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.

Prompt word:

STOP

“Wait, stop!”

The (much) younger of the two men turned with a practiced calmness that spoke not only of having heard this request before, but served as an umlaut on his non-verbal voice and a smile devoid of condescension, pity, strained patience or any of the myriad other ways society teaches it’s members to defend against unsolicited need.

“Don’t get me wrong, I believe what I believe, including such things as angels and other supernatural agencies…but one minute ago my life was a minor symphony arranged for bedside monitors in the key of ECG and EEG now, I’m here,” the older man smoothed out the folds of his sports coat with hands mottled with iv ports and injection bruises.

Smiling with a mix of intensity and whimsy, the man said, “You are here per your most recent wish which, I remind you, was ‘To understand how Time changes as we grow old.”

With a nod towards a stream running through a dense forest, it’s rough gravel shore protecting the exposed roots shading clean water, agitated into rounded wavelets that stumbled over the rocky bottom which, in turn, pushed back against the flow.

The older man realized he was barefoot, tailored trousers rolled up to the knee and hearing the bubbling water, began to wade into the flow; sharply edged smaller rocks triggered nerve trills up over his ankles, the brisk cold of water mixed with the blood-warmed soles of his feet and he laughed as his time-clogged senses were washed down the river and seeing he was now alone, crossed to the other shore.

*

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:

STOP

“Forgive me, despite ‘dealing with a sentient non-human beings’ being conspicuously absent in the job description for Café Manager, I am trying not to be caught up in the all-too-human conceit that machine-based life is…well, alien.”

{I’M SURE YOU’RE DOING YOUR BEST TO NOT BE AS RACIST AS YOUR CHAUVINISTIC CONCEIT COMES ACROSS…}

“It’s just that with such a chasm of time between today and 1885, my concern is what your original design parameters were and how they may have been altered or degraded,” the tall, thin man stepped back a step, held the interior glass-and-stainless-steel door open and with the slightest of bows, indicated a table where man and machine might sit and continue their conversation.

The Automaton, for it’s part, walked through the open door but abruptly stopped, turned to face the Manager and, in a demonstration of remarkable, albeit, hundred plus year old engineering, leaned backwards sufficiently to establish direct eye contact with the man…

{SO ARE YOU STILL THE SAME LIFEFORM YOU WERE WHEN YOU WERE A CHILD?}

Laughing, the Proprietor said, “Touché and please forgive my clumsy attempt to put you at ease, the desire to accommodate others is one of the weaknesses of the flesh to which I most desire to put to a stop.”

The tall, thin man, standing to the side of the small, round table as the Automaton approached, looked around the SSC&B with a cautiously hopeful expectation of seeing any of the other Proprietors or Frank, but failing to do so, he continued, “Speaking of mechanical life, I cannot help but wonder how your life is sustained; for we humans the answer is both brief yet grandly poetic, if not quite scientific: red blood coursing through our veins and arteries sustain our life and provide a stable context for the spirit to thrive.”

{AS YOUR THOUGHTS ARE EMBRACED BY A FLOWING, CARNELIAN STREAM, MY SOUL FLOATS IN AN OCEAN OF TIME, THE MOMENT I BECAME AWARE IS AS REAL AND IMMEDIATE AS RIGHT NOW)

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:

NOD

“Who the fuck do you think you are, telling us all to quiet down?”

I knew Rosetta wasn’t addressing her concerns to Anya Clarieaux by the simple fact that she was still breathing and therefore able to voice her feelings about my effort to get the group organized.

“OK, maybe, ‘Everyone try to get a grip and speak in order‘ could’ve been better phrased, but come on, we’re all big kids here and we need to make the most of the moment…

“Or what, your girlfriend, Miz Blondie McPsycho bitch’ll cut you off?”

I looked across the room at Anya, fighting a ‘why me’ look only to see her nod and raise an eyebrow. I secretly hoped she was considering making our Miz Storme the new leader but instead, with a quiet smile, said,

“This man you’re talking trash to is the only person in this room with a history of surviving a conflict with me,” at this, the leader of the Hostage Rescue Team looked suddenly uncomfortable until Anya laughed, “Not you…pussy. ”

As Anya continued her scary-tinged laugh, the Sophomore nodded towards her but spoke to me, “What do we need to remember and does it help that while everyone was in ‘less-fun bondage’, I somehow spent a week in some wacko inventor’s workshop in Victorian London?”

*

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… and (courtsey of Frank) between then and now…

Prompt word:

NOD

“So, would you care to tell me how you ended up in a secret workshop in Room 215 here in the Six Sentence Café & Bistro…”

{HEY, CAN’T YOU SEE I’M WORKING HERE?}

The tall, thin man laughed, walked past the automaton, (that was, at the moment, wearing a turban), in the vestibule of the SSC&B, took the sign propped up on the top of the cigarette machine and, with a black magic marker wrote, in large block letters: CLOSED FOR INTERROGATION; appropriating a display stand of color glossy real estate booklets, he then placed his hand-made sign in the wire rack, stepped back a pace, (‘Pardon me’), looked at his work and smiled.

{YOU CAN’T DO THAT, I PROMISED FRANK I WOULD STAY UNTIL MIMI RETURNED…}

“I need to know you…or, failing that, your backstory, given how you’ve become something of a regular here. And before you write on your little silent movie cards: “What’s to know, I’m a four foot automaton capable of independent action, endearing myself to a group of exceptional people with vast resources“… I need to know what happened back in Victorian London and, here’s a shocker, what became of your creator.”

{NOTHING HAPPENED… IT WAS AN ACCIDENT… I TRIED TO REPAIR… AWW JEEZ I DIDN’T MEAN IT}

The Proprietor stared at the automaton, his expression of a managerial interest being replaced in his eyes by a dark sun rising as the implications of the intertitle card took root and grew; sympathy, the red-headed stepchild of charity held reign, even as he became aware of a sub-sonic keening.

{MY SENTENCE IS TO LIVE ON, AN OUTCAST IN A 21ST CENTURY LAND OF NOD; WITH A SAVOY LANE-TAILORED YAHWEH}

*

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:

FOIL

                                                         “motherfucker!”
“Go bhfaighir bás gan an sagart” *
                         “whoa that was truly some bad shit…”
“if there is a god, she had better have a good reason  oww“

The multilingual cacophony filling the room sent me back to my first arena concert. Released from my restraints, though still in the formal living room of a vacant house, I recalled, with fondness, the hour or so of Marshall amplifier-induced deafness that followed me home that night.

I smiled at the sight of Anya Clarieaux giving orders to the Hostage Rescue Team in her preferred language: ‘Do what I say-ese’. She caught me watching, of course, but I still savored the brief reminder that, despite having foiled an attempt to kidnap us, she wasn’t superhuman.

Waving the man away, Anya threw me a ‘what else would you expect‘ shrug, followed by five seconds of direct eye contact; almost immediately, with a mere finger-circling motion towards my shouting companions, she made me responsible for them.

*  “I hope you die without a priest”.