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:

INTEREST

(Oxford University, 1885)

“This has to work….”

As declarative statements go, these four words are admittedly weak; the subject vague and non-specific, the object abstract and the verb, well, nothing has to; however, the speaker was a professor of Advanced Noetics at the University of Oxford alone in his workshop well after midnight and so can be forgiven for being startled when a voice spoke in response,

“It will.”

Very much a tsunami in a teacup, Earl Grey broke over the china rim and, shedding a mist of steam, plummeted towards the carpet in Dr.Egmont’s laboratory/workshop/office/ad hoc bedroom,

“Who said that?”

A man stepped from shadows that had no right to exist, as the room abounded in light, even at the current late hour; by way of more introduction, he made a sound resembling a good-natured chuckle, except for a curious undertone of ancient privilege gilded in an urbane patina with just a hint of the jungle;

“Good Evening, Professor Eg…”

“Doctor,” his eyebrows resembled a spontaneous and resentful scrum as he repeated, “it is Doctor Egmont” all the while glancing towards the wall of diploma and Certifications behind his desk; Dr.Egmont added what he considered a courteous elaboration, “Doctor of Philosophy and Doctor of Advanced Noetics, although I maintain a Professorship here at Oxford, it is purely for the convenience of the administration,” his interest in professional credentials established, added: “And now that I recall your recent telegrams conveying an interest in my work you must be Count St.Lor…”

“Cyrus, please! It has been my experience when working with a collaborator, a certain degree of familiarity serves to enhance the joint effort, particularly in matters such as your current project; my title is a function of history and heritage, unlike yours that reflect a person’s accomplishments in science and academia.”

Dr. Egmont offered a smile as an invitation to join him in a hospitable conversation, while seating himself behind his desk;

“So, Doctor Egmont, how may I be of assistance with this remarkable device you describe in your telegrams, this Time Mechanism?”

*

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.