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. in our current tale…

Prompt word:

DUST

The susurrus of air conditioning ducting common to renovated mill buildings, factories and condemned schools, along with the damp-whoosh of distant plumbing, provided a slightly cyber-punk vibe to the room. The two verifiably-human people in Room 215 paused to assess their feelings towards the occupant of a hidden closet only just revealed. When reasonably mature, if not rather sophisticated, people discover a four-foot bellhop in a hundred-years-abandoned room, they can be forgiven for feeling nonplussed. That this being’s sole manner of communication consists of holding up what appear to be silent movie inter-title cards, well it’s kind of a lot to process.

The tall, thin man smiled a knife-edged smile as the seconds threatened to metastasize into an awkward, if not, threatening stillness;  la Raconteuse was, quite characteristically, already in motion.

There was a knock at the door; a decisive rapping, in no way like softly-seductive sounds of the darkness that roamed the dusty and half-dark hall outside the room, this, in its tone and tenor, was decidedly more…urgent.

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:

DUST

“Ian, is it asking too much that you help around the house; little things like empty the dishwasher, maybe dust the furniture every once in a while,” that I was hearing Haley’s voice I had little doubt, right down to her congenital weakness for italics, the domestic jujitsu favored by middle and upper middle class women of the time.

Trouble is, there’s something wrong that I can’t put my finger on… wait, there it is, Haley was my former wife, the woman who kept half my life when we divorced at least seven years ago.

“Ian dear, will you be joining us for dinner?”

Anya Clarieaux’s voice was as real, present, and irrefutable as throwing a drowning man a medium-sized shark; the rationale being: the fish, with it’s natural buoyancy, could serve as a makeshift life-preserver; not as good as a standard life-vest but he is, after all, drowning.

The lights of Chicago, a field of miniature stars both blinking and stable, extended from the perimeter of the large table where I sat brought me back to the here and now; the ‘here’ being The Signature Room at the 95th Restaurant atop the John Hancock Center and the ‘now’ among two couples and Anya Clarieaux.

The view was 270 degrees which served to ensnare me back from wherever I had been and the voice of Anya made certain I remained here safe…for the moment.

*

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 current tale…

Prompt word:

OPTION

“I have read… perhaps I dreamt it… who’s to say… that this room once served as office/workshop of an inventor who exhausted his funds in order to have it built-out and furnished as an exact replica of the space used by his idol… a misguided and ultimately tragic genius from Victorian London.”

The tall, thin man moved along the perimeter of the room, looking at everything, touching nothing.

“I believe this Room 215,” at this the Proprietor raised the horizon of his inspection to somewhere between chair-rail and crown moulding, “was last occupied in 1911 or so, just before the Bread and Roses Strike at another mill in this region, a most auspicious time for this country’s Worker’s Rights Movement.”

Manicured fingers traced a vertical moulding in a corner of the room, slowed then pressed, causing a section of the dusty casing to retract, taking along with it a rectangular section of the wall.

Holding his left hand up briefly towards where la Raconteuse sat and, without averting his eyes, the Proprietor whispered, “Please, Chris, stay where you are…just for an moment…”

Even as he spoke, from the ebony rectangle of the exposed secret room, a figure stepped out; that of a very short man, four feet tall at best, dressed in an old-fashioned bellhop uniform most often associated with the grand hotels such as the St. Pancras, during the Victorian Era, complete with red jacket, waist pants and an odd little pillbox hat.

The figure, turning his head with an oddly disjointed motion, reached into his jacket and held up an embossed linen card that had printed (in tarnished gold foil):

Option A: Cards Will be Displayed in Response to Commands
Option B There is no Option B.

*

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 involving: Sister Aclima   Rosetta Storme  Ian Devereaux   Lou Caesare   Anya Clarieaux

Prompt word:

OPTION

Ignoring the strident buzzing of her phone, Sister Aclima turned on Brother Lymphocytus, “I need to get to Chicago by tomorrow,” her erstwhile guide looked down at his own phone and, with a condescending  smile announced, “The Order has a G400 that should be available;” at that precise moment the ringing of her own phone stopped and was replaced by the voice of Anya Clarieaux, “I have a G650 waiting on the runway at Teterboro Airport, if your little rent-a-leprechaun can drive you the twelve miles to my plane, you can be here in Chicago by dinner; I suggest you take option two.”

***

“Rosetta, according to our car’s navigation system, we can be in Chicago in seven hours,” the Sophomore was taking his turn at the wheel to allow the young woman to recover from her recent time travel adventure; “Don’t worry about speeding tickets, being delayed by zealous state and local police is not an option as my company has a contract with the highway patrol in both Ohio and Illinois,” Anya Clarieaux’s voice filled the car yet was as gentle as the complimentary cashmere car blanket underneath which Rosetta Storme slept.

***

“Ian, dear, all your options on this matter did what the math geeks on my payroll refer to as a Collatz conjecture which, applied to your situation, comes out as a solid one, aka me,” Ian Devereaux was not surprised to hear Anya Clarieaux’s voice on his phone as he escalated down to ground level where his car was idling at curbside in front of O’Hare International Terminal.

***

“Good afternoon Miz Tierney, this is Anya Clarieaux, would you do a sista a favor and put Lou on the phone… if it helps, tell him it’s ‘that psycho-bitch in Chicago”… the background noise from the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge was a testosterone and alcohol medley combining the glissando of the bartender serving drinks and the stripper dancing to music in the key of Onan; somewhere in the foreground a man’s voice growled at a volume suitable at a wake, ‘Quiet’ … and silence reigned as the phone was passed,

“Hey, Annie how the fuck are ya?”

Anya laughed, “I am fine, thank you and how the fuck are you…wait, before you answer, this is simply a professional courtesy between criminal masterminds: your niece Rosetta is fine, due in Chicago later tonight and, for the record under my protection while she’s in my city, no exceptions.”

The silence was broken by Lou, “Hey, thanks, I owe you one;”

Anya replied, “No Problem, as the kids say and if you tell anyone about this…courtesy, you will be shown how on-the-money your initial characterization of me as a ‘psycho-bitch’ was, capisce…

Lou’s crocodile laughter concluded the call.

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 current tale…

Prompt word:

TABLE

After selecting one small book from a bookcase marked: ‘For the Hallway’ and his favorite Mont Blanc pen, the Proprietor paused before stepping into the hallway. His eyes sought the brightness and illumination to the right where the hallway led to the Café & Bistro currently full of normal people sitting at small, round, wooden tables celebrating a normal existence.

With a determined, if not slightly resigned smile, the Proprietor instead stepped to the left, his intimate knowledge of the building causing the intermittent blackouts to sputter, as if in frustration, as he walked further along the corridor; tracing a small tattoo: طواف, on his left wrist, the impeccably-tailored man laughed the word ‘widdershins’ and proceeded, the light of his torch elbowing the darkness out of his way until finding the door he sought.

“La Raconteuse, I presume,” offering a modest smile as his letter of transit, the tall, thin man paused just inside the room even as the shadows of the hallway butted against the now closed door to Room 215; a flare of twisted light knifed futilely under the door, barely missing the left heel of his Stefano Bemer Oxfords.

“If I might be so presumptuous as to suggest you step away from that particular window,” the emphasis on the word particular was accompanied by a head tilt towards the seating around a small, black marble fireplace.

“Now, as a beloved friend no longer with us once said to me, ‘tell me how you managed to find this particular room and don’t leave anything out’,” the Proprietor laughed in approval at the remarkable variety of objet d’art, curios and steampunk clockworks.