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.

upstairs …

Prompt word:

FOIL

{SHE SAID THAT?}

The tall, thin man lit his cigarette and looked about for an ashtray; the room was done in authentic, if not somewhat harsh, Victorian decor meant for homes with high ceilings, elaborate moulding, wainscoting and a marble fireplace; one could easily imagine a rental agent hired to offset the plummeting local textile industry, showing the suite of rooms on the second floor to an odd gentleman with a cockney accent.

{…ABOUT ME?}

“Yes, yes she did,” finding an amber glass pedestal ashtray next to a brown leather wingback chair, the Proprietor sat and regarded the four-foot tall automaton; since appearing from a secret door in one wall of the living room of Room 215, the man-shaped machine seemed to have a limitless supply of 12×15 cardstock, the type used for intertitle cards employed in the early 20th century’s silent movies.

“I hazard to say that I, for one, cannot imagine what job you would be suited to in the Café…”

{I’LL DO ANYTHING}

“…although, seeing how due to the antiquated plumbing in the building, the garbage disposal in the kitchen is still on the fritz and from the looks of your design schematics in that workshop, your inventor included a sub-assembly that maybe we can transfer…

{WAIT …WHAT?}

The tall, thin man, opening a fresh pack of Benson & Hedges, pulled the smooth foil wrapper that covered the filter ends and laughed, “Small dude, I’m joking, Mimi will take care of you, not to worry, though… given your height and features… perhaps we could put you in the foyer, “Doctor Zolton Mystic and Seer Your Fortune for 25 cents…”

(Ha Ha… FUCK YOU!)

*

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.

upstairs from…

Prompt word:

RUSH

If you were to venture up the stairs to the second, (or, god-forbid, third), floor of the former mill building housing the Six Sentence Café & Bistro, the silence makes the most forceful impression; the wooden-match-strike sound of shoes on steel-edged concrete steps providing aural punctuation to your upward progress, but it dies as quickly as it flared into life, not reassuring.

The lighting on these floors is sufficient, yet there persists an unreliable quality to the illumination, if were you to notice something of interest along the corridor, it would fade into the asbestos tile and painted walls even as you draw near.

To make matters worse, or to borrow from a vocabulary since deceased, there is an uncanny sense of a rushing sound tied to the lighting, as if the darkness moved independently along the corridor, the feeling worsens on the second floor by a fluttery sound of paper and metal, an intermittent waterfall of reams of stiff paper sliding to the floor.

Stepping through the door of the room marked 215, the sound increases, enhanced by the sight of a figure standing in the center of the room; like a World War I signalman semaphoring the other ships in the task force, except the sailor is four feet tall, made of metal and his flags are titlecards held and discarded in a rhythm not particularly accessible.

{Someone Please Do Something}

{Do You Not Realize That for Beings Like Me Time is a Prison}

{My Creator May Have Been a Genius But Like Many, He Was a Heartless God}

{Put Me Back into Sleep Mode or Free Me From This Standby State}

{You Heartless Bastards Can You Even Imagine Being Alive Without Purpose}

(Goddamn You Set Me Free}

{Please!}

You decide exploring the second floor, (or, god forbid, the third) is way, way above your pay grade, (karmic or otherwise), close your eyes, step into the corridor and, feeling your way along the wall, seek the stairwell and it’s decent into the rational world.

*

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:

RUSH

“Do what I say and you will get out of this alive and …sane.”

Hate to admit it, but hearing Anya Clarieaux taking charge of the current situation inspired a brief rush of hope that I’d make it out of wherever the hell this was.

Anya possessed that quality found in great leaders, religious zealots and successful conmen, a palpable sense of conviction in their ability to deal with the world; though I gotta say, that her final coordinating conjunction linking ‘alive’ to ‘sane’ raised more than a few hairs on the back of my neck.

“Starting with Rosetta I want everyone to describe what you remember and what seems to be wrong with you right at this moment, go:”

Rosetta laughed an obscenity and said, “Nothing but managing somehow staying awake during your endless speech in the restaurant, that and I’m fuckin’ tied to this chair;

the Sophomore nodded, “You said something about regretting something and…” he paused and looked sidelong at his girlfriend, “there was a flash of light and then here, as to what’s wrong with me now… I’m thinking Rosetta is killin’ it with the bondage so I guess nothing’s wrong;”

Sister Aclima stared defiantly at Anya with her lips pressed into a keloid scar across her face… her eyes, were anything but passive:

Brother Lymphocytus, “Fock you, if you’d a let us go about our business we wouldn’t be tied up here and such, as for what’s wrong, the first thing I do when this is over is report you to the Guide Union… saints be praised;”

“Don’t ask me, I was doom-scrolling on my phone and next thing I know, I’m here in what appears to be the formal living room of an early 20th Century colonial house sitting with my arms secured and my ego anything but; that said, I have full confidence in you and the Omni Corp and don’t hardly suspect the scary hand of a certain businessman headquartered in Miami,” I looked around at the others, “ok a hint: his name rhymes with ‘St Loreto’.”

Anya bestowed her best ‘Don’t worry smile’ and continued, “Excellent, now everyone close your eyes… sorry, but seeing how you’re tied up, there’s nothing you can do about the sonic shock of the incoming stun grenades, but Omni Corporation’s Hostage Recovery Team assumes the worst.”

*

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:

FIRE

“la Raconteuse.”

The tall, thin man approached the red-headed writer; his manner formal bordering on deferential, his smile, however, was that of a friend who had been there for the highs and the lows endemic to life.

Remaining seated, Chris returned the smile.

“We will keep the light on and the hearth-fire in my Office burning, against your return,” the Proprietor added the slightest of bows.

Rising she embraced the Manager, libretto to her heart-felt gesture, “Formality is a style you wear well, mine is more…this!”

From the bar area, Mimi and Denise and the Gatekeeper added their approval in shared laughter.