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:

HOLD

The tall, thin man surveyed the Café; for a Wednesday afternoon in October, it was on the busy side: a cadre of university students staking out three tables slightly to the left of the jukebox, a real estate agent entertaining clients and several couples at tables sufficiently apart for the mood as they sought to maintain their hold on the timeless vibe of a classic Lou Reed song.

Seeing the automaton pause on its way to the kitchen with a tray of empty pilsner glasses, the manager called out, “I see you’ve succeeded in finding yourself a place here, socioeconomically-speaking; take a load off your feet or servos and come sit with me for a minute, I’m buying, how about a 10W 30 cocktail?”

{I’M AN AUTOMATON, A MANUFACTURED MAN… WHAT WOULD LEAD YOU TO BELIEVE WHIMSY IS A MAJOR FACTOR IN MY OS?}

The Proprietor chuckled,  “You know, I was thinking about one of our first ‘conversations’ and I can’t help wondering about how upset you appeared to be when recounting your days in Victorian London… I mean, how does a ‘person’ of your….nature get the raw material to simulate the emotions?”

{ARE YOU SERIOUSLY GOING TO DRAG OUT THAT DEAD-HORSE TROPE: CAN A MACHINE KNOW HOW A HUMAN FEELS?}

“Well, not to be insensitive…”

{YEAH, RIGHT…}

The Manager took a phone from the left breast pocket of his suit coat,  held up his right hand in the classic ‘let me take this call’ gesture and stepped towards the bar humming a vaguely familiar tune (When a man’s an empty kettle…”

*

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.

Given how recent developments in our Serial Time Adventurers story are making certain characters hard to ignore, here is a little backstory(ette) on Cyrus St. Loreto and his relationship with the Order of Lilith. The second half, the flashback scene condensed from an old Order of Lilith Six.

Prompt word:

CURSE

Cyrus St. Loreto has been described differently by: reporters, would-be-fiction-writers, religious zealots and those in search of a metaphor to solve the meaning of life and their place in it; it is safe to say the least frequently employed characterization is he is given to idle thoughts and nostalgic recollection.

The owner of the Bernebau Company sat at the head of a conference table, his back to the section of glass wall looking down Brickell Ave (and out over the Atlantic) that would receive the maximum sun at this late morning hour; due to the magic of technology, he was bathed in shadow, even as his guest, the Archbishop of Miami, was making an impassioned plea for more investment in the community, all while squinting against the glare of the morning sun.

The curse of needing to maintain the image of a businessman devoted to the well-being of his community sometimes demanded a tithe on his attention, and, as a result, he drifted off into a considerable trove of memory.

“I trust you’ve brought what I’ve asked of you,” the softness in Sr. Schader’s voice was a mother’s smiling correction to a high-spirited, mischievous child: a personal indulgence available to the Reverend Mother of the Bavarian chapter of the Order of Lilith, despite, or perhaps because of, the softness of her voice this 3:00 am in the shadow of Brașov’s famous, Biserica Neagră and acquiesced,

“I have found what you …requested of me. surely I’ve earned the right to know what causes this, brass-and-ivory clockwork, to be so dear,” glancing down at the burlap bag with red-streaked cord binding, he smiled, “While 1885 is limited in it’s appreciation of technology, may I be of further service to the daughters of Lilith?”

“Were our respective progenitors not so very …intimately acquainted”, while the Mother Superior’s smile provided the italics, her eyes served notice that she remained the dominant half of the transaction, “But, alas, while gods might deign to live as humans, some of us divine from that choice, an insight into the limitations of immortality”.

*

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.”

*

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:

SNAP

For the boys, (and a little less so for the girls, as the lines of effective communication between the two universal armies was still decades away), the first day of school for the fourth grade at St Dominique’s was every bit the WWII prisoner-of-war movie, right down to harshly confining uniforms and unpalatable food.

By no means a surprise, rule-by-adult nevertheless came as a shock; to the more imaginative among the prisoners, horribly unjust. Despite, (or, perhaps, because of), having been through this indoctrination only three times before, (novelty being the default reaction of the very young), it all felt both new and inevitable.

Order was imposed on the body compelled to wear uncomfortable clothing, the presence of authority undeniable with seats assigned, (as if the ordered rows of desks bolted to the floor weren’t enough), and the penultimate lesson: beyond the windows serving as one whole wall of the classroom, the sun shone with insolent warmth, out of reach for the term of their incarceration.

Standing at the front of the room, Sister Mary Cletus, with the serene patience of the experienced jailor, awaited her charges; the blackboard behind her playing tricks on the eye with the contrast of a black habit and stiff white wimple; her eyes, visor’d by a pair of steel-wired rim glasses were a depthless blue, her face surprisingly soft; a relief map of a long and not always easy journey.

Without a word, the nun, (a member of the unironically named Order of the Sisters of Mercy), turned to face the black board and, with a one-handed snap of a piece of chalk, wrote:

‘Time and Man’

*

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.

*