, “If the truth be told, after my years at Oxford I toyed with the notion of becoming a butler, for one of the semi-royal families,” as he spoke he leaned in towards his guest, looking her in the eyes as he filled her cup.

Hazel Grover watched the man in the Savoy Row suit as he demonstrated his skill at table service and after a moment burst into a smile, “Well, look at you!”

If the smile happens to form a connection, the eyes convey the message, which at the moment sitting in the afternoon in an empty Café, Hazel’s tone of voice was every mother’s joy when congratulating a child doing something that she knew they were capable of but was willing to wait for it to happen on the child’s time.

The tall, thin man laughed, maintained his eye contact, which for those who knew him was a rare sign of personal interest and after a moment, sat and listened intently as she spoke.

“My interest in coming here is this: Ian Devereaux is my employer and friend, I know about the meeting you hosted for Ian, Lou and the others; start at the beginning and don’t leave anything out.”

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…

Prompt word:

GROUND

The rolling hills surrounding Eibigen Abbey fled down towards the Rhine River as if to escape the scrutiny of the Mother Superior who stood, tethered to her office by the old-fashioned telephone receiver at her ear. An expanse of glass afforded her the freedom to marvel at the wonders of Nature, from the expression on her face she was in no mood to appreciate the Creator’s handiwork.

“By all the Saints above, I’m telling you Sister Edeline, she simply disappeared…”

“You don’t know where she is Mister Lymphocytus?”

“As God is my witness, it wasn’t my fault, the lass is all heart and no head, she…

“Did I ask your opinion of Sister Aclima?”

“No, but…”

“Your speciality and purported expertise is guiding those emissaries we send on missions in lands unfamiliar to them; you are being paid a king’s ransom to provide that guidance, not make excuses.”

“She’s gone to ground is all I’m saying; if you want, I’ll return your fee, minus my expenses…

“You would be well-advised to read your contract with the Order, particularly that section describing the penalties for failure and not waste my time because a young woman, one-tenth of your age and from Indiana, is too much for you to manage.”