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:

STEAM

I felt the vibration of my cell phone interrupting something all too rare in my life since I gave up drugs and celibacy: a full-on lucid dream.

I was being chased down Thrawl St in Victorian London by two men dressed in light-brown cassocks and, (in the way of dreams, lucid and otherwise) cut through an alley adjacent to the Black Church in Brașov, Romania. The bells were tolling midnight as, from the shadows, I watched a woman in a plus-sized habit of the Order of Lilith bracing a tall man dressed entirely in black; he exuded menace and she clearly had the upper hand as he handed over a small, brass and gold clockwork object.

Taking my phone from the inner breast pocket of my suit coat, I read the text: ‘Answer your phone…’

“Listen to me closely, Ian, that steampunk sonovabitch Egmont is somehow using his Time Mechanism to send the Goddaughter and Sister Mary Manic into the past; they’re back, but you’re surely next.”

I must have sounded shocked or touched or something, “Anya, you called to warn me, I don’t know what to say.”

“Easy there gumshoe, this is me doing triagé; the truth of the matter is your fellow adventurers Rosetta and Aclima are in their twenties, they’ll bounce back from any psychic bruising in less than a week, you, on the other hand, are not; so pay attention and with any luck when you land at O’Hare in an hour, they won’t have to William Shatner you off the plane”

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 out current tale...

Prompt word:

PUZZLE

The tall, thin man sat alone in the Manager’s office. The sound of footfalls in the hallway caused him to sit more upright, which, in turn, had the effect of elevating his field of vision out of the pool of yellow light bathing his book-covered desk. His eyes adjusted quickly enough to make out the silhouette of la Raconteuse filling the rectangle of the open door ever so briefly, like a crossword puzzle clue, ‘where is she going‘? On the basis of her direction of travel, (from right to left, forcing the previous analogy to presume an Arabic newspaper), she seemed intent on going up to the roof, the stairwell to which was just beyond his office door, but safely short of where the hallway became completely dark and totally dangerous.

A slightly despondent, ‘Hi’ poised to leap from his mouth, (well, technically, it stood on the tip of his tongue like an under-motivated suicide); but hesitation, far too often a quality of the man’s spontaneous social interactions, produced an outcome be more like falling two stories and hitting a balcony for minor but embarrassing injuries rather than the more spectacular dropping 100 floors like a malicious child’s copper penny.

Leaving his well-thumbed copies of Malleus Maleficarum, Testament of Solomon and Good News for Modern Man, the tall, thin man ran, (well, moved with alacrity, this is, after all the Proprietor voted ‘Most Likely to Accede’), calling out, “Hey wait for me;” unfortunately, at that moment, all corridor light bulbs chose to go dark.

*

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:

PUZZLE

“You know I’m your friend, don’t you Kayla? Really when you think about it, we share a special bond that most adults don’t understand, not like us.”

Kayla Shepherd felt a flush of pride that Mr. Mortelle, (“Steve, it’s Steve when we’re out on an adventure just the two of us, otherwise I’m your old neighbor Mister M”), thought of her as a grown-up; “Now clean yourself up, get in the car and I’ll take you home.”

Sister Aclima, walking along a Hell’s Kitchen sidewalk momentarily devoid of pedestrians stumbled, but caught herself with practiced skill, avoiding a nasty (and public) fall.

“At least you’ve always had impressive survival skills,” the other half of the internal dialogue that played in the mind of the former Kayla Shepherd since childhood was always quick to remind her(self) that attitude was everything, this sudden, full-sensory flashback to the days leading up to her seventh birthday, however was impossible to ignore; it was far more a reliving than a remembering.

~~~~~

One Hundred and Forty-one years prior to our Sister Aclima stumbling on a New York City sidewalk, the once-esteemed Dr. Egmont, ever the dedicated academician, noted in his journal following his second remote-temporal manipulation, “I must be mindful of my subject’s well-being, they are of no use to my studies if they are emotionally incapacitated by psychic trauma, that said, all advancement in the sciences does requires sacrifice.

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 out current tale…

Prompt word:

SIGNAL

“Gotta say, there’s something not right…”

Lou Caesare was not a man given to public displays of emotion, however, in his professional life there were exceptions; for example: after concluding a traditional Ben Franklin Close following a formal presentation to a recalcitrant competitor, nearby tables would be at risk of inversion, chairs and other random furniture might be employed to increase the airflow of the room.

“My great-aunt Rosa, may she rest in peace, a devout Catholic all her life, could lay a novena on ya like breakin’ sticks. Not that there weren’t stories about her knowing things that hadn’t, technically, occurred yet, but not for nothin’, it was from her and not the nuns or even the pastor doin’ their best to show me the path that I got most of my business… acumen,” Lou smiled around the word.

On the stool to Lou’s right, Hazel Grover, in a stunning example of ‘signal-over-message’, smiled at the tall, thin man who was standing next to a woman seated at the waitress station end of the bar; just past them was an opening with an arrow to the left labeled Men/Women/Human, to the right a sign saying ‘This Way to the Manager’s office’, unfortunately the lighting seemed consciously unreliable, enough illumination to allow the door to be seen, but not enough to guarantee safe passage.

The tall, thin man had, upon entering the Café, removed a dark blue watch cap and was now handing it to the woman; this gesture possessed a degree of formality the hat’s casual style served to accentuate; for her part, the woman, wearing a pair of Balenciaga sneakers and a Mikimoto matinee necklace, turned and nodded to Lou.

“…back ‘atcha, ma traiteuse,” smiling his acknowledgment, the owner of the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge stood and walked to the exit, his resolve renewed.

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:

SIGNAL

“What the… ”

If, as the popular metaphor maintains, Time is a river, then no one, having stepped into one, will insist the section of flowing water leading to their position is separate and distinct and that the downstream body of water isn’t still the same river; unfortunately for our adventurers on their way to Chicago, a certain Dr. Egmont not only appreciated this all-is-of-one view but capitalized on it when he built his Time Mechanism, designing into it the capability to focus on an individual with the effect of moving them through their personal history.

Rosetta Storme felt her breath hitch as the burn of tears transformed the view through the car’s windshield into a sad and blurry kaleidoscope, a blackhole pulled her down and back in time; asphalt and white lines were replaced with autumn grass and rows of headstones. The hands that gripped the car’s steering wheel became younger, nails without color or polish, a coat of lighter construction than the blue-grey clouds might call for and before her un-mascara’d eyes, a sea of black-on-black-on-sadness showed through on all but the oldest of faces.

As real as the cold November wind ruffling their shrouds, two coffins stood at momentary rest next to a pair of open graves; as the priest droned on in a dead language about senseless killings and the promise of heaven for the benefit of the living gathered in the cemetery, a man in a dark suit stood next to the formally-carefree girl; Rosetta felt her uncle’s presence and dark strength, no words needed other than his turning his left palm forward until Rosetta, taking his hand, signaled she was ready to continue her journey.

“…fuck!?!?!”

Rosetta Storme felt the car drift towards the breakdown lane, successfully regaining control even as the tactile feedback from her hands to her brain changed from the rough skin texture of a hand accustomed to exerting force to one of a leather-wrapped steering wheel in a German luxury sedan.

*